When in doubt, list.

This March has been such a blazingly shitastic

No, no, that's not the way to start a post.

I want to kill everything, and I'm pretty sure, at this point, I could do it with my raging feral hatred and a piece of silly putty

Hmm. Nope. Take a deep breath, Jo.

Some general advice to self-critical bloggers and diarists: Don't write things.

Kee-riste. Okay, forget it. There's got to be a way to quickly update my meager readership without setting off a three-day emotional breakdown.

Oh yeah, a list! No expansions or deep explanations necessary, just a presentation of facts and events. Those who know me will know that each item has caused my self-hatred and anxiety and isolation to completely take over, and I may be able to avoid my customary proclivity toward dwelling on awfulness. Sure, that's it. (I'll try to limit myself to 12 items.)

March:

1. My Aunt Diane died after a ten-year battle with ovarian cancer. I couldn't attend the funeral.
2. My mom is convinced that I am the only confidant she has left on this planet.
3. Dad is acting strange - sold his car, doesn't seem to be working, calls drunk.
4. I broke up with the Manboy.
5. I am working on all the manipulative undercutting and controlling bullshit I allowed during my relationship with said Manboy.
6. Passing out, or nearly passing out, first thing in the morning has become a regular occurrence.
7. It took me two weeks to complete a phone call to my doctor's office. Appointment scheduled for mid-May.
8. I have no work.
9. I was turned down for a $10/hr job at a childcare drop-off center in a gym. Because, master's degree.
10. My usual references are dead, overseas, or otherwise non-responsive.
11. I've been living with a narcissistic,gun-lovin', fundamentalist Christian bulimic who chews with her mouth open for nine horrific months.
12. Despite efforts to invest in my friendships, I'm alone. All the time. The fact is, I don't rate.

Okay, I can't help it...

13. Shane's deathiversary.

Now just imagine the full-blown pity party. I was thinking I could market Pity Party Packages, complete with sad-face balloons, Elliot Smith albums, half-eaten Chinese take-out from that place that's not as good as that other place, and a massive chocolate cake. (It is a party after all.)

On the bright side, I posted in March.

Because who doesn't love rhubarb?

Oh yeah, lots of people. But isn't it beautiful? And the aroma is just lovely... Yes, I do have strawberries, but I feel it's somehow unfair to the rhubarb to force it to share the recipe with strawberries. I think of Rhubarb as the nerdy older sister, dependable and forthright, perhaps a little opinionated, while the Strawberry is the pretty little sister with natural talent; she gets all the praise and attention, and Mom insists that Rhubarb let her tag along every time she takes the car. Folks dutifully come up with semi-sincere praise for Rhubarb, but they go on and on about Stawberry with unsuppressed enthusiasm. How cruel.

Well, Rhubarb, I appreciate you for your own beauty and value, and I believe you can stand on your own. I've spent some time with Strawberry and can tell you; she may be pretty on the outside but she's only available at very short intervals and not consistently sweet.

Also, I'm crazy.

But! Writing about rhubarb has successfully distracted me from manymanymany current (and damaging) difficulties. So while I'm at it, let me report the following positive realities to which I am choosing to direct my attention:

1. My bed is covered with clothes that are too large and have volunteered to be donated. I'm losing weight. Somehow.
2. I have a new roommate who is lovely! (And makes life in this apartment far easier and generally happy.)
3. I am back in touch with several dear and positive people from my strange life, and I am enjoying being semi-social. Whodathunk?
4. I have additional nannying* gigs!
5. I have impending writing gigs!
6. I may not have to sell my body to keep paying rent!

Okay, back to baking. The rhubarb has soaked in sugar long enough, and I need to get my ass in gear for today's nannying gig.


*Nannying is a term I use to reassure myself that I have grown up to be something more than a babysitter. Yes, I am aware that it's a semi-pathetic self-deceptive triviality, but I'm fond of it. So there.

Longevity and brevity

Buying a new bedspread. Why? Because the current quilt has stains of depression all over it, literal and figurative, blood and tears. How do you explain that to the next man you allow past this threshold? Ha, like you'll be around long enough. Just make a gesture to live cleanly, away from these things. But what's the point? It will come back, in a fierce wave. It always does. Don't spend too much, because you may need money if you are to continue living, possibly without much income. Might as well get a nice one, though. the softness on your skin... that will feel good. In the moment. They're always saying to be in the moment. Don't be reckless. Don't screw yourself. Take the next step, knowing there are millions more to take. That's right. Don't do anything to alarm anyone. Act as though you're planning for life, for living. Just act, in the moment.


Buy a calendar, at least a new insert for your daily planner. To pretend to be living? To plan what you have so far. January work dates. Should you really be working? Yes, I guess... it makes the moments pass. Makes days pass, little breathers from solitude. You could sustain that! Maybe you could sustain that! But maybe you can't, and a little kid would be depending on you. A family would need you. Being needed sucks. Being needed is salvation. To be saved for what? Buy the damned calendar. Live and plan and see it all visually stretching out. Birthdays in April and May and July... Of people who keep forgetting you exist. Stay forgotten. Don't let the roots grow. They want me there for birthdays and graduations and weddings. I should be there for celebrations. Artificial celebrations that are actual torture. Does any day matter more than any other? Make it matter. It's on you to make it matter, to notice the bigger patterns and consciously enter into them. It will be easier once you decide to join in. Easier for a while, but the long-term always disappoints. I always disappoint.

