One of my 43 things is...

to be able to log in to All Consuming. What the hey?

You deserve it

What a freakin’ week… The following things occurred but are not the subject of this entry:

- interviewed for and found three roomie candidates, all but the last flaking on us. (His name is Jake and he’s joined the Good Side in the “good god can we get rid of this clutter?” war.)

- On Thursday, moved my bed from my old place to this place by hiring help through Craigslist. Had to accomplish all the coordination with Pea in tow.

- Same day, moved out of my temporary room into the Red Room. I’m still in boxes, but at least they are conceivably unpackable.

On Friday:

- Helped Jake move in a bit

- Auditioned for The Brookline Chorus, was invited to come to rehearsal on Tuesday! (This means I may have to give up on the rose garden for this season.)

- Went salsa dancing (the subject of this entry, actually. I’ll get to it.)

Saturday:

- Went to the Cape to see the Edward Gorey House and have yummy lunch with Bloomers, Meera, Rossamatoss, and Meredith R. O’D.

Sunday:

- Cleaned this apartment! With gusto! Thank goodness for Jake and Ben, who scrubbed and moved furniture and hauled trash alongside your favorite JoBiv

- Sang at the Cantab’s Sunday Night Blues Jam. Gotta love Monday holidays.

Monday:

- Norah’s Labor Day BBQ Madness!

Tuesday:

- First Brookline Chorus rehearsal. Perhaps I’ll tell you about that sometime.

But let me tell you about Salsa dancing. The Havana Club holds lessons and a dance party (is that even the right term for salsa dancing?) for a low, low, wish-it-were-lower price of $12 a person. For the first hour and a half, a very energetic, shaved-bald man with a slight accent, think his name was Ivan, leapt around on a stage enthusiastically, piping directions through a headset over loud music and the sound of tippy-tapping feet. I couldn’t actually see his feet from where I stood, but gleaned the basic steps from those around me. And then I remembered, “Hey, I already learned this somewhere!” (Twice, actually, in high school P. E. and in a Spanish wine bar in Ireland under the tutelage of an Italian.) It ended up coming pretty easily.

Then Ivan instructed us to form pairs. A very nice, slightly hesitant gent matched up with me, and Ivan modeled how we should touch. My partner was slightly more comfortable with the less intimate embrace – only touching hands, my fingers folded over his. I could feel his pulse racing, his palms sweating. What agony for this guy! After learning a few more basics of dancing with a partner, the instructor made us switch. New partner, new anxiety, new steps. The same rabbit-like heart beat with each new rotation. The same attempt not to say, “one-two-three, five-six-seven,” aloud. But it was fun! Slowly, we shuffled toward some kind of near-graceful movement. Simply mirroring and achieving the steps was enough for me. I pitied the men a bit, with Ivan repeating that it was their job to lead, to signal the “ladies” (love how often he used that term), and to create space for us to move safely. By the end of the three minutes I spent with each new partner, we had almost gotten a feel for each other. Just in time to rotate to a stranger.

Near the end of the lesson, I ended up with an Indian man who, despite his best efforts, had not yet mastered the simpler steps. I had been excited to learn the new parts Ivan modeled on the floor with his partner, but instead spent the time showing this man how to lead me. Of course, that didn’t work. At one point, he spun me and pulled my hip so that my whole body was flush against him, and I felt a momentary terror. I wanted to scream out, “Don’t touch me!” But it was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. He was just nervous and uncoordinated.

Eventually, Ivan came over. He stood next to the man and took over, allowing him to mimic Ivan’s every step. Ivan held my hands in his with the gentlest pressure, and with the slightest of moves on his part, I felt my feet move into the right steps. It was as simple as if he had pressed a button somewhere. He left me with the bumbler again, and I felt somehow bereft.

As the night wore on, I ended up watching from the sidelines. Acutely aware of all of my flaws (real and imaginary), I became a thirteen year old at a school dance. The men were many and brave, approaching women willy-nilly, the energy of comaraderie filling the place to bursting. Everyone wanted to try out their steps, and very few seemed daunted by the risk of embarrassment. I couldn’t shake my fears, however, and sat back to watch the many characters sprawled across the floor. A man at the next table, latino, maybe 35, dressed all in black, kept glancing our way. He tried to catch my eye several times and smiled widely. Was it a friendly smile? A blonde guy with blazingly blue eyes cruised the perimeter of the dance floor for women to dance with, his shirt soaked with sweat after the first two or three dances. An older black man with two-toned shoes and a belly seemed to delight in spinning women to nausea. One young latino had this slick style of approaching women that kept me laughing. He would approach a woman with very little eye-contact, then sidle up to her, turn his back to her, somehow get her hand in his, and pull her behind him onto the floor, stepping to the beat. Oddly, every woman he approached went along with his grand plan. He was a good dancer, a little bit creative, and had a tendency for dipping as a grand finale.

