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?

Trying, but not impossible

Thursdays are long days with the Lil Pea. I have to get here early because the Baby Daddy has an 8am meeting every Thursday. Unless, like today, he was on call the night before, in which case I still have to get here early so the Baby Mama can get to her office by 8am.

Because he's on call, he will stumble into the apartment at about 11 or 12 and poke around very tiredly until he finally decides to have a go at a nap. At this point, I take the baby out for a long walk, allowing him to really sleep without any distraction.

Also, every other Thursday, a woman comes to clean the place. On days like today, I pray she comes before Baby Daddy comes home, although this isn't always the case. At any rate, it is not fun to try to feed the baby, dress the baby, play with the baby, put the baby down for a nap when there is a little Honduran lady smashing her vacuum into walls and moving, magically, into the room you were hoping to use for the next little ritual in the baby's day.

This is one of those Thursdays. Cleaning lady, Daddy post-call, early morning...

Add to that the following complications:

Baby Daddy and Mama haven't gone out on a date in a loooong time. I informed them last week that I was, indeed, free this evening to babysit so they can go catch a play they've been wanting to see. So today I'll work from 7:30 to 4:30, get some dinner, wander back here by about six, and stay until eleven or so. And, of course, return tomorrow morning at 8am.

JoBiv will need her wits about her for such a feat! Cue the pandemonium!

Last night, ten minutes to midnight, I got a phone call. I was trying to convince myself that I was sleeping, so I didn't answer, but my heart pounds for a good ten minutes when the phone rings while I'm in this fake-sleep phase.

It was the Big U. I couldn't hear what he was saying on the machine, but we have been making plans for this weekend and I assumed it had something to do with that. Of course, my obsessive brain wouldn't leave it at that, and I wondered whether I should get up and listen to the message for the next five hours straight.

Five a.m., the phone again, heart pounds... This time I heard Heather moving around and realized that it's her cab. She's headed to CA for a week and had an early flight. ThuTHUNK ThuTHUNK ThuTHUNK...

After hitting the snooze eleven times, I finally got up, showered, turned on the Weather Channel, and remembered the phone message.

"Hey Jo, it's Ulysses, it's like, almost midnight on Wednesday night aaaand IIII'm Drunk. And so I was calling you while I'm drunk, but don't call me back or anything because I might not be drunk by then and it wouldn't be any fun. So. Goodnight."

Ookay.

Meanwhile, the Weather Channel informed me that my day would be HELL, rainy and cloudy and awful, thus keeping Lil Pea and Nanny indoors while coordinating the three-ring circus of Daddy post-call, cleaning lady, and Lil Pea's normal day.

Off to work... I arrive to baby Mama's quick updates: The Pea was sick yesterday (my day off) with a fever of 103. She threw up the liquid Motrin, so they're giving her suppositories. The suppositories melted in the heat, so they now make their home in the freezer. And just in case you're wondering, I can't WAIT to shove an ice cube up the baby's butt. That should be a ball.

Do you think this day is even possible for a sane person, much less your favorite JoBiv? Sick baby plus post-call Thursday plus evening sitting plus NO sleep plus rain... That's not a recipe for disaster. I should be fiiiiiiine...

And I meant to mention...

I got an email from DannyPants today. He's in Wy-not-oming, planning to find a ukelele so he can imitate Tiny Tim and play "Tiptoe Through the Tetons"(his joke, not mine). He and Ren will be back for a short while the last week of July. Y'know, when the whole world converges on me and I have no time of my own. Good timing, Ugly.

Looking forward to:

1. Knowing where the hell I'm moving by the end of this week
2. Miss Sarah's arrival in Beantown
3. Miss Meera's fabulous wedding
4. Sinstitutin'
5. Tina visiting that Sunday
6. Possible pay raise due to Baby Mama's promotion

Yet more communal finger-crossings needed

It's funny, during the winter I look out on the gray world and think of all the things I'll do in the spring and summer when it's nice out. And then here are the sunny days, and they're so busy that I find myself daydreaming of fat snowflakes gathering to mute this noisy city.

My life has gotten busy.

Most of my busy-ness comes from the apartment search. I've seen four places so far, one rejected me, one I rejected, two I'm waiting on. I have two to see tonight, two this weekend, and I hope I'll be done by then. So far I haven't found the perfect mix of dream apartment and perfect roommates.

Also today, I have a gig in Waltham with Arnie, this saxophonist who intimidates me named Doug, and a bassist who makes Arnie (the sweetest, most docile man in the world) curse like a trucker. And I have to arrive at Arnie's house in Belmont at 2pm or he may completely lose it. God, I hope he's not high this time.

Tomorrow night - Providence with MeeraLove! I've had plenty of notice and therefore hope to be less than maniacal in the car. I also have a few of my hoarded panic pills left. Just in case.

And the Lil Pea decided she needs to grow some new teeth this week. And whine about it. She's such a big baby. Guh. She's lucky I'm in love with her, or I don't know how I would have the energy or patience for these hot, whiny days.

(I was talking about MY whining that time.)

At the end of the day! (Ptooey!)

Yesterday was crazy busy and somehow survivable, not to mention mostly warm and fuzzy. The choir concert came off with all the right drama, and Lil Pea and the Baby Mama showed. I had a ball showing her off.

And then, wonder of wonders, Baby Mama offered us a ride to Allston so we could catch Sus on her Whirlwind Tour.

It was so frickin good to see her.

This whole entry sounds like code but I don't have time to write anything worthwhile. Just thought I'd update. Blue skies peeking through the clouds, etc.

Dealing

...with the following:

1. Dan and gf just took off on a 2-month long RV trip during which they will not visit me. (Yes, they will visit Tom in Cleveland.)

2. Need to move. Need first/last/security. Can't afford real summer sandals above the caliber of Old Navy flipflops.

3. The Intake lady at the mental health center said something like, "It looks like I can't fit you into MY schedule. Let me see if this other therapist can handle the issues you need to deal with."

4. Deep embarrassment due to the manuscript I sent to the BPL contest. DEEP, pervading, soul-squishing embarrassment.

5. General disappointment in my friendship Skillz.

6. No computer. No internet. No time to tell you all these things, or to respond to emails, or to find apartments, or to find directions to places I need to go, or to do anything useful to a girl who fears and loathes the phone.

7. Summer weather means wearing less clothing. Less clothing means baring things I don't want to show, slumping my way past the dozen or so contractors working on the house near Lil Pea's place, praying they don't look, don't say anything.

8. Singing... choir is ending tomorrow. Arnie is not dependable. Refer to #6 before you tell me to find something else.

9. Family. Good god I'm not even going to write any of it. I could puke. I could cry.

I'm just gonna go.

Congrats to Jane Whatsherface!

I didn't get it. Jane did.

Book the Third, in which JoBiv expresses herself through song

Whilst painting two little boxes today, I put on some music in my mad cool, but sadly aging, stereo boom boxy thingama.

I can't really explain all the crap that's in my head. More than that, I really don't want to. I'm pretty sure I'll be ashamed of myself as soon as I say any of it, and therefore prefer to keep my mouth, and I guess my blog, shut.

Back to the living/dining/guest room/library/den, where I am painting, my whole body curled in over the tiny details. Even though I have my CDs shuffling at random after each song, two James songs come on in a row. They are two songs that ring in my ears when I feel like this, so it's funny that they came on like that. I've cut out all superfluous matter in these songs to share the two useful sections.

"These wounds
Are all self-imposed.
Life's no
Disaster."

"Don't need a shrink but an excorcist.
Stop stop talking 'bout who's to blame
When all that counts is how to change."

See why I enjoy James? I mean, besides that recorded-in-an-Australian-canyon sound. That's hot.

Anyway, I meant to say that I enjoy James because they kick my ass once in a while. Thank you, James, may I have another.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes

It starts in my fingertips and my feet. I flex them, crack my ankles, stretch my fingers as far as I can until it hurts a little. It works up to my calves, forearms, knees, elbows, shoulders, hips... In and in until I can feel it beating around frantically behind my ribcage. I can feel it in my teeth, too. I have this fierce need to grind and bite and it's not enough. The feeling won't dissipate until I've DONE something. And then my mind shuffles like a slot machine, desperately trying to find that particular cure.

Pull your hair
Pop bubble wrap
Clean something
Scratch at something
Brush teeth vigorously
Curl up in a ball and pull everything close until it passes

My brain picks one, for no sensible reason, and fixates on it. The idea pulses in my brain, and even if I don't want to do it, the energy in my body won't stop, and my brain tells me it won't ever stop until I give in. It's so easy. Just give in.