Make dinner, enough for leftovers. Seriously? Why? You need to eat something, even if you don't feel like it. Sure, cereal maybe. Why cook? You need meals for the week, especially if you're feeling this way. I should just use up what I have. A cup of Rice Krispies is fine. But you should eat something green, something with protein. Why? To nourish a body I don't want? To encourage this disgusting mass to keep growing? I don't think so. Your nails are splitting. Your hair is falling out. You can't keep this up. I'm not planning to "keep this up." I'm not PLANNING. You should be. Just let me get a handle on the current moment. Let me breathe a little bit and see what it's like. You let a whole year pass while you were trying to breathe. It just passed, and you're still struggling. Start with something little. Make yourself dinner. I can't. I need to breathe. You can. Make some pasta, something easy. I can't right now... just for right now, I think. It's so easy and small, considering things you've accomplished, things you WILL accomplish. Just boil water and you'll have food for the week. The whole thing strikes me as pointless. As pointless as putting one foot in front of the other.

We're Marchin' on

And yes, that was a pun.

I decided it was high time to buy a calendar, it bein' March n' all. I'm going back to paper. Why? Because I frankly don't care for the many ways my iPhone and Google calendars require maintenance and nudging.

Or, it could be that I'm getting lazy.

At any rate, there is something comforting in seeing the pages flip, looking at an entire month laid out in front of you without any nasty surprise linky things. Aha, I can say, on this day I have promised to eat waffles with Spen (International Waffle Day is March 25th, dontcha know). On this other day here I will get a haircut, providing I can afford the tip. Yes, everything's looking quite nice on paper.

Lookit, all of this is to say that I bought a calendar, which means I suppose I have decided to be alive. I decided again, today, consciously. Buy a calendar, fill it with appointments and concerts and birthdays. Be here on Earth with People for 2013. And so I shall try.

Groundhog Day - do not repeat

5:38 am: Nightmare about my parents’ toilet being set across from the front door of the house without walls or doors. I’m stuck there in the middle of being very sick and the doorbell is ringing. Alarm wakes me and I run to the bathroom.

6:20 am: Showered, teeth brushed, puffy eye noted, hot compress deliberated. I decide I don’t have time. We just got a buttload of snow and I already know my commute will be slow. Throw on undies, bra, dress, take ibuprofen, sit on my bed to put on tights. Everything hurts. I get the bad foot in one leg of the tights and the pain is exhausting. I lay back in my bed and set the alarm for eight minutes, thinking maybe the drugs will have started working. Note that my stomach is iffy and blame it on the meds. Ignore everything, close my eyes…

6:30 am: C’mon, Jo, keep moving keep moving keep moving… Mrs. Not My Boss has been watching every little move, every minute I’m late, every put-off phone call. Get up and go, dammit. Tights are on… knee-high socks over them. Holy hell the pain… Eight more minutes.

10:20 am: Panic.

10:30 am: No longer snowing, not really raining… My coat isn’t quite waterproof and through the foot and a half of snow there are about two inches of slush against the sidewalk. I didn’t bring a purse, knowing it would throw my balance off. I can’t go down St. Paul Street because I know I’ll slip down the hill. Catching myself from slipping every three feet. My back hates me.

10:40 am: Call my manager from the T stop, tell her voicemail I’m on my way. Don’t have any story to tell, other than my body continually telling me I shouldn’t be awake today, which doesn’t seem valid.

11:10 am: Train finally arrives. My phone has been in my pocket but it’s wet when I take it out to tap my T pass. Ugh.

The train is blissfully empty. I sit across from a dad in a kind of Indiana Jones-esque hat and a curly-haired blond kid, about seven, in full snow gear. The father has just said, “record store.”

Kid: What’s that?

Dad: What’s what?

Kid: A record store?

Dad: It’s a place to buy records.

Kid: Yeah, but what’s a record?

Dad: It’s like CD’s, but before CD’s. For decades it was records.

Kid: Are there CD stores?

Dad: Umm.. I guess not really. I mean, a few.

Kid: Why are there CD stores?

Dad: For people who still have stereos, I guess.

Kid: Oh.

Dad: I’ll show you a music store, okay? There’s one in Cambridge.

Kid: Okay.

11:20 am: Arrive at Park Street station. The acrid scent of oily smoke rises from the Red Line stairways. Several stairways are blocked off by big yellow expandable gates. I head down the stairs to yet more smoke, crowds of bewildered passengers, and an Ashmont train that’s been stopped several yards back from its usual position. In front of it, a blazing light and the source of the smoke: the third rail is somehow exposed in three blindingly bright places, flickering and sparking against the water continually dripping from the masses of snow above.

Three men in T uniform stand with hands on their hips and clearly have no idea how to handle the situation. One man, the brightest, I believe, turns around to tell passengers that this train won’t open its doors here, and he doubts they’ll let the Alewife train stop either. Find alternative routes.