It was all very fine to watch him dance with friends, but suddenly his red shirt took up my entire field of vision, and he had my wrist in his hand. Gently, he pulled me out of the seat. I protested, evidently weakly, and he pulled me onto the floor. I was suddenly nervous, much more than when I had been forced to dance with strangers during the lesson, and hoped he knew that I didn’t get to learn the fancier steps. How would he know that? He seemed to gauge my abilities fairly well, and respectfully held my hands instead of embracing me, allowing me space, guiding gently. He brought out some fancy footwork and I tried to copy. We ran into the next song with our sort of call-and-response dancing. Toward the end I was positively enjoying myself, and then he pulled me to him to kiss my cheek.

“Thank you,” I said, kissing back and attempting to lean away. He said something into my ear, but the music had started up again.

“What?” I yelled.

He leaned in again. “You deserve it,” he said.

He wandered off to other women, and I sat back down, my cheeks burning, stomach roiling. I couldn’t help but think the worst of what those words could signify. You deserve it… in spite of how you look, how you dance, how you act. Even you, you wart on the face of the dance floor. You deserve it. He somehow saw the deep and secret ugliness in me, I was sure of it.

I went outside for a while to get some air, where the bouncer decided to chat with me. He was black, I think Caribbean, and introduced himself as James.

“Why is this the first time I’ve seen you here, girl?” he asked, very flirty.

“I hadn’t heard of this until now!” Why did I feel the need to answer such a weird question?

“Oh that’s no excuse! A girl like you… Mmm… I should have met you sooner!” He winked at me and barely saved his eyes from raking my body.

“Ooookay… back to the dance floor for me!”

“Girl, don’t do that to me… Hey, what’s your name?”

“Johanna.” Why lie?

“Johanna, you come back out here and visit, yes?”

“Well I’ll definitely see you when I leave, won’t I?”

Back inside, another latino worked his way through several friends. It was the man in black who had smiled at me hours ago. This man was a little older and exactly my height. I couldn’t tell if he was skeezy, but he seemed mellow on the dance floor as I watched him. Eventually, he worked his way to me.

At first, I didn’t understand the difference in this dance. It wasn’t completely comfortable, but it was suddenly easy to keep up. He looked me in the eye and guided me so gently and tenderly. I realized the difference a few minutes into the song; it was respect. The elegance of our dance came from a complete infusion of respect that seemed to travel through his fingers and into my body. I could feel that he thought of me as a lady, as Ivan had been fond of calling the women. He was taking care of me, allowing me, praising me with the slight pressure of his fingers on my hands. As soon as I realized this, my body seemed to fall into step as it had with Ivan. I could play with the steps more, swing my hips more, look in his eyes more. This was utter elegance.

At the end of the second song, he leaned in for the customary cheek-kiss and thank-you.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Johanna. And yours?”

“Miguel. What’s your friend’s name?” He pointed to the women sitting nearby.

“You mean the redhead? Norah.”

“Oh… yeah. I mean, what’s her name?” He pointed to the elegant brunette I had only met tonight. She danced with a perfect fluidity, having taken lessons beyond our twelve dollar special.

“That’s Senele. She’s good, isn’t she.”

“Yes, she’s very good.” He seemed to remember for a moment that he was supposed to be talking to me. “You’re good, too!”

“Thank you… and thank you for the dance.”

He bowed a bit and we parted.

I felt somehow grounded after my dance with Miguel. I felt a bit of a rush, too. My body had not betrayed me, and he had been respectful, whether or not he had preferred another girl’s dance. His eyes didn’t lie when he said I was good, and I hung onto that little bit of praise.

At 1:30, with men still roving for dance partners as though it was 10:30, my companions decided they’d had enough and I had to agree. On our way out, James reached for my hand.

“Hey, now you have to come back, Johanna.”

“Oh, we’ll see,” I laughed.

“You laughing at me?” He pretended offense.

“No, no… it’s just that you’re so charming,” I said, mocking a faint.

“You’re trouble, you are, girl. You come back and visit your charming James.”

“Goodnight James.”

“You say you’ll come again.” He pulled my hand to his chest.

“You say goodnight.” I pulled my hand back, laughing.

“Oh ho! Goodnight then!” He raised my hand to his lips, smiling endearingly.

I swung my hips as I walked away. Gloatingly.

Nanny Nail Salon: I'm sorry, we're closed.

“And Jo, this is kind of an odd request.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind trying to cut Pea’s nails today?”

“Whoa… umm… I dunno…” I broke out in a mild sweat. I can barely change the little tumbler’s diaper these days without injuring her or myself. How would I wield scissors anywhere near her?

“Well, you’ve seen the scratches on her tummy…”

“Oh yeah, of course, I mean, I’ll try. I might give up fairly easily, but…”

Baby Mama laughed, “Yeah, that’s fine. I usually try to sneak up on her while she’s sleeping. She still manages to squirm away.”