Just one hair, I tell myself, and it'll be okay. I'll be able to breathe a little. My fingers search my scalp for the one hair that will satisfy the most - scraggly, coarse, unworthy of my head. I pull at the root. My fingers tell me there were more like it in there. Just two or three more right in that neighborhood. The weird energy kicks up higher. I pull again in the same place. That wasn't it... there are more... My jaw tightens, toes flex, whole body contorts trying to release the ants running through my veins. Nothing nothing nothing works. And while I'm pulling or popping or scrubbing, I hate myself and this weakness. For whole minutes there are two JoBivs, one coaxing the other as though she's pointing a gun menacingly.

JoBiv 1: It's just chemicals, JoBiv. It's not your fault. It's stupid to hate yourself

JoBiv 2: I know it's stupid, and that's even worse. Am I stupid about this by choice? Oh I am a low, low being.

JoBiv 1: You are not. Settle the hell down. Put down the fucking sponge and breathe, fer goddsakes.

JoBiv 2: Well maybe I LIKE being this way, eh? Maybe it gives me a reason to be upset, instead of always wondering why I feel like crap. THIS is why; because I'm out of control.

JoBiv 1: All of that is allowed, Jo Mary. Take a breath.

JoBiv 2: Fuck you! I won't ALLOW anything, goddammit! Allowing means caving in, and I should be stronger than that. It has to be in me to be stronger.

JoBiv 1: Is there a rulebook or something? Where did you even GET this shit?

JoBiv 2: Waaaaaaaah... Oh god, I'm out of control AND I'm a big fucking crybaby! I hate myself!

(The cycle continues)


*****

On a somewhat lighter, but related, note:

The Baby Mama had three hours free today and decided to go grocery shopping. She bought four of everything Gerber sells for Stage 2 babies; i.e. Bananas, Carrots, Sweet Corn with Sweet Potatoes, Apples with Blueberries -- exciting stuff. As I knew she was in a hurry to get the groceries put away and get back to South Boston, I made myself busy putting ice cream sandwiches and frozen blintzes away. After putting most of the other groceries, including the baby food, on shelves and in cabinets, the Baby Mama excused herself to pump before heading out.

Cut to the same kitchen scene, ten minutes later. JoBiv is on her knees in front of the canned food shelves. The baby food has been grouped by type, then arranged in rainbow order, from Carrots to Pears with Prunes.

"Wow. You organized it all."

"Umm... yep."

"Well that will be helpful."

"Yeah, I thought it would be nice to be able to see what's there instead of searching around."

"Definitely. Wow. Umm... thanks, Jo. You didn't have to do that."

Oh, but I DID.

HEY-ee you've got to hide your love a-way

I woke up today with the astounding realization that I have merely three days to wait before I hear about the fellowship. Not The Fellowship of the Ring, the BPL Children's Writer in Residence fellowship.

I'm trying not to care too much, but my heart actually quakes a bit whenever I think about it. Poor lil heart. It can hardly take it.

And speaking of hearts, our favorite Three-Hearted Fool, Shane Tamika Colligan, has this park named after him in Wellsville, NY. The dedication is on his birthday, July 3rd. In Wellsville. Which is not a bustling metropolis, not easy to get to, no major hotels nearby. I could fly into Buffalo and stay with my favorite David, Doktor Blouin. Or I could go to Rochester and stay with Teenie or my friend Leah and drive down with someone. I could Amtrak, Greyhound, Segway... many options.

Maybe by then I will have used my Masshealth for the powers of Good, gotten myself some therapy, organized my finances just so. Or maybe I'll dig a little hole, per usual, and pretend that none of it is happening.

I'm still feeling like a BIG ASS about Leah and her cancer craziness. A mantra runs through my crowded brain, fairly often, and it goes like this: "Be a better friend. Be a better friend. Be a better friend."

Perhaps it's not sinking in? Why am I so hesitant to throw myself into the loving arms of my St. Bonaventure friends? Why was I so freaked out by the sound of Leah's voice when she called the other week? Why, oh WHY, does a reunion with Shane's friends feel like an impending and terrifying torture?

I know I'm being childish. I'm caught between this sort of defiant, possessive emotion, a kind of "but Shane was MINE" feeling, that keeps me from sharing my memories of him with other friends who knew him. At the same time there's this squishy, ultra-vulnerable, perhaps partially rotted piece of me, this VERY childish part of me, that whimpers something more like, "None of you were here. None of you could help me when I needed it. I won't let you help me now."

My solution, and I admit it's a flawed plan, is to pretend to have a strength that's actually beyond my capabilities. For everything. For my nerves regarding singing, the fellowship, anything having to do with Shane, my family... It goes directly against my self-imposed law that I should be more honest. What's my deal?

Don't answer that.

Escuchame!

While I'm listening to the baby self-soothe (read, cry piteously until I give in and rock her to sleep), let me tell you something:

I did phenomenal things yesterday.

I called Masshealth (I got coverage! YAY!) and some loan consolidation place. I wrapped and sent a prezzie to a certain Chilean prisoner. I went to the mall and bought a much-needed summer cardigan, on super sale, after taking stock of my ratty sweatshirts. I made it back in time to meet Meera at Booksmith, where I bought Fortune's Bones with a gift certificate.

I tell you, I had many adventures.

(Just so you know, the baby actually DID self-soothe, which just proves that I'm the best nanny EVOR.)

So let's give me a round of applause... Okay... no, that's enough... and then let me tell you about choir and how much angst it's giving me.

ANGST, I tell you.



Hmm. I just thought for a long while about how I would phrase any of it, and I don't think I can do it. It should suffice to say that I'm getting some attention for my voice, and I'm riddled with panic because of it, for many reasons.

I can tell you that the absolute highlight of last night's rehearsal was the surprise of about thirty 4th grade orchestra members scrambling around in the music room, readying their instruments, shoving cases to the far side at Tom the Bass's booming insistence, running back and forth excitedly... I wish I could have sat in on their concert. I'm sure it was deliciously terrible.

I can also tell you that I am not looking forward to next week's rehearsal. Actually, I kind of wish the whole season was over already.

JoBiv is the worst friend EVOR

I always tell myself that my many tics and fears don't affect other people much. They mostly have to do with me, what I think of myself, how I try to control what I don't like about myself... They don't all make that much sense, but at least they don't harm other people, right?

But then there's this stupid phone thing. I tell myself that it's okay that I email people back when they leave phone messages, but do I always remember? Of course not. By the time I get to a computer, my time is too short to remember all of the things I need to do. I've written reminders, of course, but those just seem to end up in the washing machine, leaving pulpy little messes where useful information used to be.

I'm trying to tell you that I have been a horrible, terrible, insensitive friend because of my fear of the phone. My friend Leah from St. Bona's called a while ago, left a message even (though I don't remember this), and I didn't get in touch with her. She didn't want to tell me over the phone that she had thyroid cancer. How did I find this out? I answered the phone without screening, for once, because I assumed it was Sarah buzzing to get into the apartment, two minutes after she'd called to say she was at Liquors Foods.

Somehow, through my momentary panic at having been forced into phone contact with a completely unexpected person, I was able to be a friend to Leah, ask her about her experience, find out how she's doing, etc. I somehow conquered my rising self-loathing long enough to say, "JoBiv, this is not about you right now."

And try to tell me that THIS isn't ridiculous; this whole episode made me even more skittish with the phone, instead of steeling my resolve to be better about it. I'm at the point where every time the phone rings, my stomach and my throat tighten at the same time and I feel like if I can relax my throat I might hurl.

I know it won't do any good to hate myself for this, but hate I do.

This house is clee-ah

"Ah have exorsized the demons. This house is clee-ah." - The midgety lady from Poltergeist

I have been cleaning for the last two days. I couldn't help it, and then I couldn't stop it. Now my skin has little rashes from the bleach and other cleaning supplies, and my fingers hurt from using this crappy scrubbing brush thingy.

But I think it will help. I want to feel like I love my apartment before I leave it. I do love it, that's not all that hard, but I guess I want to feel like I'm worthy of its beauty. Gosh, it's purty.

And yes, I will be leaving it. I've been doing the math (JoBiv? doing math? You sure?) and having smallish panic attacks about my finances, my loans coming due again, my life crumbling around my shoulders because I can't make an effing phone call once in a while... And yes, I have to move to a cheaper place, perhaps with two roomies. Maybe I will be more forgiving if there are two of them.

For the time being, I shall enjoy my little corner of the Shangri-la that is Brookline Massachusetts, and I'll invite my brothers to visit One More Time before I move.

In case you're wondering, they did not remember my birthday. I won't bring that up when I invite them, because I don't want them to come out of guilt. Not really. Well, maybe if it will help.

Gosh my apartment is purty.

Che cosa faccio?

Chi son...

Chi son? Sono un poeta.
Che cosa faccio? Scrivo.
E come vivo? Vivo.


Who am I? I am a poet.
What do I do? I write.
And how do I live? I live.