I head up the stairs and call my co-worker, tell her the train is en fuego and I’ll slide down the hill from Government Center, knowing… God, knowing how much that’ll hurt and how likely I am to fall and kill myself.

11:44 am: I arrive at work, near tears, stomach wobbling, sharp pains shooting through my back and leg. My feet are soaked as the waterproof function of my boots has apparently given up. My co-worker is on the phone but gives me a thumbs-up to acknowledge my arrival. I sit and contemplate coffee. Stomach won’t allow it. Headache seems to be begging for it. Should eat something… get up to grab saltines and ginger ale from the stash we keep for chemo patients. I’m likely going to hell.

12:00 pm: Answer several emails, get responses letting me know that all has been sorted before I got to work today. I’m on the edge of tears and put on the internet radio just in time to cover a slight sob.

12:04 pm: Mrs. Not My Boss takes a look in our cubicle and says, “Anyone in here in the mood for Viva Burrito? They’re delivering…” She takes one look at my face and has her answer, strides down the corridor to more likely punters.

12:30 pm: Still haven’t spotted my boss to tell her I’m at work. Trying to get my brain to function against rising nausea. Co-worker also not healthy, and she hasn’t been for at least a week. I fear I’ll have to withstand nausea as long as she has and wonder at her fortitude. In the meantime I open up my timesheet to make sure I record that I got here at 11 effing forty. Don’t allow myself to check my paycheck to see how much Earned Time I have because I know it’s depressing.

At some point I get up from my chair and return to notice that the edge of the seat is soaked. Looking at my dress there is an equator of soaking material, about a foot and a half of skirt that ought to be wrung out. Yet another opinionated co-worker says I should find an air dryer. We don’t have them on our floor and we all contemplate that absurdity.

1:13 pm: Mexican food arrives. I take two tums, one green and one pink, hoping it will settle my stomach but truly doubting it. Answer some phone calls and make a few more, covering my nose to keep the scent of seasoned beef at bay.

1:15 pm: Run out of the clinic past desks with open dishes on them on all sides, hand over my mouth and nose. I use the outside bathroom, hoping for something vile to come out of me the usual way and praying not to puke. Spend an extra minute washing at the sink, letting the scent of the soap fill my nostrils. I come out and sit in the hallway, looking out the glass wall at Beacon Hill and the continual snow and sleet. I breathe deeply. A man with a hospital pass sits next to me. Really, dude? This hallway is empty and you sit here? Well, at least he doesn’t smell like refried beans.

I think I’ve gotten control over my stomach. I head back in. Head to my desk. Co-worker is trudging along with OR calls and doctors invading our space. I mention something about Mexican food sucking ass when you’re nauseous, and then suddenly I’m running for the bathroom.

Pink and green spots. The ginger ale isn’t as vile coming up as I thought it might be. Maybe it’s the Tums. I’m crying and puking, yet detached somewhere, thinking these things.

1:26 pm: Shaking and crying and trying to get a grip, chills rolling through my body… Co-worker has quietly ordered me to go home, bless her. I write an email.

To: Manager

From: Jo

Subject: Puked. Going home

1:28 pm: Mrs. Not My Boss strolls by.

Mrs. NMB: Oh no, Jo, are you not feeling well?

Jo: (still can’t stop crying) I’m sick.

Mrs. NMB: You should go home.

Jo: I’m trying.

Mrs. NMB: You really shouldn’t be here if you’re sick.

Jo: (closing computer programs and putting away patient files) I don’t know how I’m getting home… (thinking of hellish train ride, envisioning puking on the exposed third rail. Then envisioning cabbie on the horrendous roads, sliding into a triple-car pile up.

Mrs. NMB: Just take a cab, why don’t you?

Jo: (bites tongue, wanting to say, “I’d love to, but since I won’t get paid for today I have to watch my wallet a bit, don’t I?” Still gulping back tears, because puking makes me think of my grandmother who died after I watched her puke for eight hours straight.)

I’m so embarrassed… I don’t want to be crying.

Mrs. NMB: Just go. Take a cab. Go down to the cab stand.

She wanders away. I zip up and head out.

Co-worker: (sees me through the glass and looks alarmed) Your purse??

Jo: (shaking head.)

Co-worker: Oh yeah, you fall over.

Jo: (Nodding head.)

Co-worker: Go!

1:35 pm: The cabs are hidden behind an eight-foot mound of plowed snow. There’s no access except to walk into the middle of the busiest intersection of the hospital straight at traffic. I slip. I catch myself. A little self-pitying sob escapes me as a lance of pain shoots through my back. The cab at the front of the queue is a small SUV type with snow tires, at least. Clean, no smoky smells. Bless this cab. After what feels like hours he drops me across from my apartment at a driveway that’s been cleared so I don’t have to step through five feet of snow. The meter reads $12 something. I give him a twenty and thank him for driving on the shittiest day Boston ever made.