And so I was left with a crazy unforeseen anxiety. That day, the baby slept in her crib as I planned my attack. How sleepy was she? If I interrupted her nap I’d be furious with myself. Her naps are my only chance to take a break (after taking care of dishes and cleaning up). What would I do if she was sleeping on her belly, as she often does? It could be the perfect excuse to call off the procedure. Right then I decided that she was probably asleep on her stomach and I really shouldn’t disturb her. Besides, I didn’t know where the nail scissors were. There. Decided.

The next day I found the scissors. Now I had a problem. I stood at the door to her room, having spent much too much time on dishes and tidying and repacking the diaper bag and cleaning the scissors. I could see her through the rungs of her crib, sprawled on her back, not having moved from when I put her down, a sack of tiredness. I thought, I really don’t think this was in my contract. And then I thought, do I have a contract? (The answer: tragically, no.)

I stood there, scissors in hand, one foot over the threshold, and tried to convince myself that the worst that could happen would be Pea waking and cutting my break short, and I was just being selfish. But actually, that wasn’t the worst that could happen. The fears that first occurred to me and throbbed in my heart as I stood there were completely irrational and completely terrifying: what if I cut her? What if she wakes and moves so I poke her in the eye? What if I somehow slip and… tears were suddenly running down my face. My heart raced and I couldn’t breathe.

I forced myself to take a deep breath. “Another day,” I said aloud. And then I walked back to the living room, repeating it to myself. “Another day. Another day. Another day.”

Forcefully jettisoned into the future

(singin' and performing a solo conga line)

I have a compuTER! I have a compuTER! I have a compuTER!

Okay, enough of that, but I should mention that the 29th marked the anniversary of your favorite brand of cheese coming on the market. That is to say, Formaggio is one whole year old! It seems somehow fitting that the initial leap of techno-savvy should now have this reward. I wonder what it'll be next year... Teleporter a la Star Trek? One can only hope. And light a candle at one's Patrick Stewart shrine.

JoBiv's Whirlwind Tour of Western NY

Tuesday - Baby Mama informs me that I have the rest of the week off because they want to go to the Cape one last time this summer. I book a train ticket after calling Teeny and Doctor Blouin and being told that I can, in fact, hide in their homes if I head westward.

Wednesday - Eleven hour train ride. Didn't have to sit next to strangers, also didn't get a window.

Thursday - Hung out with Baby, Cripps (who was serendipitously vacationing last week), and Lois in Jell-o town.

Friday - Spent morning with many a baby, but Baby was not available for the party. Still fun, of course. Also squeezed in a visit to Wegmans. Ahh... Wegmans. Tina picked me up and we hung out in Rochacha at her new swingin' bachelorette pad!

Saturday - Dad insisted on driving me to Buffalo, where I saw Dr. Blouin, his wifey, KO of the Swazi Parasites, and Ginger (Dave's doggy). We also spent a good two hours in a big bouncey castle thinger. Time well spent.

Sunday - 14 hours on a train. Got a window as well as strangers seated next to me. Can't have it all, I spose. The guy across the aisle serenaded us with sleepy/drunken karaoke to his own discman. For six hours.

I went, nominally, to see friends. I went to remind myself that my arrival in some towns prompts a lot of happy shouting and hugs. And also because I hate my apartment, don't know what to do with my life, don't know what I'm doing right this very now.

Pea's up. Must attend to her fever.

Bullet holes in my foot

Right now the heat bugs are buzzing outside. I don't know what kind of bugs they are, but maybe you know what I'm talking about. They come out on those humid days when the sun feels like lead on your shoulders. They hide in tall grass, I think, and spin a straight buzz out into the air in ten second intervals. I always think of the sound of the ocean when I hear them - one buzzy wave sliding over the sand, retreating to be replaced by another swell. They seem very loud to me, but if I'm outside I find that they also canvas the world for me so that everything seems silent.

I was going to say that the heat bugs make me lonely. I think that would be inaccurate. I make myself lonely.

I'm a'gonna do it! I am I am!

Instead of sitting in this apartment and HATING IT, I decided to be proactive and develop some escape strategies. One of them was to volunteer somewhere so I'll have a place to go instead of wandering the mean streets until I surrender to a life of dealing crack or selling my body.

I felt so brave, so bold, so... altruistic. Yes, I would offer my many talents and skills to those in need! The world NEEDS more JoBiv in it! I will save this sad world single-handedly!

Or... I'll weed a garden.

I looked through the VolunteerMatch website, and found that most of the positions were simply beyond my capabilities. All of them involved - GASP - talking to people! Phone calls, even! How barbaric. How... beyond me! My throat closed up just thinking about it.

So instead of leaping into a tutoring project, working with the elderly, helping write grants, feeding the poor lepers of the world and such, I chose pruning. The Kelleher Rose Garden (listen up, ye stalkers!) needs fifteen volunteers to bring it back to its former beauty. I was always curious about that hedged-in garden in the Fens, and I got excited when I saw I could get a backstage pass.

St. JoBiv of the Roses. I am improving the world! Out of my way!