- "Che gelida manina," Puccini, La Boheme


Oh skin, I do not feel comfortable in you, though you are my own.

Lately I've felt conspicuous in my guise as a nanny. Part of it is my general paranoia that people are always looking at me funny - for a nanosecond too long, with too much curiosity, with a vague look of disapproval or disgust. I know that in most cases I'm imagining it. Regardless of whether I'm making it up, I feel self-conscious with the Lil Pea these days, like someone is going to finger me out in the street and scream, "You are not a nanny! Hand over the child!"

F'rinstance (I know you were waiting for a f'rinstance), yesterday morning I went to a music class with the Pea, the second meeting in an eight-week course. The Baby Mama signed up because she usually has the day off on Wednesday and wanted to do something lovely with her child, and chose this very expensive, somewhat educational class. But Baby Mama had to work yesterday, so I was the replacement killer.

The other four women, moms and nannies alike, and all five children stared me down a bit. The woman who ran the class asked everyone to sit and went around the circle calling out the children's names. She called out the mothers' and nannies' names, too, then came to me with the ol' "And you are?" She knew Lil Pea, but didn't know me. I felt, suddenly, like all the women were comparing me to the Baby Mama, whom they'd met the week before. They were looking at me, a 25 year old seemingly intelligent, pale-skinned, native English speaking nanny?

I'm sure none of them gave me more than a moment's thought, but I still felt this sudden compulsion to explain myself. I didn't, however, because it's actually far easier to never say a damn thing aloud. It does keep me out of trouble.

Cut to choir rehearsal, where we had a social after practice and I got to speak with a few people I've been wanting to meet. While introducing myself to Gene, a tenor and daddy-to-be, I told him I was a nanny. He was interested because he and his wife may have to hire a nanny. He asked if I was originally from the area, and I explained I had come for grad school and have a degree now. That's when that foggy look came into his eyes. The, "wait, I don't get it... and you're a nanny?" look that I often give myself.

And then suddenly several people around me are saying things about how nannying is a noble profession, a difficult one, an undercelebrated one... And I realized, far more than worrying about my own comfort as a nanny, I may have to worry about how others are embarassed by it. It's the equivalent of saying, "I'm a garbage man," or maybe somehow worse, because at least we know what garbage men do all day. People seem to assume that, oh, wow, we have nothing in common, then.

So I find myself desperately saying, "Actually there's a lot of stuff going on in my life... I was freelance writing and might get this fellowship and blah blah blaaaah..." The conversation regains its momentum.

Here's the actual big pointy thorn in my side, though: shouldn't I be old enough to be apathetic about other's opinions? I don't mean that I should be a psychopath or something, but I should at least have a little more confidence in my own decisions and abilities, right?

I decided today that when I tell people what I do, I will actually say, "I take care of an eight-month-old baby girl," instead of saying, "I'm a nanny." Maybe claiming the action of caregiving will remind me that I have the options of other actions, like writing, singing, painting... It's merely a mental exercise, but I wonder if it will make a difference.

Sox and sobs

Last night the Sox game went 'til about 1:30am. Maybe it was a little shorter than that. At any rate, I watched most of it, then decided I should at least try to disengage and get some rest so I could be bright and bonny for my Lil Pea and choir rehearsal today.

But it was such a good game... I brushed my teeth, washed my face, tucked myself into bed and found the AM station on my clock radio.

And then, out of nowhere, tears started rolling down my face. And since I was lying on my back, they rolled into my ears, which tickles. I didn't know where the emotion came from, so I just took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to divine the answer from my surroundings.

Of course. Obvious. The radio. The sound of the announcers' voices, the background noise of the crowd at the park, the slight buzz of the station badly tuned... There were car trips and late nights when my dad would tune in to some game, even try to get me to watch a game on tv some late night, and all the sounds would automatically put me into a kid coma. I would wake up hours later with my mouth hanging open and dried saliva tracks on my chin. And my dad would smiled at me, smooth my hair, tell me to go to bed...

The tears are a symptom of the mourning I've put myself through with all of the trouble I've had with my father. Once in a while something will remind me of him, the Dad I wanted to keep much longer than I had him. It's exactly the same punch of emotion I get when I hear a laugh like Shane's, or someone offers me a pineapple candy like the stale chewy kind my Grandma Fabrizio always had on hand. And then I have to shake myself and say, "JoBiv, your dad is not dead."

Then why am I haunted by his ghost?

Not only do I LOOK like a monkey...

I smell like one, too! Just for today, though. Because it's my birthy-day. The big two-five. No joke, people, I'm OLD.

I don't know where to start with all of the things I could tell you people out there in the world who might be so unfortunate as to read my rubbish. Lemme break it down to some more conquerable form.


Celebratin'

Part 1: Friday

The lovely Miss Meera planned a grand evening for the two of us, and her blog covers the basics. We went to The Encore, a piano bar in the theatre district situated directly below The Roxy. Meera's glorious plan was for the two of us to dress fancy, drink a few cocktails, get a feel for their open mic, and eventually get on stage (if not that evening, the next time around). After three and a half hours of intimidation from the PROFESSIONAL SINGERS who swaggered into the bar after their performances in shows down the street, Meera wrangled the emcee (who ran the open mic by calling on her personal friends to sing) and told her that I would like to sing. That's pretty much the only way to get me on stage, turns out, because I'm the biggest weiner alive when it comes to actually talking to people and signing up for things like this.

So about 45 minutes after Meera pulled the lady aside, after her and her pianist's set break, after most of the professionals had blessedly moved on to other realms, the woman sat down next to me, her Velma wig tickling my shoulder as she leaned in to ask me, "So, do you really wanna sing?"

That's when I started shaking. Even while I heard my voice slipping easily out of me, even as I confidently planned my attack on the last chorus, even while I looked into Meera's serene face, and five minutes after I sat down, I was shaking. I am such a pansy.

Meera, even with mangled lyrics, was much cooler.

In fact, Arnold, the possibly 70+ yr old man with the checkered tweed pants, ridiculously huge and heavy glasses, and baseball cap, sang with utter confidence and joy. Even better, Bill, another older gent with an impressive belly (I think it's an opera belly rather than a beer belly) sang sans mic! He waded through the room a bit as well, singing directly to specifice audience members, blasting out the high notes. And then there was Kelly, a skinny sorority girl type with pointy features and (I think) pointy shoes. She conferenced with Tim, the pianist, for about twenty minutes on and off, in between other people's songs, trying to show him how she wanted to do her song. And then she got up there, and with a kind of irritating boldness, screamed out her lyrics in full Broadway style. I tried to figure out if I found her irritating because she was, in a sense, direct competition to myself and Meera - young and female in a room full of old men and young gay men. The more she sang, the more I realized; nope, she's just f'ing annoying.

I was thinking of what it takes to be a diva. I don't think I actually have that quality that even Arnold had, even with his bad notes and shakey voice. You have to be able to look in the mirror, do one of those fake gun point things, say, "Heeeey good lookin'," and believe yourself.

All this is beside my birthday point: it was a great night, with amazing company, and entertainment beyond our expectations.


Part 2: Saturday

I T'd home from Meera's place Saturday morning with two borrowed DVD's and 6 homemade (but I think legally made) CDs, the latter all gifts from the noticeably lovely Meera. I walked into my apartment, gratefully removed my jazzy shoes at long last, put on my pineapple pants, and put Kung Fu Hustle in the DVD player. H-Bomb seemed a bit confused. We shared a few words about our nights and off she went to lab, leaving me to luxuriate in my apartment alone. When I treat myself, I usually do it with movies, and Kung Fu Hustle was a treat, indeed. Again, I lazily point you to Meera's review, because I agree wholeheartedly with her feelings for it, although I think I still rank Shaolin Soccer a wee bit higher. I mean, there was a lot more spontaneous dancing in Shaolin Soccer. Very West Side Story. Always appreciated.

The second DVD, Baz Luhrman's Romeo and Juliet, was also fantastic in an utterly different sense. R&J is not my favorite Shakespeare play, I should let you know, because I think that rapidly formed love affairs are more acceptable, generally speaking, in comedies. In tragedies you need a bit more evidence of love before your heart can truly feel trespassed upon, and it's just not possible when the lovers meet in Act II. (Not sure if that's accurate, but I think you know what I mean.) Anywho, I mean to say, it was okay for me that Leo and Claire didn't convince me of their undying love, because I don't know if it's possible in Willy's script. So there. Take that, Shakespeare. Booyah.

So yeah, I spent TWO MORE HOURS watching every possible special feature on the DVD. Every. Single. One.