1:58 pm: Changed into pj’s, tell roommate I’m sick and quarantining myself, gingerly put myself to bed. I want my mommy and Pirates of Penzance. She always made us watch it when we were sick in case we were faking. She thought it was punishment but we all secretly loved it. I’m falling asleep while trying to remember things you’re supposed to do when you’re sick. Jell-o? Fluids? Should I check for fever? Pull the trash can closer to the bedside and pray I don’t need it…

10:40 pm: Awoken by roommate making toast. Analyze stomach ickiness to be low, but definitely not hungry. Get up, pee, take pain pills for back, face down on the pillow and I’m out.

the incredible shrinking jobiv

I truly am disappearing. There's a positive aspect, at last: I'm losing weight.

I can't figure out how I'm doing it, either. At first it was pure poverty, and maybe the stress of running between four different jobs, never quite remembering my stomach needed feeding. There were several nights when I'd get home at 10 and realize that it was far too late for dinner.

And now, I think, it has something to do with financial security. I can't completely connect the dots, but perhaps it's that I grab and gulp less. I used to devour food whenever I could get my hands on it because it seemed like a precious commodity - one I couldn't afford most days. Now I'm at leisure to choose what I consume. Very new.

On the dark side of all this is my increasing need to become invisible. I am full to bursting with a distressing dichotomy: I'm ever so happy in my work life and find the rest of the world outside of it deeply embarrassing and troubling. More and more I find myself sending brainwave imperatives to those around me: "Don't look at me. Don't look too closely. I'm not here. Don't notice me."

This is apropos of the need for new clothes, by the way... I've been shopping because my clothes look funny on me - too big - but find myself shying away from colors I used to love. My wardrobe is a limited and muted spectrum of gray, beige, black and brown.

I am a cloud passing through. Don't notice me. I am a mud puddle. Avoid me. I am blending with the pavement, shiftitng my chameleonic skin to the steel of subway stations. I'm invisible.

Why, though... I push my thoughts out to grab at answers and they come back empty handed.

In the immortal words of D. Bowie, "Turn and face the strain."

Wednesday morning and I woke up in an immaculately clean room. I stretched for an hour, got up and assessed the milk situation (completely out), made a cup of jasmine green tea and a serving of corn mush. Everything is different from the last time I was out of milk; that’s what I thought to myself. Just a few months ago I was getting creative with all I could afford – cheap, chewy bread, eggs, and heads of lettuce. I made myself eat the greenest parts. I hate the really green parts. They offer no resistance for the teeth, but that’s where the vitamins hide.

A few months ago I would check my bank account daily to make sure no weird little fees were going to incapacitate my rent check. A few months ago I would wake up before God for my daily corporate coffee catechism: “Good morning, how are you today? Would you like room for milk? Soy milk is on the counter now. Have a nice day!”

Here it is, June of 2009. My brother Cripps got laid off and just lost his work-from-home job, too. My dad is always reading on the back deck when I call him, “Waiting for a business call.” My friends are scrambling to keep jobs they hate. And I got hired at the hospital.

This feeling is something like survivor’s guilt, I think. I’m thrilled, on one hand, to have lucked out so completely; I temped in two places, loved the second one and they loved me back. It was a mutual fit with some time to luxuriate and research if it made sense for me. I’m still adjusting, of course. I went from working 6 hour shifts at a coffee shop, running to old lady sitting, running to the kids’ clothing store… Now I have one job to dress for. One place to establish friendships. One set of people to surprise or disappoint. I can faithfully say I’ve never had just one thing on my plate until now. It’s jarring and strange, but I tell myself it’s a good thing.

Here’s the extraordinary part: I write the rent check without looking now. I can do it with one hand tied behind my back. I’d have to hold down the checkbook with my nose, but still…

All of this puts me in a better position for the week to come. I’m still scared shitless, but, y’know, when people ask what I do I have an answer that doesn’t make me cringe.

My brother Smacks gets married this weekend. I’m headed home.

I actually took off Monday and Tuesday (and clearly Wednesday) to prepare myself. I couldn’t explain it to anyone at work so I told them I had to catch up with doctors’ appointments. The truth is I need this time to breathe and be sure of myself. I cleaned the crap out of my room, I went through old journals, I fed myself kindly… I want to think of Boston while I’m there and remember how well I’ve done. I won’t be able to say it much so I have to know it.

The truth is that these are still lonely, scary days. I know the day will come when I’ll have a panic attack at the hospital and they’ll have to know a few things I don’t want to share. And I still have to face the part of me that was so sure I’d grow up to be something different – someone completely in my own skin, creative and growing and bursting with extra love to give out freely.

I’m not there yet. I’m getting there. I can almost see that person behind my reflection, kinda waving me forward, encouraging my steps.

Oh holidays.

So.

I don't go home for Thanksgiving. I haven't been home for Thanksgiving since undergrad, I believe, and this has worked well for me. I have my little ritual: rent movies that I would be embarrassed to watch with other people around, watch the parade in the morning and cook recipes from friends for a mini-feast.

Last year I ended up at a serious feast after working the day at the cafe. That worked out alright. It was a huge crowd of friends and I enjoyed myself, but honestly, was pretty happy to get the hell outta dodge when it was all over.

