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.