JoBiv's hollow head

I secretly loved the early mornings at Camp Arrowhead. I was a twenty-year-old nondriver, my dad had to drive me to camp every morning. I had to wake up veeery early to accomplish any sort of sensible washing/dressing of my body and often went without breakfast, only to have my dad give me an "I'm gonna be late if you stop at Burger King! We can't stop at Burger King!" heart attack.

But then we turned down the suburban street that led through the park to the camp. Sometimes we'd see my crush of the summer, Paul, walking himself and his guitar to work and we'd stop to give him a short lift. And then my dad would maneuver the car through the gates, over the potholes, let us out, and drive away. I would check in at the main cabin, where all the VERY early kids would be playing Old Maid or Tiddly Winks or napping on their backpacks. I'd give and get hugs. And then I'd head out to the field where all the campers met to start the day.

I liked to be the first one there. The field was wide but mostly shaded in the early mornings, surrounded as it was by towering trees - ancient maples, I think. Those mornings would be chilly, sometimes foggy, giving no sign of the sweltering hot day to come. I'd hug myself in my sweatshirt, feel the dew seeping into my socks and jeans, and breathe it in. A few birds would fly singly across the whole field.

It was lovely. Those quiet moments gave leave to enjoy myself. I mean to say, to enjoy who I was then. To think of how my life was playing out well, without much fanfare. I could forget fairly easily, in those minutes before the sun brutalized the fields, that anything was hard or bad. I could feel tired without hating feeling tired. I could delude myself. My brain was wonderfully empty. I would even say to myself, "Now is a good time to compose a poem or think a great and profound thought." That never happened, and I liked that, too, my empty brain.

Sometimes I think of that feeling when I'm walking to the Pea's house in the morning, before most people head to work, after most of the runners have gone home to shower. It's quiet, sometimes the dew still clings to gardens, and I feel beautifully alone without feeling lonely. It's not quite the same feeling. I don't allow delusions much anymore. I can't remember the last time I was properly proud of myself. I guess it's just the quiet that reminds me. The empty brain.

We have mice

I want to cry.

Sushi and sniffles

I was nervous to see Dad. Although we've been talking on the phone fairly often, I didn't know what to expect from the man I'd uninvited to my birthday weekend back in May. What should a parent do in these cases? What should an adult do? I wasn't sure where we'd go with any of it.

Dad was politely close-lipped about the apartment, letting me tell him what I knew he was seeing. His only input was a quiet, "It would only cost your landlord $300 to have that window taken care of." I watched his eyes take in the mold, the chipping linoleum, the bedroom I occupy stacked high with boxes, its shattered window. He merely suggested we visit Lil Pea before dinner. I happily agreed.

We went to sushi after, as I thought it would be a treat for a landlocked Rochesterian. Dad was a little ornery; tired, dehydrated, and not in the mood to make decisions. He ordered quickly, a little terse with the waitress. I held myself back from my usual placating reflexes, tried to let him lead. In my head, I kept telling myself, "He looks fine. He is fine. He didn't order drinks. He's trying to show me he's fine."

He told me, slowly, about home, how it's been with Mom, the war with the insurance company. He said, "Mom told me the other day that we are both going through this, but separately, and we should be going through it together." My Mom had told me this, too. She said she'd felt better after the conversation. My Dad continued to say, "I don't think she realizes that there's barely enough of me to go around. We have to do it separately."

He seemed to suddenly wake up from this conversation, turned it on me, asked about my new roommates, my plans for nannying, my thoughts for other work, my Masshealth issues, all of that. I found that I couldn't talk about any of it without tearing up a little. I tried to swallow it and couldn't, and ended up just sitting there, not responding, feeling like a twelve-year-old version of myself, desperately wanting to say something that would ease him. I just said, "I'm handling it." He paid the check and we left. He insisted on walking me to my door (I think he was a little lost without that walk), gave me a big hug, and promised that we would have dinner once a week while he's working in New England.

Doesn't he know? I moved away on purpose.

King of Drag

I've been thinking about drag queens lately, and how I envy them. Ever since Meera's bachelorette party (can I use that word one more time in the same day?) I have been pondering gender stereotypes and other things.

The main observation is this: it is brutally unfair that men get to have so much fun when they dress up as women. If you think about it, women's clothing has so much more to offer to those who want to express their personalities and creativity. More colors, styles, fabrics are "acceptable." Not only this, but there are such incredible personalities to take on. Think about the women we think of as sort of belonging to gay culture (and many a drag show or gay pride parade seems rife with imitators); Madonna, Cher, even Liza Minneli. They are all strong, expressive, and wonderfully obsessed with costume. So when a man chooses to dress in drag, the fantasy seems to be to step into the life of dominant, traditional-gender-role-threatening women, powerful women. There must be men out there who don the Land's End women's polo shirt and khakis and do housework, but that's not such an appealing fantasy.