The year before I spent with The Novelist's family in a quaint picturebook New England house. Roaring fire, spiked hot cocoa, fair isle sweaters included.

This year I want to work at the cafe, and I'll tell you several excellent reasons why:

1. I don't need to go home, and several other people do. Being available that day means other people can spend time with their families. That's cool with me.

2. I like to see my regulars on holidays when they expect us to be closed and are ever-so-happy when they see we're open. They need their coffee before they travel, they need a place to study for the paper that's due next Monday (there's always a paper due after Thanksgiving), they need a warm place to take the kids for an hour so their mother/father/caregiver doesn't kill them with a turkey baster. And the hospital doesn't close on holidays, does it? No sir. How pissed would you be if you had to do surgery on Thanksgiving and there was no good coffee around to start your day? PISSED, I tell you.

3. I like to laugh at foreigners who have no idea why the whole city closes down so people can eat turkey in celebration of a handful of religious zealots swindling the aboriginal culture. Poor foreigners.

4. We make mad tips, and we split them for that day. Whatever we're tipped we take home, on the spot. This usually doubles my tip income for the week.

5. It's a palpable excuse for staying in Boston. Maybe that should be number one.

Our manager conducted a casual poll on everyone's holiday plans and discovered that - lo! - all the college kids would be gone. Shocker. He scrambled to figure out everyone's availability. I told him that not only am I available, I would LOVE to work on Thanksgiving.

He... didn't schedule me.

Hmm. What now?

I could go on with my mini-feast, but I honestly can't afford the groceries. I could acquiesce to several impatient friends who have invited me to their assorted meals. I could beg some of the people who ARE scheduled to give me that shift.

Yeah. Think I'll beg.

An early Christmas list

Dear Santa,

The past year was a sparse one in terms of lifestyle, and I do not ask to catapult to a life of luxury, but please, I would giggle with glee if you would tote the following things to my apartment this Christmas:

1. A can opener. One that isn't rusty. It doesn't even have to be new.
2. A mattress pad for a queen-sized bed. It DOES have to be new.
3. Socks. No really, I won't complain if you bring me socks like I did when I was an ungrateful brat of an eight-year-old.

Also, Santa, have you lost some weight? No really, you're doing something different with your hair, maybe. You look fantastic! I'm not just saying that.

Love,
Jo

Labors of love

I've been working on projects for the little people in my life, because it's all I can do, financially. I can't even afford birthday cards, but I can sew a little, so I'm trying out my Project Runway skills.

Here's an apron I made for the little one I babysat:

She's officially THE Starbucks baby, so it seemed appropriate. I'd show you a pic of her wearing it but I don't think her parents would appreciate it.

I made this as a going-away present. The mean terrible parents moved to Seattle without asking me. How selfish!





And then Baby Girl turned the big FIVE this week. I called her up on her birthday and she answered saying, "I'm five years old and it's my birthday all day!" She'd had a bit of sugar at that point.

I went home this weekend and it wasn't terrible, considering my brothers are still douche booketts and my mother is chronically coughing and my dad is a bag of awful. It was all worth it to see Baby Girl in my latest creation. I give you... the princess cape!


I know you can't tell that it's purple brocade with a satin lining (which, together, cost me less than $10) but it IS and it's beautiful and she seems to like it!

Score one for Aunt Jo!

I'm back early from my trip home, by the way, because I have lovely white dots on my tonsils. Strep, I believe, to be confirmed after a 3:30 doctor's appointment that I cannot afford to go to. Sigh.

Just so ya know...

The following things, since I know you've been wondering, have crawled up my ass of late:

1. Lost my T pass. The monthly one. The $60 one. I'm simultaneously stranded and strapped for cash.

2. Just paid my September rent yesterday. Can't imagine getting the funds together to pay October, especially since rent goes up Oct. 1.

3. My roommate ignores me or returns all queries with growls and grunts. Won't explain why, but I imagine it has to do with her passive aggressive attempts to get ME to call our landlord about HER mouse problem. I did call, and got yelled at by the surly receptionist because someone else has been calling her nonstop.

4. Three panic attacks at work in five days. Bad ones. Crying, gulping, gagging bad. So fucking embarrassing. Usually follow my trip home to Brookline with a straight-to-bedroom-shut-door cryfest. Could contribute to roommate's testiness.

5. Local babysitting job drying up abruptly, as the family shall abscond to Seattle tomorrow. Dealing with my mini-bereavement because, as usual, I have fallen utterly in love with the little one.

6. Did I mention the money problem? Have no insurance, stopped going to physical therapy (or any other therapy for that matter), thus in pain. Keep selling my stuff hoping to boost my finances - s'long file cabinet, stereo, maybe guitar next. Returned PAYLESS shoes I bought for interviews because a) I can't afford $12 shoes right now and b) I'm too gutless for interviews. What was I thinking? Also can't leave the house because (refer to item 1) I can't afford to go anywhere, see friends, eat food...

7. The Baby Girl's birthday is October 9th. Raise your hand if you can afford (mentally, physically, financially, emotionally) a trip home to Le Victoire - NOT SO FAST JoBiv!