And then Sarah rescued me from my lazy day, making plans to go out to dinner at Audubon Circle, the snooty place across from An Tua Nua near the St. Mary's T stop. Even better, she treated! And there was cake! And a reuben! And Katya and Anne came, as well as a troupe of boys Sarah has somehow befriended. And perhaps I have befriended them, too. Yes. Yes I have. I can't help myself... they play whiffle ball! That's almost as cool as kickball! (Oh, shades of last year's celebrations!)


Part the Third: Sunday

Yes, this does go on forever. I don't know how it happens that I end up spending whole weeks celebrating my birthday. Maybe it's because Meera and I usually hang out separately from other peeps, or maybe my friends pity me deeply for my lonely state due to parent/jobiv strife, or maybe it's because I'm incredibly worthy. (Doubt that last one. Lucky, maybe.)

Sunday morning I met up with Katya's fam for brunch at Zaftigs. Mmmmm.

Let me take a moment. Zaftigs... Ahhhhh.

I'm back now. I'm cool. Moving on. It was a treat to meet Ma and Pa Annabell, and I have to confess that I felt like I had a VIP pass to some exclusive kind of zoo. The Annabell family in action rivals The Encore for entertainment value. If only there had been a Velma wig, they just might have surpassed the piano bar.

I got home from brunch and immediately took on my laundry, and called Sarah to see how she'd gotten on with a certain redhead (not the Big U), and Certain Redhead happened to be in the room when I called. She invited me to ice cream. I explained the laundry issue. I ended up meeting them while my stuff was in the dryers and didn't return home until 11:30pm. How did I end up baking chocolate-stuffed choc. chip cookies instead of doing laundry? Well, really now, if this were a Choose Your Own Adventure Book, I think you'd flip to page 35, too.


Il quarto: oggi

E per oggi, io...

Okay, that is... As for today, I came to the baby's house and found a balloon and a gift bag in the living room, per me. Inside, gel pens, some cute stationery, and a very generous gift certificate to Booksmith. Ahh, they know me well.

Tonight I'll meet Sarah and her entourage for team trivia at some bar called Harry's. FUN!

Towels are parve, right?

My back went out last night because I was laying on my bed with my legs hanging over the edge, something my old physical therapist told me never to do unless I worked out until I had abs like Janet Jackson.

I haven't, by the way. I have no stomach muscles to speak of. And therefore, not only did my back do this weird cracky thing, I also couldn't move because all movement required using my tummy muscles (which I do not have, read above), or using my back muscles (which were non-functional). Stuck, very much like a beetle on its back, I took a moment for contemplation.

First, there was the satisfaction of achieving actual pain. I immediately wanted to call my mother. When we were little we were not allowed to complain to her of any malady unless we could prove it with:

1. paralyzation
2. gushing blood
3. a bone protruding from the skin
4. a fever of 102 or higher
5. vomit so constant that we could not take a breath to tell her about it.

Having achieved number one, I couldn't help but feel a little ecstatic.

And then I thought of how twisted that is, and how it's probably turned me into a bigger hypochondriac, and perhaps my back pain was actually psychosomatic.

Which led me to remembering a visit to my orthopaedic surgeon when I was 17 or so and my back pain flared up. He showed me a few x-rays of my lower back, pointing to this straight line of vertabrae.

"See this? This is not supposed to be straight. It's supposed to be your lower lumbar curve." Okay, I see it. "See this? This is where you were injured. It's healed now. Has been for years now, because there's very little scar tissue left. In other words, your muscles still think you're injured, but you're not."

In other words, he sent me to a psychiatrist because I somehow carried all of my tension in my lower back and shoulders and it was paralyzing me every so often. But it was emotional tension, or a memory of the pain that justified this pain.

And then I wondered, if that's what this is now, this pain, why is it back?

Dumbass. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the car accident that started it all when I was two days away from turning seven years old.

Not to mention the mounting tension from all of my dealings with my parents...

Or the sudden need to constantly tally my life's actions, the friends I've managed to keep, the habits I can't seem to abandon. Turning 25 doesn't actually mean anything, but I get thoughtful like this around my birthday anyway, and the big two-five seems to exacerbate the tallying.

I haven't found any answers. The physical pain, for now, needs my attention more than all of my conspiracy theories about my own brain.

And so I have soaked a towel in water, popped it in the microwave, stuffed it into my jeans a little, and now I shall lay me down while the baby sleeps. But let me ask, is there anything in kosher law about wet towels?

Spring is a season, turns out

I've been thinking about home a lot lately, for obvious reasons if you've been reading (and I don't blame you if you haven't. I'm a little sick of my whining, too), and I haven't been able to get over the weather here.

Here's the thing: Spring is an entire season in Boston.

I know that there are tons of reasons why I'd notice Boston's loveliness right now, and perhaps you'd think my love for the area, and appreciation for its weather, is a bit exaggerated due to the circumstances.

And therefore, I want to tell you something about El Victoir: there's no such thing as Spring there. Not in the traditional sense (which I have found out is the New England sense). Spring in western New York consists of a few rainy days that thaw the ground, crocuses, snow on the crocuses, lilacs, ice storm killing the lilacs, and eventually weeds and leaves popping out on the same day in early June. The actual SPRING part takes place in about three minutes, and then New York gives the rest of Spring a miss and proceeds directly to summer. Hot, muggy, stifling summer.

It is quite simple to compare this to Boston weather, because it has never snowed on my birthday while I've lived in Boston. It may not seem like a huge accomplishment on Mother Nature's part, but to me... ahh, 'tis a gift. And I have never lived in any place that had 50-60 degree weather for more than two consecutive days. Until now.

The currect score:
Boston - 612
Victor - 7

The Prodigal Daughter?

Yet again, the phone proves itself an enemy.

Cripps returned a phone call I had made a couple weeks ago. Saturday night at 11:45. I picked up, thinking, "Well, it's not my parents. It can't be too horrific."

Cripps asked why I had called and before I could tell him he said, "Wait a sec... the Baby lost her bink. Have to go be a daddy for a second."

"Aww," I said. (A sincere "aww." I love Cripps' daddy skills.)

"I'm taking you with me," he says, and I can hear him going up the stairs and creaking the door open. "Hi Beaner... Hi sweetie... here's your bink, honey..."

I could hear her whimpering a little. He cooed and comforted her. I said, "Cripps, you're such a good dad..."

Then she started to really cry. She decided she needed to be held, so I said, "Should we talk tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said, and Baby added an emphatic "WAH!" He now had her on his shoulder, as her cries were louder and closer. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Bye Cripps."

"Bye Jojo. Love you."

*******

12:40am

My book rests on my chin and chest, and the phone jars me into wakefulness. The book somehow flies across the room (and has not yet been found).

"Hey sis." Cripps again.

"Is the Baby asleep?" I ask.

"Yeah, she needed some cuddlin'. She's sleeping now." He says. I'm sure I made an "aww" sound again. "It's unbelievable. It's so cool. I'm her Daddy. I'm the one who knows how to comfort her and make her feel safe."

We talked about this for a while - how I think he and Lois are awesome parents (I don't think parents can hear this enough), and how none of us can really remember what life was like before Baby. Of course, that's not really true. I have a great memory that clings to emotion and ambience as well as facts and phrasing. I remember.

And then we're talking about Dad. I had called to ask his advice on some of the things I wanted to say in the letter I was writing. I don't actually know why I called him. Of the three siblings that seem clued-in about the goings-on at Chez Biv, Cripps is the most... deluded, I suppose. He only has a complaint if someone directly attacks him. Otherwise, things are dandy. I mean, the house could be on fire, and he wouldn't notice or particularly care unless HE went up in flames.

So when I talk to Cripps about things that I deem important, we end up having these circular conversations during which he plays devil's advocate, because this is how he sees life. "Well why not do this instead? You could. There are the following million quatrillion possible paths, and isn't that tiring to think about. Just give up instead. Unless your leg's on fire."

During our conversation Saturday night, he slipped toward his circular tendencies, but then he snapped out of it. He took a side. He took my dad's side, and I completely understood (somewhere deep in my embittered, blackened, defensive heart).

"Why do you have to tell them not to come to Boston? Why can't you let them take you out on the town and buy you groceries and meet your friends?" asked Cripps.

"Cripps, they don't have the money."

"Sure they do."

"They're living on credit..."

"So?"

"So, credit is not money."

"So?"

"I feel really sick just thinking about them taking me to some fancy restaurant that will put them $200 further in the hole, not to mention the hotel, other meals, all the crap they'll try to buy me..."

"Why not let them if it makes them happy?"

"Because it's self-destructive!"

"It is not."

"Oh yes, it is! Ultimately it is! Think about Grandma right now... she HAD money. She was set for life! And now she's just lived too long. Now things are tight. Imagine Mom and Dad at 87, Mom and Dad who have never had a nest egg or a retirement plan or a 401k..."

"What, you wouldn't help them out?"