My point is, when a man dresses up as a woman, he does it to become a diva, a queen. When I've seen women in drag they seem to do it to hide themselves, to obscure the discomfort they have with their bodies. There doesn't seem to be a fantastical equivalent to Cher for women. There's no Drag King to the untrumpable Drag Queen.

Unless, of course, you dress up as Elvis.

The new bachelorette pad

I have resisted writing about my new place because I'm sick of hearing my own whining. Maybe if I tell you here, though, I won't have to write you letters separately, and thus I can conserve my whine rations for other catastrophes.

This is the situation:

I was shown a room that would fit my queen-sized bed when I looked at the place. When I accepted the place I made sure to assert that I wanted that room. Weeks later I was told I had never seen it and it wasn't available but I was still wanted. The compromise? I moved into a tiny guest room with a shattered window, a spider problem, and three moldy mops in the closet until roomie R moves out in September and I can take the other room on this floor. The reason for crisis? Roomie B wanted the room after she showed it to me and decided she would just move herself on in. That woulda been fine, if she'd TOLD ME. She didn't. She withheld the information until 4 days before my move, and then lied about showing the room.

Also, I met two roommates of the 4 bedroom place, B and R. I met B first, found conversation easy, but her sense of humor seemed a bit... off? She's a bit on the literal side. For example, when our Guy Roommate moved in and called to say he was bringing up all his "furniture and luuve" she got worried that he has a crush on her. So yes, she is also a bit of an egoist. (You can maybe tell that Guy Roomie and I get along jus' fine so far.) Okay, back to the story... I met roomie R a week later and we REALLY hit it off. She's intelligent, well-spoken, funny, and she's good pals with Marika! I mean, how can she NOT be cool? I was excited to live with her, and this is perhaps why I took the place.

If you've been paying attention, you'll already have the sinking feeling in your stomach. She's the one moving out on September 1st.

Now this isn't so bad, right? Guy Roomie seems cool so far, and perhaps roomie B won't be too bothersome. We'll find our fourth and be happy in our spacious Brookline apartment.

Spacious, yes. Clean? In good repair? No. And it looks like roomie B has cultivated a particularly hostile relationship with the landlord, evidenced by a 2000 word email (CC'd to me) letting him know that Guy Roomie and I need to sign the lease, and also that she heard that he hates her and she is TOTALLY not a bad person (she used CAPS FOR EMPHASIS in the same rather immature way I use it here) and it's COMPLETELY HIS FAULT that she has a problem with him, etc. etc.

(Yesterday)
JoBiv: So I got that email.
Roomie B: Yeah? How did it come across? I had a lot of good arguments.
JoBiv: Well, it did sound argumentative.
Roomie B: Yeah?

So I called up our landlord, Stan, and introduced myself. We had a very pleasant conversation, between my tolerance of his long-winded mumbly-ness and his tolerance of my interruptions, and I mananged to get him started on the shattered window, the bathroom sink (which is a solid block of porcelain with only one leg supporting it) and the front garden. I saved the following issues for another time, perhaps AFTER I sign a lease:

-Moldy/rotted wooden bathroom window frame
-Mold on every painted surface in the bathroom
-Peeling, water-stained ceilings
-Big chunks of plaster falling off the walls
-The screen porch with the floor rotting away on the south side
-Punctured screens in every room
-Warped windows/doors in every room (the heating bills must be incredible!)
-The naaaasty carpet on the entrance stairs with various stains and smells

Roomie B warned me that he may ask, "Well, if it's in such bad shape, why'd you move in?" I withheld my vitriolic commentary.

But yes, I feel a little duped. More than that, I feel like an idiot for not cataloguing these issues before, for not going back to see the place before I accepted, etc. As I looked at places I put them into two categories: Enh, and No Way In Hell. The one place I actually wanted was a "garden level" apartment with a kind of eccentric girl in it whom I might have gotten along with swimmingly. Garden level... do you hear me? JoBiv, who said she would never fall for living in a basement again? And that was my best option? (At $725/mo, I might add.) So now I'm living in one of the Enh apartments, and I HAVE TO QUIT WHINING ABOUT IT. It was my decision. If it's intolerable, I can always move, right? And it won't be hard to get out of my lease (if I ever sign one) because the place is a travesty.

My dad is coming into town tonight. He's working again - a very good thing - and starting out in Milton MA or something. It will be good to see him and hug him and have proof that he's alive and well, but I can tell you... I'm not looking forward to justifying my decisions to him. Nannying, moving, loan problems... It all makes me feel like a terrible coward.

Cotton, go back from whence you came!

I haven't figured out how to work the TV in the new place yet, and therefore the JoBiv-Weather Channel umbilical cord has been severed. At first I felt a sense of freedom. One can step out into the day with the most scant knowledge of the weather and still survive. It's true! Up until yesterday, I had four lovely, though hot and humid days, despite my ignorance of the exact movements of all cloud cover for the Boston metro area.

Perhaps I was getting a little cocky.