8. Losing weight. Not on purpose, but none of my clothes fit correctly. Paradoxically always feel dumpy and gross and fat in my clothes.

9. Election season. My wee brain and shrinking faith can't take another bad one.

10. Because there might as well be 10... JoCD is back in full force. Lists, scratches, bald spots, blatherings...

Eggs tarragon, avec loneliness.

This is a lovely little Saturday morning omelet for a party of one. That's you, JoBiv.

You'll need:

2 eggs - the last two in the carton. Yikes.
2 sections of shallot, diced
1 roma tomato that may or may not be your roommate's, seeded and diced
2-3 tablespoons of grated parm
1 tablespoon tarragon
splash o' milk (1% today! Oh luxury!)
salt n' pepa (not the hip-hop phenomenon, the staple condiments)
2 slices of that creepy Trader Joe's bread that never goes bad. Seriously, I bought this loaf three weeks ago and it's still in tact! Non-furry! Of course, it tastes like cardboard, but whatevs. I mean seriously, remember last week when you thought you didn't have any bread? And then you find this forgotten loaf in the back of your shelf and are sure it's gone native to find... useful food!

1. Get some butter melting in a smallish pan, very low heat.

2. Whisk together eggs and milk until a little frothy. Whisk in tarragon, then parm.

3. Pour slowly into pan. Slide in the diced veggies.

4. Make yourself coffee, put the bread in the toaster but don't toast yet, and generally take yer dang time. This one's best cooked slow. When you can hear the butter crackling and the sides of the egg have released from the pan, start the toaster.

5. Fold the omelet (or don't, I don't particularly care, but it's nice for presentation) and let cook a little while you butter your creepy bread. Divide in two, plate prettily and serve. To self.

6. Eat. No, really, go ahead and eat. Cry later, over the sink full of dishes.

Saturday Morning Fancy Eggs

You will need the following:

A freezer full of hamburger buns you bought for a friend's Labor Day BBQ that required, she claimed, "shitloads" of buns, the purchase of which took up two weeks of your grocery budget.

Okay, not really, you only need

2 hamburger buns, defrosted on a plate over the pilot light. Sliced bread would work, too, if you had any.

2 eggyweggs

1 cube frozen basil
1/4 cube frozen garlic (these cube things are the coolest! Of course you could use fresh if you had it.)

splash o' roommate's milk

salt and pepper

1. Beat eggs with milk, add basil and garlic. Beat beat beat til frothy and green. Add salt and pepper.

2. Using the tops of the hamburger buns, slice off the seedy part. Cut holes in the center using cookie cutter shaped like an autumn leaf that you got when you threw a party with an old roommate/once-upon-a-time friend. Stuff bottom slice of hamburger bun in your mouth unconsciously.

3. Get a pan on the burner with some oil. Get it not-quite-cracklin' hot.

4. Place hole-y roll in the pan. Carefully pour about 1/4 cup of the egg mixture into the center of the bun. Let the bread absorb a little, then pour a little more. Cook 'til it puffs, then flip and cook until it REALLY puffs. Wonder idly what happened to the bottoms of the hamburger buns.

5. Garnish with sliced tomato and parmesan. Eat while thinking that next time it would be fun to have ingredients like Italian bread, cream, pancetta, fresh rosemary, shallots... Shut self up and try to eat mindfully.

Cafe Microcosmo

• 4:00 am: Skunk fight outside my window. Ends predictably.
• 6:30 am: Stench wears off. Alarm chirps.
• 7:30 am: Arrive what I think is a half-hour early for work, enough to get my tea and breakfast and sit peacefu... FUCK, Old Lech is here and wants to whisper sweet garlicky nothings in my ear. Hide in the basement.
• 7:57 am: On the floor in apron, hat and forced smile. Informed I am still one half-hour early. Learn I have the same exact schedule as the Special Needs Girl, because both of us are a bit useless and together might make up a whole person on the floor. Shittiness sinks in.
• 8:15 am: Punch in anyway. Proceed to be pushed around by grumpy Monday Morning types. Try to keep up with Regulars in a fairly cheery fashion, meanwhile dropping $30 worth of pastries on the floor, getting yelled at for cleaning too thoroughly, and nearly killing myself on the stairs.
• 9:30 am: Inform shift manager that an artist is coming for us to review work for us to put up on our walls. She shrugs. I try to get her excited and fail.
• 10:48 am: Behind the bar, cranking out drinks frantically, manager and friend both go on their half-hour breaks at the same time. Artist's wife arrives for conference. I send her around a corner with a free drink and frantically yell for help. While scurrying for whipped cream, someone tells me I need to be off the floor to help with sorting tips. My elbow catches a milk pitcher, sends it flying sideways, dumping its 180 degree contents down my calf and ankle, soaking my sock, seeping into my shoe...
  
• 10:49 am: "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit...."
• 10:49:23 am: Yank off shoe and sock, rip apart First Aid pack for a burn pad, slap the slimey thing on my ankle, wiggle my shoe back on, and go to interview the artist's wife.
  