"Will I be able to? Will you? Anyway, that's not the point. It's self-destructive. Dad's ego rests on a few big manly things, like his ability to bring home the bacon. I know it's not particularly affirming for Mom or Dad to tell me that 'it's like everything's free!' when they whip out the mastercard. Mom wouldn't be sucking down two packs a day if she truly felt that their life has a solid foundation right now. I refuse to let them parade around pretending to own the world to try to impress me or inflict their make-believe on me. I'm not fooled, Cripps. I'm disturbed."

"You can say that again. Hahaha..."

"Shutup. And to see any of their monopoly money going toward alcohol... I think I'll lose it. Dad will take us to some fancy place where the drinks are $12 a pop, and I will fucking lose it. In public."

"Why can't you just have a better attitude about this?"

"POOF. There, you've done it. I no longer feel any anxiety. Thanks, Cripps. Wish I'd talked to you about this back in '93..."

"Jojo, c'mon, why can't you just see it as your parents trying to do something nice for you?"

"Because it's never nice for me... it's always tragic and hurtful. I don't like lying to them or participating in their delusional escapades in any way. It just makes me feel nauseous the whole time. And they feel that... I know they feel that. Maybe it hurts them more to see me in person, reacting to them like that."

"Look, Jo..." He tapered off to silence. Was he thinking? Formulating? Sleeping?

"Yes?"

"Look, I just feel like... God, you know, he's your father. I can't even imagine the day that Baby makes decisions like these. It hurts me to leave her to go to work each day. I can't even imagine the first sleepover, or college, or Boston... and her telling me not to visit her."

I wanted to answer him somehow. 'Then you'll have to work harder than Dad has.' 'You'll be ready by then, you will have lived through enough arguments and experiences...' 'This isn't about you and Baby, goddammit.'

None of that came out of my mouth, and good thing. I just realized in that moment, yet another moment of swallowing words instead of saying them, that I should never have said any of it. He was the wrong person to tell. There isn't a right person to tell. My brothers would love it if my parents left Le Victoire for a weekend. They would love it if Mom and Pop shined around town saying, "We're going to visit our daughter in Boston! Whoohoo!" They would especially love it if I pulled my weight in Operation Keep Dad Afloat.

But since I don't particularly believe in that mission, they can either carry on buoying with beautiful consistency, or my father can come to Boston so I can pop the bubble entirely, then return to Le Victoire to the two sons who certainly cannot handle a tragedy of such proportions.

I said none of this. I said goodnight.

"Good night Jojo. Love you."

************

Mother's Day, 7ish

"So I gather that maybe it would be better if we don't come to Boston?" said my poor mother.

"I've been thinking about it a ton..." I said, half-convinced that I might just invite them.

"That's okay, Joey. I know it's a lot of stress," she said.

"You know how much I love you guys, right?" I said, trying to keep my sobs at bay.

"Oh god, of course we do... "

"And I want to see you. We just maybe have to pick another weekend... that's not so close. I dunno."

"Yeah, we'll set a date." Neither of us got out a calendar.

"Good."

"Good."

"This is a crappy Mother's Day gift, Mom. I'm sorry," I said.

"Well, mothers are made to take this kind of thing."

Ick. Swallowing words... "Happy Mother's day, Mom. I love you."

"Love you, too, Joey. Get some rest."

Apparently, even my subconscious, or whatever part of me kept me awake all last night, refuses to listen to my mother.

it might as well be spring

JoBiv: OOh! Smell that?
Meera: Mmmhmm!
JoBiv: (walking briskly toward nearest blossoming tree) Think it's this one?
Meera: *sniff* Nope.
JoBiv: *sniff* Hmm. Maybe that one... (walking to next tree)
Meera: *sniff sniff* (looking confused) Hmm.
JoBiv: *sniff* Nope. Oh well.
Meera: (turns toward front steps of Devotion school) Oh well.
JoBiv: Wait! (skipping down the path to another small blossoming tree)
Meera: Hmm? (following)
JoBiv: *sniff* Ahhhhhhhhh...
Meera: *sniff* Ahhhhhhhhh...
JoBiv: *sniff* Ahhhhhh...
Meera: *sniff sniff* Ahhhhhhh...
JoBiv: *sneeeeef* Ahhh that's good...
Meera: *Sneeef sniff sniff* Mmmmmm.
JoBiv: I wanna keep it forever. *sniffity sniff*
Meera: Let's bring some in to B! *sneeeeef*
JoBiv: Good idea! *sniff*
Meera: (snapping sprig from the branch) *sniff* He's gonna love this!

And B, the kindly gent in the tenor section who made us sit with him to admire the copper-colored light on the trees a few weeks ago, did indeed love his little sprig. And since he's the coolest, he somehow smushed his sprig into the zipper of his fleece vest, the one that's always covered in his dog's hair. He was fairly beaming through half the night...

Until Bach killed our collective will to live, that is. Well, to be more specific, and fair to the woman who sat in and actually taught us more of the Bach than we've ever learned with our director, the smiles stopped when she sat down and our director took over. There was a moment, while this woman led us through or leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeben, when I was struck by the prettiness of it. "Oh wow," thought I, "this piece is melodic!" And I thought of what it would be like to hear our choir finally getting it right if I could properly hear it, if I was sitting, perhaps, on that bench just outside and letting the scent of that one blooming tree wash over me. I would inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and say, "Ahhh, they've finally got it."

T minus 9 minutes...

I'm at the Coolidge Corner branch of the Brookline Public Library right now, which is a good thing because Kinko's will make no money off of me today, and because it forced me to leave the apartment on this dismal little Wednesday.

It is a frustrating thing because computer sessions have time limits here, and GOOD GOD I ONLY HAVE SEVEN MINUTES LEFT. AHHHH... I don't deal so well with deadlines, as some of you may know, and as this so far meaningless post has evidenced.

Point, JoBiv?

None.

Story? Can I tell it in SIX minutes? Oh god...



A Few Nights Ago:

H-Bomb: So, Johanna, have you thought of what you're going to do in September?
JoBiv: You mean about the apartment?
H: Yeah. I mean, are you planning to stay, or...
JoBiv: Well it depends a lot on the fellowship. If I get it, I'll stay and put an ad up for a new roommate. It's really a question of price. But I have been thinking of finding something cheaper... What about you?
H: Well my friend Annette (not Funicello, I've asked before) wants me to move in with her...
JoBiv: Oh that would be great... for you.
H: Yeah, but she wants to stay in Central Square, and I hate that area. So I'd rather live here and find a new roommate.
JoBiv: Uh HUH.
H: Yep.

Then we both watched a baseball game and ignored the fact that we both just admitted to hating living with each other. Funny?

Lil Pea and me

Lil Pea has been sick for the last week or so. First there were fevers and seriously bad moods, and now she has a rash and a fierce need for snuggling. The Baby Mama diagnosed it as something... some childhood disease that hits kids in the springtime and isn't a big deal.

It struck me again today, this thing I think of when I'm comforting children. Lil Pea didn't want to sit in her high chair or lie on her playmat and roll around, or sit in her saucer thinger. She wanted me to hold her. She would fuss a little, unconvincingly, then bury her face in my neck, easing as I cooed to her and rubbed her back. She would fake a baby dive toward a toy or her bottle, then come right back up for another cuddle, smushing her nose against my shoulder.

As I kissed the curls on her forehead, I felt my body ease. I felt suddenly aware that my body and mind are strong for HER and whatever SHE needs. Finding these strengths in myself is a remarkable thing. On the lowest days, I can at least remember this - that the smallest gestures of my days with this baby are gestures of strength.

And on days when I am on the verge of tears, when I am desperate for some answer to my anxieties, when I need some kind soothing, rocking her, singing to her, stroking her hair and easing her into sleep transforms me. Even on the most exhausting days, soothing her soothes me.

(not) speaking of the elephant in the room...

DannySmacks: Someone has to talk to him. You have to SAY what you're saying to me. He desperately wants to hear it.
JoBiv: That he's out of control? He wants his only daughter to attack him? I don't think so.
DannySmacks: SOMEone has to do it.
JoBiv: Why not you?
DannySmacks: I live here... How can I? I just try to keep him up, y'know? As much as I can.
JoBiv: I can't do it to his face. (Looking to Cripps, who is silent, sitting cross-legged on the floor between us.) Have you said anything?
Cripps: I'm planning on saying something tomorrow. I've got to patch my kitchen ceiling and I think I can get him to help me.
JoBiv: Well what are you gonna say?
Cripps: Oh I'm not gonna have any problems coming up with something to say...
DannySmacks: You missed it...
JoBiv: Missed what?
Cripps: Dad got belligerent one night and started yelling at Lois about how she's a terrible mother to Baby.

(Silence)

JoBiv: Holy shit.