This morning, I heard on the radio that we could see highs of 100 degrees today! Consider yourself warned, JoBiv! Taking advantage of a few extra usable morning minutes, I carefully selected a white polo shirt over black shirts (turns out I have seven black shirts) and exhanged crops and sneakers for a skirt and flip-flops. Having even more free moments, I filled a pitcher with water and visited each of the houseplants, proud of my forethought, imagining how parched and withered they would be on this hottest of hot days without my tender loving care. I refilled to water the plants on the deck, the porch, and Maurice, who currently guards the front steps.

"Here you go, Maury," I said aloud, for I am not shy around my plants, "Drink up! You'll need it."

Silly Jo. I should have looked at my white shirt and thought, "Hmm. What happened the last time I wore you? Ah, yes! A deluge! And the time before that? Hurricane. Perhaps I will wear a black shirt after all."

I did not think that. I wore the white shirt.

The heavens opened over me.

JOHANNA, YOU THINK YOU ARE SO SMART, LIVING WITHOUT THE WEATHER CHANNEL, GOING HITHER AND THITHER IN WHITE SHIRTS AND PREMEDITATIVELY WATERING PLANTS! ::SPLOOSH::

If any one of you, my few and dear readers, live in a particularly arid region, happen to be caught in a prolonged drought, or would like to experience a spontaneous wet t-shirt contest, send me your address. In return, I will send you this magic shirt, free of charge! I'll even pay shipping! GOOD GOD SOMEONE TAKE IT!

And poor Maurice without his swimmies.

Step right up for new tricks!

In case you were wondering, the Pea has perfected the following new tricks:

1. Folding her lips in and popping her mouth open repeatedly. I call it "The Lil Old Man chewing gum" trick.

2. Walking while holding onto only one of my fingers. I love this trick. It keeps my back from threatening to snap in half.

3. Growing a top tooth! Ow!

4. The complicated stomach-to-sitting maneuver. She had already mastered the reverse process.

5. Signing for "more," which she had previously confused with clapping.

God, babies are cool.

Movin' on over

So I'm moving. Off I go. See? I just moved. I had to, because typing requires movement of the fingular bits. That sounds dirty. Let me start over.

So I'm moving. I packed most of my belongings last night and can make a fairly accurate pie chart to display their make-up, but since I don't know how to do such magic on the computer, nor would I know how to load it here, I will bore you with the details thusly:

68% books
10% notebooks/journals
5% arty stuff (prints/canvases/paints)

What's 8 plus five? I'm at 83%? I suppose that leaves:

6% doodads and whatnots

11% clothes

One of my new roomies is in the Simmons teaching program to become a Math teacher. Maybe she'll show me how to make a pie chart on the computer. Boy, then my life would be complete.

I packed last night, you'll note, even though I move on Monday. If you don't know me you may think this is excellent planning and forethought. If you DO know me, you know that it's fairly last minute considering I have the Sinstitute/Imposium to attend, starting tonight and ending sometime on Sunday.

This is VERY exciting, not only because I may get to grope Tobin Anderson in person, but also because I will most assuredly be able to grope Dylan in person. And hang the hell out with the fabulous j to the Lizzo.

And Tina's coming into town.

And then my head will explode from happiness and stress.

I promise to send along my new address and phone to all worthy parties. I promise I won't force you to call my parents or my former roommate to sleuth out this information. My parents and former roommates are sick of such calls, I assure you, and I do not wish them further frustration.

Saraaaah...

Saaaarah, nooo time is a gooood time for goodbyeeee...

Sigh. I hope she stays forevor. And I will love her and hug her and name her George.

Small update:

Life has been very busy these days. Between Meera's GORGE-O wedding and Sarah's in-townness, there is much to do and see and talk about. It's so nice to have Sarah around. We both get to talk about things we don't get to talk about. And we've done nice, relaxing, Bostony things, like eating at Trident, walking along Newbury, looking for bunnies at the Arboretum (saw one!), watching Home Movies at Dana's, talking to Bloomers... Today we may hit some museums, and then the world will be perfect.

I also went ice skating last night with Norah the Fabulous. Two big spills, mostly unhurt. I love that moment when the awkwardness falls away and my body moves how it should. I got there. Before the second spill, that is.

Did I mention that I'm on vacation from Pea? I miss that baby. She's a little bit mine, y'know? She'll be bursting with new tricks when she gets back. I'm so sad that I'm not there to see them as they come. I miss her face, her fangs, her poopy diapers, her fake-crying. Sigh. My Pea.

Habits

Every day, Pea and I pass mirrors. Sometimes I'm holding her, sometimes she's walking and gripping my fingers, sometimes we're strolling. Every time, I m make eye contact with her and she laughs and laughs, or smiles at her reflection and reaches to touch it. And in those moments I don't want to look away from her, fearing that I'll accidentally see myself. When I do, I quickly shoot my gaze back down to her, and try not to say it out loud, but I think it every time: Don't grow up like I did, Pea. Don't be like me.

Most days I don't even notice this happening. I need to notice, and I need to stop it.