• 10:55am: Artist's wife schools me on corporate procedures about these things. And here I thought I was the resident expert. Shamefacedly shuffle downstairs to print out necessary paperwork.
• 10:58am: Changing in "dungeon," Special Needs Girl argues about who gets to do tips. In my underwear with floppy wet burn thing sliding off my foot and a whip-smart artist's wife waiting for me upstairs while our printer pops out one. letter. at. a. time, I simply say, "Please be quiet." Tears well up in S.N.G.'s eyes.
  
• 11:00am: Shove paperwork at artist's wife, bumble through polite farewells, run/limp out door with co-worker.
• 11:01-11:40am: Take sloooow train over Longfellow Bridge, which may be breaking beneath us, to bank where our coins stop up the counting machine three times. Gossip about the cafe half-heartedly while praying I get enough tips to cover groceries for two weeks.
• 12ish to 1ish: S.N.G. is off the clock, but waiting in the basement for us to sort out the cash, staring and making terrible social gaffs. I can't stand other humans anymore so I start drawing bananas on each person's tip envelope. Banana scenarious include but are not limited to: Banana Tourist, Banana Incognito, Banana Silent Treatment, Banana Olympics, Banana in a Hammock (literal, not sexual), Banana Nun Loaf (banana in habit with little poop - terrible, I know, but my brain fell apart), and Banana in a Hot Air Balloon. Why not?
• 1:34pm: clock out, but stay to read and decompress and enjoy A/C. Regulars look at me like I'm a little pathetic to spend all my time here. In return, I begin to feel a little pathetic and take myself home.
  
• 2ish pm: Run into current favorite Irishman from Chorus. Reunite joyfully and plan on gettin' the gang together. Heart pitter-patters with hope and promises are made for future rendezvous.
• 2:20ish pm: On the train in my non-cafe clothes, I still reek of coffee. It smells like skunks to me. I try to make sense of the day. I get out of my seat so a three-year-old girl with Downs Syndrome can sit safely with her Mom or nanny or whoever. She waves eagerly. I feel like a puke as I think of S.N.G., who isn't nearly as needy as this little girl but is almost always as joyful. I think of how little joy I return to her.
  
• Later than 2:20ish: Feeling abruptly returns to burned foot on train. Swallow scream.
• 3ish pm: Forge through Coolidge Corner to pick up ginger root and pork and a sense of self.
  
• Afternoon and onward... Cook from Arahsae's 3rd cookerie 'zine. Spray things with bleach. Calm heartbeats and hatebeats. Eat near roommate, but not with roommate.
  
• Now: Full stall. Literally full of yummy pork. Muy consada.
  

But what is she DOING?

Because people seem to be wondering, I shall provide you with the following mundane list of the crap that fills my days.

1. Avoiding phone calls.
2. Making unavoidable phone calls.
3. Carefully timing all checks sent to landlord and utilities.
4. Putting various band-aids on various lacerations/blisters/vulnerabilities on my still-mostly-dead foot.
5. Making corporate coffee. Avec smile. (Sometimes genuine.)
6. Buying more band-aids whilst postponing rent checks.
7. Babysitting a ten-month-old baby girl who screams at the top of her lungs for the first fifteen minutes. EVERY TIME I WATCH HER.
8. Lying awake.
9. Avoiding you. Yes, even you, although I love you and want to have something wonderful to say to you about my life. I don't, and so I am quiet.

un edit ed

I don't know where to start, so I'll just start. I worked a my first shift back at Starbucks yesterday. My doctor said I could go back to work so I took a shift that someone bailed out on. Three hours in my scar started puffing up. By the time i got home it was bleeding. I was tired, of course, and aching everywhere and not even useful in the store and completely unsure of how many hours I could work, and then... bleeding.

I have no money coming. My surgeon's assistant never mailed the forms he was supposed to mail, despite my constant calls, so I missed the file date with my insurance. My parents finally got a big fat envelope of forms postmarked january 7th. Clearly the guy didn't touch it til at least a week after he got back from vacation. By the time my parents forwarded the envelope, I opened it to find out it said I could go back to work immediately. Good? Not good? I had no idea, considering I hadn't seen the surgeon again.

I had an appointment the next day, actually, and brought up the forms. I asked my surgeon to extend the date because I couldn't get hours at starbucks and can't afford to shut off the income from the insurance til i start getting hours. This is all assuming that the insurance will work out.

As an extra happy surprise, I got several statements from my insurance detailing my surgery and the parts they'll cover. Apparently I owe about $3,000. Honestly, it wouldn't matter if it were $30, I can't pay anything. I've saved that freakout for another day.

So now... today... I dunno. I have to call Starbucks and tell them I'm bleeding and I do want hours but I can't DO anything. I should maybe, okay definitely call the surgeon's office to let them know the wound opened up and find out if that's a big deal or not. I have to call insurance people every day for the rest of my life until they can help me. I have to take a shower and brush my teeth and wear clothes and read mail and every little thing seems impossible.

I'm so tired. How do I stop being tired?