(Silence)

**************

JoBiv: Is Cripps coming to breakfast?
Smacks: Umm... I don't think so.
JoBiv: Where is he?
Smacks: Listen...
(Sound of coughing and gagging from upstairs bathroom)
JoBiv: Poor guy.
Cousin Mixx: I guess Beast Ice doesn't agree with Cripps... Haha...
Smacks: (giving JoBiv a Look...)
JoBiv: So Dad's not going to Jell-o town today, eh?
Smacks: (shaking head)
JoBiv: So they're not gonna talk today...
Smacks: Surprised?
JoBiv: Not really.

*****************

Mom: Order whatever you want. What's twenty bucks when you're thousands in debt?
JoBiv: Hmm.
Mom: But anyway, he's really destroyed over the things Grandma has done to him, all this crap she's pulled... and your uncles and aunts aren't helping, of course. He's just in a really low place right now.
JoBiv: Is he seeing someone? Are any of his doctors helping?
Mom: Well yes, as much as they can.

(Silence)

JoBiv: Do they know about the drinking?
Mom: (flustered) Yes they all know about the drinking. What do you think you're going to order? We can split the spring rolls.
JoBiv: Mom... Who do you talk to?
Mom: Oh I have my friends...
JoBiv: But if you need to talk to someone, would you do it? I mean, a psychia-
Mom: Yes, of course I would! I mean, of course! Don't worry about me.
JoBiv: Because you need to just do it. Don't think about who or what else the money should go to, you have to do it for yourself if you need it.
Mom: Joey, I will, don't worry about that.
JoBiv: You better.

****************

Dad: JoMary, JoLovey, you look radiant today...
JoBiv: (noting his watery eyes) Thanks, Dad.
Dad: Where are you going with those fancy shoes?
JoBiv: Out with Teeny.
Dad: With Little Tina H. She's not so little anymore. I remember when she was just two years old, standing on their back deck...
JoBiv: ... blowing raspberries. See ya.
Dad: (spreading freakishly long arms for a hug) Have a good time.
JoBiv: (trying not to flinch, accepting hug, hugging back...) Bye Dad.

*****************

JoBiv: So is anyone coming over today?
Mom: Well, Baby's sick, and the other babies usually come on Thursdays anyway, so we just rescheduled.
JoBiv: So you can come to the airport.
Mom: (hesitant) If you want me to.
JoBiv: Of course I want you to.
Mom: I mean... I thought... If you want to speak to your father...
JoBiv: On the way to the airport? God, I couldn't do that to him.
Mom: Okay, okay...
JoBiv: I was thinking, actually, of writing a letter. You know, so I can edit my words. I don't want to say something I can't take back, y'know? I could really hurt him...
Mom: (Sighing loudly) You ready to go?
JoBiv: I was born ready.

Dear Dad,

I know things are difficult for you right now, and I don't want to add to your difficulties by hurting you in any way, but I have to be honest with you. I have a hard time coming home to visit you and Mom, and most of the stress comes from your drinking...


Dear Dad,

Cripps, Smacks and I had a talk Friday night. It was a tearful one, so don't think I say these things to you with any kind of detachment. You need to know that you're hurting us, and infantilizing yourself. We are wrung out from parental worry over you. It's not fair to us, and it is criminal where mom is concerned. You have the power and the responsibility to find help...


Dear Dad,

I talked to M about my birthday weekend. It looks like she'll need me to work, so we may have to reschedule your trip to Boston. I'm so sorry I won't be able to celebrate with you! I'm sure we'll talk soon.

Your loving daughter...

heart heart heart

I wrote that other post in hopes that I wouldn't write this one. But here I am.

It's Heart Day, the anniversay of Shane's last heart transplant, so of course, I have Shane on the brain again.

Heart Day was hard when Shane was alive, too, because it forced us to think of Shane on the operating table, his ribcage cracked open for the second time, suspended in a short death before the surgeons put him back together again. It forced me to think of his mom and dad in some waiting room, thinking of everything that could happen, everything they'd survived, trying to be ready for whatever happened next.

You're never ready, that's the thing.

I have signed the back of my license to show that I want my organs donated. So did the black girl whose heart lived in Shane's body for two years. I think of how she signed it and wondered for a moment if it would ever come to pass... that she would be young and healthy enough for her organs to be of use to someone when she died. Maybe she thought she'd die suddenly, if she died young, in a car accident. That's what I always think of, since we sign our driver's licenses in NY State to show willingness to donate.

She didn't die in a car crash. She was stabbed to death, fourteen times through the chest by an enraged boyfriend. Her heart, though... it was immaculate, unscathed, a jewel lifted from one ribcage to be set within another.

I had this weird daydream today that Shane was here with me, walking toward me, wearing his cargo shorts and one of his hawaiian shirts. In the dream, his big eyes watched me with a kind of serenity, and he wasn't smiling at all. I tried to move closer to him, and suddenly felt that if I could just unbutton his shirt, press my lips on his chest, something would slip from my soul to his heart. It would beat stronger. It would keep beating. Never stopped.

At the risk of sounding like a cliche action movie...

If I'm not out in five days, call in the National Guard.

I know it's not entirely rational of me to think my parents will abduct me while I'm home, but it's also not entirely irrational. I can't explain all the reasons right now, but it should suffice to say that my parents have a rough idea of how crazy I am and think I'd be less crazy if they took care of me. HA. That's a good one. I don't know if they'd go so far as to lure me into the house and then barricade the door, slash their own tires, cut the phone wires...

I usually take comfort in the fact that they're crazier than I am. Until I have to spend time with them.

Cover me! I'm goin' in!

Thanks to the Big U (who doesn't read this anyway)

HA!

Of poop and popes

I haven't been writing like I used to, but I'm feeling a bit scattered. It's homecomingitis, I think, but nonetheless, I should try to write.

So, I shall tell you my opinions on several things.

On Heart Day*: Despite an invitation to go to St. Bona's (from Shane's girlfriend of three minutes), I don't feel like I'll be missing anything if I can somehow wrangle up a flaming cabbage this weekend.

On the Conclave: The cardinals should elect Michael Jackson. I'm pretty tired of child molestation jokes about both MJ and the Catholic church, and I think that both would come to a swift end if the Prince of Pop became the Prince of Pope.

On our longtime neighbor from El Victoir, Mrs. G, ramming her car into Tina's basement and surviving to tell the tale and seek therapy: Holy cow. I didn't know things like that could happen in real life.

On my brother Dan assuring me that he will be around all weekend while I'm home: HA! I'm not falling for THAT one...

On the Pea's uncanny ability to sense that we're three minutes away from leaving the house and carefully choosing that moment to blow three days of Gerber Peas out her butt: Wha? But how?

On the scary coincidence of my brother Dan and the Big U mentioning the same postcard to me: Not cool at all. NOT cool. The card, according to both boys, has a weird psychedelic purple design on one side. The card reads, "This is a very freaky card." The reverse says, "The kind you don't send home to mother." They're both right. I would love that card. ::Shudder:: It creeps me out when they prove they've been paying attention. And it's not like I can tell either of them that the other thought of it, too. Oh, I am all in a tizzy.

On the prospect of spending a weekend in July with dear Sus and dear jLiz: How did I ever get so lucky? And how will I ever get the money together...


* Heart Day is the anniversary of Shane's last heart transplant. On this day we imbibe, frolic, and let the old cabbage flame in honor of Shane Tamika himself. And we do not wear sunscreen. And we play softball. Poorly. And we dance in such a manner as could harm others and ourselves, preferably on a coffee table. And we celebrate the fact that we are alive, goddammit, simultaneously testing fate on that very matter.

A lecture on potential energy

Wow. I forgot that I could be fun.

I got my hair cut yesterday. Very very cut. Above the shoulder, front pieces about reaching my jaw. And I didn't cry! I was shaking a little when I first sat down in the stylist's throne, but then I got over it and everything proceeded beautifully. And now I have short hair. No really, I do! It's amazing.

And now you can't know that I'm a hair-pulling freak because you can't really tell where the short spots are. It's amazing.

Even more amazing, the haircut seemed to unleash something in me. Remember my weird Victorian symbolism thing? I think it worked in my favor. Last night Chester and I somehow ended up at a party and I felt like my ecstatically social self. Maybe it's the weather, too... I don't know. But somehow, I felt very free to do and say whatever the hell I wanted. I didn't, though. I mean, my filters were still operational. That's a very good thing. But I mean to say that I felt like I had more freedom and more control. And nary a hair was pulled.

We'll just see what the baby thinks of it. I have a feeling she'll have quite the field day. And I'll have to train myself not to scream expletives when she pulls out whole patches... (It's different when someone else does it. No really.)

To arms!

I've tried to resist the ceaseless gnaw of temptation, but alas, I am giving in.