This entry has a rating of MA for language. Mature audiences only.

Finally, it happened. And not as I imagined.

There I was, goying it up with my chicken quesadilla at Anna’s, the Pea patiently allowing me to hand-feed her crumbs of these cheesy soy puff thingies, minding my own damn business. The baby loved the crowded restaurant, looking at the people, the Mediterranean chandeliers, the music… I followed her wide-eyed stares around the room, and spotted the thick black hair, fleur de lis facial hair, impossibly long eyelashes, familiar purple backpack that had spent many nights on my bedroom floor. Stefan.

His back to me, I prayed that if I just ate my food, helped the Pea, he would get his damn lunch without noticing me. I couldn’t believe my racing heart and shaking hands, the flush in my cheeks, throat too tight to swallow any more food. I prayed, please don’t notice me, please DO notice me, please… something happen. Maybe I could get out without him noticing. Yeah, be proactive, take charge. Or I could dig out Pea’s blanket and put it over my head and the whole world could disappear.

“Jo!” Who, me? “Jo! Hi!”

He left his place in the long line to walk over to me, arms outstretched, smiling eagerly.

“How are you?” He bent to hug me and I briefly considered standing to make it easier, rejected the thought, trying to feel a little angry. Let’s keep this short, sir.

“Hi Stef.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“Oh… sure… go ahead.”

\The Pea looked at him, expressionless but steadfast.

“Pea, meet Stefan. Stefan, this is Little Pea.”

“Nice to meet you! Oh aren’t you a cutie!”

“She’s perfect,” what I usually say to people she charms, because I don’t know what nannies are supposed to say.

“God, look at those eyes,” he said.

“I know. She’s so sweet.”

“So…” Stefan turned his full attention, intense eyes, whole body leaning in, “How are you?”

“Oh, y’know. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, what are you up to?”

“I mean… yeah, just hanging out with Pea, really.”

“Cool…” He gently played with her fingers, mimicking her small slapping of the table. She smiled and giggled. Apparently she is not ready to be released into the wild, considering she can’t smell this shark in the water. I had to get rid of him. And ignore the compulsion to keep him there as long as possible, to confess his undying love, that he made a huge mistake, that he dreams of me at night…

“So, what about you, Stef? Still working at the same place?”

“Yeah, still working there,” he said, with a slight roll of the eyes.

“That good?”

We chuckled like old friends. I realized how relaxed I must seem to him, calmly feeding the baby, idly chatting. When could I tell him I’m still dismantled?

“So, how are you?” he asked again. What did he want to know? I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’m fine. Are you still in Somerville?”

“No, actually, North Brighton.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, remember my roommate’s boyfriend who dealt coke?”

We lapsed into smalltalk about moving, the baby’s unbearable cuteness, neither of us having the balls to ask the other about possible relationships. I couldn’t make myself ask, “So, did she smoke up with you? Was that it? She was skinny, right? Latina, maybe? Orders her burritos in Spanish like you?”

Stef excused himself to order lunch for the guys at work. I turned all of my attention to Pea, who celebrated her latest charm victory with giggles and enthusiastic grabbing of my forearm. (I have scratches today as proof of her giddiness.) I tried to eat more, managed a few bites, pushed the food away at last and pulled the Pea out of her chair. She kept the cuteness coming, laughing, smushing her face against mine, cuddling. I thought for a second that if I took my time getting ready to leave, we could run into him again, talk a little more, about the weather, his family, anything. Just one more little moment…

I felt suddenly sick. Disgusted with my own loneliness, I decided to hurry instead. Of course, the Laws of Nannyhood state, in Article 6 Section B, that, “All efforts to hurry are futile and will be stymied, as well as resulting in an extra ten minutes of fury and frustration to whatever time the original maneuver would have taken. And the child will scream.”

By some miracle, we managed to get out the door undetected. We made it to the crosswalk, in fact, before the door chimed and Stefan yelled, “Hey! Hey Jo!”

Why did he do this? What was left to say?

“It was good to see you,” he said, keeping eye contact. “And to meet you,” he finally said to Pea, tickling her feet.

Then I turned into Crazy Nanny, and did this creepy ventriloquist act with the baby: “Say ‘bye,’ Little Pea. ‘Bye bye.’”

Stefan came at me with wide-open arms again. He gave me a real hug, pulling me close and tight. I made an effort not to sniff him, and returned to the same pit of self-hatred for missing him.

While he fiddled with his bike, and I gently chided him for riding a bike with eleven burritos in tow, I began to feel the words coming. By the time he crossed the street and Pea and I strolled down a parallel street, I wondered if I could race to catch up with him. I wondered if he’d hear me if I screamed from where I stood.

What you did was AWFUL! You hurtme! God, you ripped me apart! I know there’s no good way, but yours was the worst way… Do you still fuck that girl? She should be having your goddamn children—maybe, just maybe, that would justify the way you flushed me out of your life. You hurt me! If you ever see me again, don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. And keep your damn hands off this baby! You HURT ME!! You KNOW I don’t need any more reasons to hate myself. You fucker. You goddamn asshole motherfucker.