I've been going on dates willy nilly, too. I was going to omit that, but it's important. I'm in this very juvenile frame of mind these days where I need constant approval and attention, and so I throw myself at people and beg beg beg them to like me. I'm so fucking pissed that I have to wear a brace and can't walk properly can't earn money and I want some proof from the world that I'm still some kind of adorable human being. So I let men buy me dinner and tell me all the things about their lives that would normally make me say, "I think I hear my mother calling," and leave. I let them kiss me and try to feel convinced. And of course, as predicted, none of it works for the positive, except maybe getting dinner or coffee for free.

It's my brother Chris's birthday today. Also The Novelist's. My chest kind of squeezes around that weirdly. Everything, everything is so uncomfortable.

Trying to find a positive note, but then again we talked about that, didn't we? How i try to be positive for you sometimes, try to make other people more comfortable with my hardships. Maybe I don't have the strength today.

A week in pictures (and poverty)

There was snow. It was purty, and impossible to walk on with only one good foot.













Eggs and bananas. Bananas and eggs. (And toast, at the time, although I've run out of bread since.)












Proof that I left the apartment and made it to the movies with my roomie. Good Jo! Tut tut.












Dressed up for dates, because if I go on dates someone else will pay for my coffee/drinks/dinner. And I'm less bored. Okay, and I like boys.











Proof that I still love Boston, even though I've been dealt the worst blows of my life here (and they just keep coming).

Eggs and bananas.

Less words these days. Less and less.

But today I walked down Beacon to buy eggs at Trader Joe's. On the way back I passed Thai Basil, a restaurant much-frequented by JoBiv. Over the past few weeks I've noticed a Phenomenon. Most days, if I'm paying attention, I notice a styrofoam bowl full of thai noodles or soup or fried rice, and a styrofoam cup of soda sitting on the brick ledge that lines the restaurant's front.

At first I thought it was sitting there for some chef or waitron's break. (Don't you hate the term waitron?) I don't tend to walk back and forth enough to know if it's gone at the end of the day. Over the last week I've noticed that it's there in the morning, before the restaurant opens.

I think, maybe, there's some lone homeless person in Brookline who profits from the chef's charity. Being homeless in Brookline is frowned upon, however, and maybe a cop made him shove on to other pastures, like Roxbury.

OR, it could be an offering to some god I don't know of, or some snarling night beast that only appears after the last waitron (there's that word again) wraps his/her last bundle of fork, knife and spoon for the night.

Or it could be for me. I could use the free meal. I've thought about taking it. If it weren't for my fear of spinach and embedded seafood, I might just walk off with it.

For now, it's bananas and eggs for JoBiv. Thank you, Mrs. Warhover, for the stroke of brilliance.

I know, I know, certain death awaits me.

Check my friend Jim's blog. He's new at this, yet surprisingly bold.

So I called my Dad with good news. After making the shameful phone call to ask for money so I can pay my frickin' Brookline MA rent, and my mother agreeing to float me the cash 'til I get my Planes money, I called to let Dad know that the Financial Faeries had bestowed a gift on JoBiv. I FINALLY got reimbursed for my unused vacation time from my Parent Liaison job at the preschool! Whoopee! (Who, you wonder, doesn't take her paid vacation? Why, that's me! JoBiv! What would I do with it? Go home? You haven't been paying attention.)

I got the checks in the mail yesterday. CheckS. Plural. Nice, eh? I had spoken to MeeraLove earlier in the day, saying "Sure we can get together, but not at a cafe, because I can't afford the leftover coffee grounds," and then later I got to say, "Meera, DAHLING, let's saunter down Newbury in pointy bitch shoes (f'real, click on that -- I'm related to that person, somehow), and fear interaction with the peasants."

We didn't do that, though. We deposited my checks, bought dalmas and concord grapes from Trader Joe's, and spat grape seeds at squirrels whilst chatting about Life In General.

All this is to say, I called home. Nice of me. I said, "Dad, don't bother sending that check because I've got me some Moh-nay."

And he said, "It's already sent. Keep it."

And I said, "Umm... I donwanna."

And he said, "Well too bad, because I'm not takin' it back. Why aren't you coming October 2nd?"

Huh?

And I said, "Because then I'd be there too long." Whoops.

"What do you mean, too long?

"I mean, that would be a long time to be in Victor with all of you poor people chauffering me around. It's not fair to YOU." Good save.

"Oh. Well, Tom [recall former Marine brother, 32, lives in Cleveland, likes beer] and Sara [girlfriend whom I like because she is creepily similar to me] are coming that weekend. They got their weekends mixed up."

Right. So I have to change MY plans because the FRICKIN' MARINE can't plan a trip to the bathroom, much less to his hometown.

But I changed my plans because my Dad named a date for the Great Drive Back to Boston. Columbus Day. Everyone jot that down. Also, because my Uncle John from Hawaii will be in town that weekend of the 2nd, and I'd shore like to see'm. That was an awkward part of the phone conversation because my Dad was in the kitchen while my Aunt Mary (freak, remember?) was makin' cookies, and I would never, EVOR, change my plans around in an effort to run into her. No sir. It just may have been conspicuous that I've seen my Uncle John much more recently than I've seen her, but what can she do to me?

Hmm. I suddenly have this image of Aunt Mary as the witch in Snow White, dripping cyanide on a luscious, red apple...