I DONWANNA GO HOOOOOOOME!

How did I think that I would stop feeling this way if I didn't say it aloud? It's just become an obsession and a terrible method of measuring my self-worth, and PUNISHING myself when I fail. Why should I not say it? Why, for that matter, should I not feel it? My family has given me very little proof that they can behave civilly toward me, even given my direct requests for adult behavior. They start out okay, but it all falls to pieces within mere minutes.

So why SHOULDN'T I have panic attacks about this? Should I really pretend things are gonna be just dandy? Or should I prepare for battle?

meep.

Not sure what to say but I have to stick to my own rules about writing in this thing. I could tell you about my weekend after the gig but that does not appeal.

I've had two short days with the Pea, which I should think of as a little break after three weeks of working longer weeks and fuller days. It turns out I've lost (if I ever had) my skill for filling my time with useful activity.

"I went out walking.
I don't do too much talking these days..."

Yes, it could have been worse.

Wanna know how the gig went? I'll TELL you have the gig went...

Arnie's driving should not have surprised me. It is exactly the product of his personality - stammering, muttering, hesitating, sudden bursts of puerile anger. It's a fucking nightmare to be his passenger, and I believe even the non-nervous passengers of the world would kiss the good solid earth upon exiting his vehicle.

We leave Arnie's house at 5:45. Mighty early. It should take us an hour and a half to get to Dover and we'd like some time to warm up a little and eat dinner once we get there.

We're still in Belmont when Arnie checks in at a gas station for directions. HEAR ME? STILL IN BELMONT! He doesn't trust the Yahoo! driving directions to Dover NH so he asks gas station attendants in Belmont Massachusetts for their sage advice. To their credit, they direct Arnie to a map.

"Ohh... it's clear now. Thanks a bunch, guys."

It's very, very clear. 95 North the whole way, then a simple exit, a single turn, Wha-La!

Then how, oh HOW do we end up on 128? And how do we end up lost in Gloucester, then Essex, then Ipswich (with JoBiv saying, "Um, Arnie? Why did you leave 95?" and Arnie muttering something about how he didn't know he left it.)

So we backtrack. And we backtrack s'more. And by the time we finally find 95 again, my jaw is so tight I think I will never be able to open my mouth again in my life, much less let a flutter of song escape and swoop out over a most-likely apathetic crowd.

But we arrive with ten minutes to spare before our 9pm call. That's right, it took us three hours to get there. I run into the restaurant to find our contact, John P-somethin, and assure him that we're not punking on him. The place is beautiful - this huge space with a tall bar, everything painted up pretty, a multi-tiered water fountain, artistic lighting, $25 entrees... nice. And an 8'x3' carpeted platform tucked into the main entrance. Oh, the stage! Of course.

I flag Arnie down and direct him to the parking lot, lug out amps, stands, and music, try to smush everything onto that stage with standing room for us, ask for water, quickly apply lip gloss, catch my breath...

Arnie's busy poking wires into things and flipping switches. He's flustered, and I'm trying to look gracious and relaxed, accepting two waters from John himself, making smalltalk about getting lost. Arnie wants to switch our amps. Okay then. We switch them. Sound checks... more sound checks... The people in this restaurant don't seem to notice our presence and thus there is no real pressure to begin. I should be sitting with hot tea, relaxing, thinking out songs a bit. Instead I'm hiding the ugliness of cords and backpacks in the planters behind us and reassuring Arnie.

At last, we begin. I sound okay, Arnie sounds flustered still. He can't keep the tempo. I'm trying to steam on, hoping to be his rhythm section somehow. He get it, settles, we keep going. The diners are loud in their conversations and I don't fight them. We're here for background music, we're not the spectacle. At the same time, would it hurt to get their attention? John claps when we finish a song, startling his patrons into meagre, embarrassed applause. A few beging to watch us for a few bars at a time before drifting back to their food and friends.

At some point someone from the waitstaff drags a high table to the side of the stage and places a large glass vase on it. John P. leaves his bar and magnanimously dumps a sheaf of ones into it. Ah, this is how we get paid. Dance, monkey! Dance! Am I supposed to draw attention to this embarrassingly empty jar? To the fact that we won't make enough tonight to cover the gas money it took us to get here? To the fact that I'm wearing $175 superficial confidence shoes but haven't eaten a fresh fruit or vegetable for a few weeks? How can I say anything tactfully? How is it not begging? How is my singing, the part of this I'm supposed to love, any different from busking in a T station? Between songs I try to come up with some cute, quick words to ask for money. I can't think of a damn thing.

Toward the end of a ten song set I'm mangling lyrics and Arnie's losing his rhythm. John delivers two plates of food (ordered during Arnie's previous flustered wire-poking moments), which are luke-warm by the time we turn off our amps and exit the stage. The food sits on a high table and there are no high chairs near it. The table nearly blocks the entrance with us standing near it. Finally a server notices us and has us follow her to a part of the restaurant we couldn't see from the stage, separated by a 5' tall wall. We eat ($25 pheasant for me, salad for Arnie) and discuss the acoustics of the place, whether the audience cares, how we get them to give us money...

Suddenly people from the next table are leering at us. A woman in a cashmere hoodie and a man with a big-eyed, endearing face smile at us excitedly.

"Excuse me... was that YOU?" I can barely hear the woman, but she repeats this a few times.
"Singing? Yes. And Arnie on guitar." (He opts out of the conversation. Just as well.)
"Oh wow, we thought it was a CD!" she says.
"I guess you can't see us behind this wall..."
"Wow, really, we thought it was like a CD or something. It was you?"
"Yep. It was us."
"Wow."
"Thanks?"
"So are you doing another set," says the man. He's smiling hugely and staring at me like I've got a wild tattoo on my face and he can't believe my balls.
"Yes, just taking a break for dinner."
"Oh, great! Okay, we won't keep you from your dinner," says the woman.
"Thanks..."
"Wow, it was really you?" says the man.
"Yes... yes it was..."

We slug back more water, wipe our mouths, retake the stage. I decide that I cannot be shy with the mic because Arnie certainly isn't going to step up.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I forgot to introduce myself to you earlier." People are looking at me. Make it good! "I am Johanna and this is Arnie, and we drove all the way from Boston to entertain you tonight in this beautiful restaurant." Smiles, how charming she is! "I hope you're enjoying the music, and if you'd like to show us your appreciation..." We've lost eye contact! Houston, we've lost eye contact! "... Feel free to slip something into that fine vase right over there. Thanks so much..."

Ugh. How do the monkeys do it?

The second set swims along just fine, and I even get a little adventurous with a few songs. I relax a bit and try to flirt with the audience a bit. Is that old man looking at me? Of course he is. He's the oldest and most foreign-looking guy in the place. Natch. That kid in the Sox jersey keeps looking my way, too, but I think it's mostly because he's drinkin' alone. Pure boredom. Some guys in the front of the U-shaped bar watch Arnie intently, and I imagine them in their wife-sanctioned dens making tentative love to a $100 Ibanez with assorted U2 songs printed from the internet in tablature. "Yeah, I play a little... LOVE watchin' this guy..."

JoBiv! You're supposed to be singing! Focus!

But then I start breaking the room into sections of the playground: Plays well with others, needs to work on resolving conflicts with playmates, very social but could talk less during class... The near-30 jocks over here, please, bellies to the bar. The middle-aged troupe who have to get home to relieve the babysitters over there. Yes, that's good. Over 60 couple at the corner, sipping cocktails and spendng their retirement on PHEASANT for goddsake... that's just fine. Restaurant staff mob, take that corner, where people aren't sure if you're working and therefore can't ask you for anything, and the management can't hear your backbiting. Everyone having a nice night? Greeeat.

Back to singing. Yes, I am singing. This is lovely. Whatever shall I do with "It Might As Well Be Spring?" We decide on Bossa Nova. Fun for us, Sominex for them. Hmm... "Fine and Mellow," with an extra serving of sex? Whoa! Applause! "Dream a Little Dream," then, up tempo, make eye contact... they love it! Or maybe it's just because it's the closer...

By the end of the set I'm exhausted from working this audience, as little as I am, and we have $30 total in the jar. Someone put in a $10, we suspect it was John. $15 each and a free meal? Fuck that, I'm gettin' a drink.

This is the Very Awkward Part. John congratulates me on a job well done, I ask for the drink, pleading a little to sound human and tired and perhaps deserving of more than $15 for my efforts. The patrons on either side say little appreciative things and turn away. A woman from the middle-aged group approaches with glowing praise, apologizes for the crowd's behavior (definitely a mom), and says she hopes we come back next week.

We! Where's Arnie?

Who cares. Yummy whiskey sour...