Apartment. Money. Brothers. Shane. Money. Insomnia.

And today, Stefan walked into Anna's. I thought he wouldn't see me, but he did. He walked right over. More on that particular catastrophe later.

Can't wait to see Sarah...

4th of July: a discussion in two parts

Part 1: In which JoBiv details her adventures on the Fourth of July

It occurred to me, after three days of curling myself into a ball on the couch, that I should celebrate Independence Day with some show of independence. And so I kicked myself out of my apartment... after watching Never Say Never, Connery's last appearance as James Bond. (Couldn't resist.)

Out I went into the world, with a sketchy plan in mind. I'm proud to say I hit all of my goals. I wandered thusly:

1. To Macy's and Filene's, where I bought sale-priced sunglasses and wallet respectively.

2. To Quincy Market, where I watched street performers and enjoyed the company of tourists.

3. To the Long Wharf, where I finished a book and gazed out at the water, all the boats, the planes landing... so lovely.

4. Back to Quincy Market for a kielbasa (yum) after which I ran into Beverlay, the 74 yr old soprano from our community choir. She talked to me for a while about very random things, and I showed her the stair-less way to get to Washington street so she could buy an all-beef hotdog from a street vendor.

5. Onward to the Esplinade, where I managed to walk, without having a panic attack, among thousands and thousands of people. Holy crap. At which point, my mind was made up to...

6. T to Summit Ave (on the B line, because the grade is gentler), where I commenced a leisurely walk up to Corey Hill Park, which was also overrun with people. I waited there for 45 minutes or more, making idle chitchat with neighbors, ooh-ing and ahh-ing, trying to ignore the sudden appearance of a guy I made out with last fall who stood RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME fondling his girlfriend and turning to look at me every once in a while. Ick. He did not ruin my night, despite his efforts.

7. To my apartment, down the hill, calves aching, feet a'blisterin', to catch the end of a dismal Sox game. Another Foulke-up.


Part 2: In which JoBiv wonders about patriotism

Hahem.

Patriotism. Yes. I mean to say, I feel like it's been stolen from me. Why do I feel hesistant on patriotic holidays? Why don't I don some red, white and blue? I tell myself that I think it's a bit tacky, but really, I'm afraid to show patriotism.

Meera asked me, very out of the blue, how I felt about our nation's flag. I was glad she asked because it's been bothering me. Ever since 9/11, when I was in Ireland and my family gave me bulletins about the goings-on at the homefront, I have felt alienated from the flag-worshipers of the United States. This sensation only grew sharper during the elections.

I told Meera and Ross about this moment I had in a car somewhere. We were behind a truck with a big flag sticker on its back window, and I felt this worried, distrustful clenching in my heart, and all at once I realized it was the same feeling I get when I see a truck with a big ol' confederate flag. Distrust, fear, maybe a little disgust.

The thing is, I feel like the flag has been stolen by conservatives, like liberals aren't ALLOWED to raise a flag in support of the country, because that would actually be misconstrued as support for Bush, war, big business, pollution, "No Child Left Behind" (ugh... don't let me get started on that), book banning... the list goes on. How completely unjust is it that I can't own a positive meaning for the United States' flag? How is it that MY flag can't stand for my belief that democracy should give every person a voice? That democracy gives us the right to dissent, that it gives us the chance to share this huge nation's incredible wealth among those who need it, that it gives us the power to use all of our intelligence and resource to find peaceful solutions?

And really, how unfair is it to conservatives that the symbol connotes such strong negativity? I don't know how that happened, and I don't like it. I want to believe that my political point of view allows room for other points of view, but every time I see that big ol' flag in a truck window, or a "Support our troops" magnet, or any other symbol like these, I swear I can actually feel my mind narrowing.

So yesterday's wanderings stemmed from a conscious attempt to feel better about patriotism, to convince myself that I should be allowed to call myself patriot. There was a time when I thought I would live in Europe for the rest of my life, because so much of what happens in this country angers me. If I lived abroad, I could judge wherever I lived and not blame myself for its shortcomings.

When Meera and I went to hear Marjane Satrapi speak, she said something that reminded me of why I chose to live in the states, in Boston. Someone asked her if she would ever want to move back to Iran. She said something like, "I WANT to. I want to more than anything. Iran is my country, and I love it, and I wish it was possible for me to live there. As soon as it is, I will return." Of course, she said it in her way, which was beautiful and intelligent and SO impressive for a woman who learned English as a third or fourth or fifth language. My point is, this woman, who knows she would be murdered as soon as she set foot in her home country, who has had the chance to live abroad and live home again... She would choose home.

I can't exactly compare myself to Marjane Satrapi; her situation is much more complex than mine. I mean only to say that she embodies what I think a true patriot can be: a person who has confronted the worst of what her country can be, and still loves it enough to believe it is capable of something better.

Can I be that?