A guy on my left gives slightly more enthusiastic feedback than most. "Man, I LOVE jazz." Hmm. And I love being called "man" while wearing my superficial confidence shoes. He tells me he's a cook (I was right about the We Work Here corner) and I compliment his pheasant. He's cute... but distracted. Off he goes. Sigh.

Oh, THERE's Arnie, lugging the 80 pound amp by his own little self. I get up to help, and soon we're on our way.

This should be the simple part. 95 South the whole way. How could that go amiss? It's late, we're tired, we want to be home, no pressure of being late for anything. Arnie tells me he has a hard time discerning the curve in the road when it's dark, I pop an Ativan, he turns on the radio, and I doze off...

I wake to a strange texture beneath the car... sand?

Yes, sand. The shoulder. We're pulling over. I glance behind me, expecting flashing lights. Then I notice the smell.

"Arnie, what's happening?"

"Oh... umm... there's some trouble with this engine, I think." THIS engine? No kidding. As though the acrid smoke isn't now burning us out of the car.

Neither of us have cell phones. Shit.

I walk around to the road, practically standing in the right lane, wave my arms frantically, thinking, "If no one stops, at least they might call the Police if they see we need help." After ten minutes of this I'm not so sure and I'm very very cold. Back in the car. Arnie pops the hood and tries to look like he's capable of doing something there. The propping thinger is missing so he looks for a stick on the side of the road. No luck. He looks in the trunk, finds a yellow broom, tries to prop under the hood, but alas, it slips off of the bumper. I could help him, but I'm still sleepy and just getting warmth back, and I don't think that any under-the-hood poking he could do would help our situation.

He joins me in the car, huffs and mutters, and after about twenty minutes of zero progress, I decide to change into my sneakers should I need to climb the chain-link fence that separates the road from the houses beyond it, or should we decide to walk to the next exit. Arnie informs me that he isn't willing to "leave the equipment." I have a brief vision of Arnie carrying his guitar and amps on his back with mics and cords dragging in the dust behind him.

We both get out of the car and go back to jumping and flailing. There is much more traffic (at 1am? Why?) and soon a truck stops. As it reverses toward us I feel my momentary "this person might KILL us" panic dissipate when I see the Home Depot logo printed on its side. Phew. He lends us a phone. Arnie calls AAA. We will be just fine.

A tow and an hour later, we're in Saugus, where our very nice tow-truck driver doesn't charge Arnie and offers to check his oil. It's nearly gone. Duh, Arnie. He buys oil, they pull out the funnel. All will be fine. We use the bathroom and I buy a Reese's cup from the gray-haired man in the small station, who has one lens of his glasses completely taped over and blacked out, but looks at us over the top of them with two perfectly good eyes, it seems. Arnie tells him we're musicians, that I sing jazz. He smiles in a grandfatherly way and says, "Ooh, jazz. That must be nice." I want to stay with him in his little shop and cry in his arms. I have this sudden strong need to stay there. I feel like a kidnapped child, my eyes darting around for some way to leave a message for this man.

But then we're saying goodnight. And we're getting in the car. And we're gone. Down Route 1, past all the garish neon, the Christmas Tree Shop clipper, the office parks, the malls... Over the Tobin bridge, down Storrow, Kenmore Square, Beacon...

"Bye Arnie. Thanks for the ride." Slam.

They're baaack...

The panic attacks are back.

I shouldn't say it like that. I shouldn't allow them to set up camp. I had two yesterday, that's all. Maybe those are the only two I'll ever have for the rest of my life.

But as is the nature of panic, I can only think that my entire life is unraveling and there are only more and more attacks in my future and they will all occur in the most public and humiliating circumstances and I'll probably get fired from nannying and never see Pea again and I won't be able to leave my apartment for weeks and DEFINITELY won't make phone calls and all the whole world will drift away from my grasp forever and ever and I'll never get it back.

I need help. I need some fucking help and fucking MassHealth isn't fucking helping me.

Today I will believe that I will somehow magically get to Dover NH unharmed, will perform well there, some healing will magically take place, and my throat won't close up on me entirely. I will breathe, and therefore live.

Song a sing

Song song song si-ing sing sing si-ing so-ong...

I have this lovely tubful of anxiety squeezed into the comparatively small space of my stomach at the moment, and all of it is the result of singing. Or the anticipation?

Last night we had another troubling choir rehearsal, in which we spent a lot of time learning notes to a song we sorta know and NO TIME AT ALL on several songs Meera* and I have not sung evor. Not cool.

Our concert is on Sunday. Yes, this Sunday.

And I never got around to telling you about my debut performance with Arnie, which prompted the shoe-buying extravaganza. (That may seem like an overstatement since I only bought one pair of shoes, but the price was, indeed, extravagant.) We're singing tomorrow at some restaurant in Dover, NH, which Katya informs me is on the coast. I didn't know NH had a coast. Now I know. I don't think I've ever been to New Hampshire, actually, but this seems like a good enough reason to wander thataway.

I'm trying not to be nervous about the gig because a) we're not getting paid, per se (free meal and split the door 50/50) and b) I can't imagine that a restaurant with a cover can really pack 'em to the roof. I could be wrong. Perhaps they have a great Friday Night Fish Fry Following. Er... following.

I am not succeeding at not being nervous because a) Arnie and I haven't jammed in two weeks and b) I can't convince myself that I'm looking forward to a drive in the country with a 51 yr old neurotic.

So I bought myself earrings and shoes. That'll ease my mind. I'll be juuust fine for the gig and the concert. Yeah... that's the ticket.

AS I am typing-- Baby Pea is sleepy-peepin', ergo we are not at the Brookline Public Library's Infant/Toddler Rock-Out. Too bad. Pea and I do a mean rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus." There'd be no stopping the mosh pit.



*Speaking of Meera - WHOOOOOOP!!! She's getting married! To Ross! And Ross is getting married to her! At the same time! WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP!! Okay, think it's outta my system.

JoBiv the Economist

Yesterday, I bought this shoe:



Actually, I bought two of them; one for the right foot, one for the left. I spent $175.00 on them. Then I walked from the Fluevog store on Newbury St. all the way to the St. Mary's stop. I saved $1.25.

Singity sing

I wanted to tell you people about singing, because I'm suddenly singing a LOT. Between choir, Arnie, and the Lil Pea, I'm a constant spout of song (of varying quality).

Last week we had a choir rehearsal in which we went over some songs from the choir's repertoire that we may use in an upcoming concert - this Sunday! Problem is, these songs are in the choir's repertoire, not necessarily mine or Meera's. Or so I thought. Then they handed around the Les Miserable medley that I've sung a total of six times in my short lifetime. SIX. I'm trying not to puke from boredom whenever we work on it.

We're also doing an African song that takes two seconds to learn, plus I sang it in college. There are a few gospel things - easy for me to pick up - and then there's this piece we haven't even looked at - Hine Ma Tov? Something like that. Something in Hebrew, which means Meera has an edge and I'm feeling a little panicky.

Then on Thursay, Lil Pea and I ventured out to the Coolidge Corner branch of the Brookline Public Library for an infant/toddler sing-a-long. I was nervous, thinking I'd have to introduce myself to fifteen mothers and nannies, sputtering and hesitant as I've been lately. I pictured a small circle of women lounging on the floor with their babies, some leader-type starting songs and displaying hand movements.

We got to the library early (because I'm finally getting good at getting out the damn door), and as I entered there were already several strollers queued up in the lobby. There was no ramp to the lower level unless we went back outside, so I bumped Pea down the stairs with her Super SUV of Strollers. And that's when I heard the wave of sound coming from the room below.

A WAVE, I tell you... I unbuckled the baby, grabbed some toys for her to chew on, and left the stroller parked with eleven others. And then we walked into this massive room, half full with women and babies, as expected.

But because the room was MASSIVE, half full means thirty moms with at least thirty babies.

And they kept coming.

Pea and I found a seat amongst rows and rows of chairs, many other women were on the floor with cushions brought out for sing-a-longs, others were chasing toddlers up and down the shallow stairs, arbitrating baby-to-baby relations, feeding, burping, changing... It was pandemonium, and Pea had her Pook Face on. (The Pook Face includes wide open eyes, wrinkled brow, and slack mouth - Amazement! Wonder! Pooky pooky face!)

By the time the songstress showed up with her guitar, there were more than sixty kids there, all howling and giggling and gurgling. Pea was delighted and confused. And then the music began. The dark cloud of chaos lifted, and there was Order. Every mother, nanny, grandma and auntie opened her mouth and sang in key, dutifully displaying hand movements and helping their kiddles. The kids were overjoyed... sent into an ecstasy of love for their caretakers and the guitarist, fairly swooning with the power of the fun at hand. Lil Pea flapped her arms, stood up straight and quacked with glee.

This is crack for babies.

Oops! She's up! More later...