Morning person my ass

I had to be at Pea's house a full hour earlier today. Please allow my earlier poetic waxings of camp nostalgia to conflate with the episode below:


This morning I woke up before any of my roommates, which is a feat. Jake gets up mighty early to work demolition or the early valet shift at the Ritz. Today was his day off, and I hoped my face-washing wouldn't wake him or his bladder. I had already determined not to take a shower, afraid I'd be tired enough to try to shave my eye or something as strange.

I heard someone bumping around over the sound of the water. I prayed it wasn't Becca, because she has the tendency to knock on the door while I'm in the bathroom and attempt full philisophical conversations through the door. Things like, "How long do you think you'll be?" My reply is an audible, "Go the fuck away!" But really, if I were less inhibited, I believe I'd say, "Hmm. How long have any of us BEEN? Are we here at all? These are all good questions."

Anyway, I think she's been suitably trained by now and didn't knock on the door. All the better for her.

Dressing for the day, I tried to imagine how I could possibly get my breakfast without sharing air with Becca. Y'see, it's partially because I hate EVERYBODY in the morning. People are so repulsive before the sun's up, aren't they? I harbor a more specific hatred for the way Becca operates in the world. To narrow the focus once more, I hate the way she operates in the kitchen.

As I tried, and failed, to invisibly slip to my pantry, the fridge, and the spoon drawer, Becca managed to position herself in exactly the wrong place for each movement. Now, when other people are holding a box of cereal, a bowl full of it, and a jug of milk, you might think to yourself, "Aha! That girl means to EAT that cereal! She may need an implement of some kind. Saaay, I'm right here by the spoon drawer. I could supply the spoon myself! Or, since I'm feeling a little lazy, I could just move myself out of the way. Zip! The way is cleared."

This is not how Becca operates. She stands there. Her mouth is moving. It's too early for me to know what she's saying. Something about an exterminator? Who is she calling at this time of day? Is that MY phone? And how has she dirtied four bowls within the ten minutes of wakefulness she's had in the kitchen?

I approach the drawer from the side. She's still yapping. I lunge. Useless. The path is blocked. She's talking. What is she talking about?

"... and I can't believe Stan sent a landscaper guy to kill the bushes instead of sending someone to rip up the carpet. Like we needed the bushes trimmed! I sent him that email... Oh yeah, I CC'd it to you... saying that we had to have something done about the carpet or I'm calling the Board of Health and I said that we needed to hear from him by this Friday or else..."

"BECCA!"

"... yah?"

"I don't speak English before... what time is it?" The clock read 5 past 7. I couldn't formulate the words, proving my point. "Before hours from nowish."

"What?"

"Spoon!"

"Okay."

"RARR."

"OkAY."

I think that's what happened. But I was tired. I could have dreamed it.

But here's the thing...

He pours us Apple Jacks with marshmallows. No milk, spoons optional. When my small helping is gone he lets me grab a few of his, making a fake fuss about it. He bought two boxes of the stuff because it goes perfectly with his season 1 DVDs of Star Trek: The Next Generation. He allows my hero worship of Patrick Stewart. We briefly discuss how Worf managed to keep his mad Klingon Skillz despite the fact that he was raised among peace-lovin' humans. (This is not a fact we both happen to know; we're not that bad. It's in the episode.)

In the middle of the night, he rolls over, curls his legs under mine. If I don't scootch back, he pulls me in tight with one arm across my body. Even if I DO scootch, he still pulls a little, holding me close for a second.

It's all part of the illusion, of course, but such a comfortable illusion it is...

WHOA!

I got a cell phone!

The Big U has two new roommates. I guess the bedbugs drove everyone out. He's never had them in his room and couldn't manage a move with grad school and work. He moved to the room on the end last time people moved around. This room has blinds and the lightbulb is covered. It's a fitting shade of blue, like all of his sweaters and button-down shirts.

The roommates are girls and I will never meet them. Why should I meet them? I should never see him again, right?

But I'm comfortable in that room. On Sunday night we entered it like royals retiring from the throne room, all the pressures of the public left behind somewhere. I always check for new things, as I do when I go home to El Victoir. I was so tired from my train ride, so annoyed with myself for being there, so hugely in need of any kind of reassurance that I didn't have time to take it all in. I attacked him with a kiss. He countered.

So I didn't notice the little sign above his computer desk. Rather, the computer he uses for email, internet, all those things - not the one he uses specifically for gaming (ugh!). Lying in bed, squirmy with latent energy, he babbled about things while I somehow got my lips to form words in a smushy way through the pillow. One of the things he said... I was sure it was a joke.

"See that there?"
"My eyes are closed."
"Well open them. Look."

I followed his pointing finger to the sign on the wall. I'm nearsighted at the best of times, so you can imagine how useless this excercise was. The thing was just a rectangular piece of paper on the wall.

"What's it say?" I mumbled.
"It says, 'Sleeping with Jo is very bad.'"
"It does not."
"It does, too."
"Why would it... Why would you... It doesn't. You're trying to get me out of bed."
"It does!"
"Well I'm not getting up."
"I don't want you to."
"Why did you..."
"Because it IS bad, isn't it? I mean, it's not BAD, it's just not a good idea."
"Hmph. It doesn't say that."
"It does."
"Hmph."

Monday morning came early after a sleepless night. Sleepless, I say, not because of any extra doses of reassurance, but because I kept finding myself staring at that damn sign, wondering if it really said what he said it saidy said. And then I'd look at him, the way his face goes all babyish when he sleeps on his side. Why would you do that, Mr. Man? Mr. Boy, really. Men don't do things like this, even suggest things like this. Doesn't matter, I told myself. He didn't really make a sign. He's teasing.

It was easy enough to check on my way to the shower. I didn't. Back in the room I still didn't look. He rolled over under the covers and mumbled something. I stared at the rug for a moment and then finally turned around.


Sleeping with Jo

is VERY BAD.


Except he underlined "very bad."

What should I have done then? Screamed at him? Punched him in the neck? Fallen down in a prolonged fit of sobs?

"Wow. It DOES say that."
"Told you it did."

I dressed and went over to the bed. I used to shake my head so he'd get a cold shower from my hair.

"If you hang out for, like, ten minutes, I'll walk you to the door."
"Lucky me."
"Hang out."
"Kay. Move over."

He wiggled under the covers, sliding to the cool side of the bed. I lay down on top of the comforter, my wet hair soaking the pillowcase, his body warmth seeping up through the blankets. His eyes were closed, and I closed mine for while, measuring my breaths.

Those lines from James slipped into my head uninvited.

"These wounds are all self-imposed.
Life's no disaster."

Heedless Breaker

Back from El Victoir. Damaged as usual. Everything to say, no way to say it. I'm so tired of being misread. I'm tired of people's assumption that I haven't tried optimism.

Lately I've been repeating myself when I answer a question or tell a story. It's this bizarre tic-like thing that I only notice sometimes, and sometimes other people bring it to my attention with their frustration. Even as I do it I feel ashamed, childish, like I'm trying to force the words into other people's ears in some violent, violating act. If I just say it AGAIN you have to HEAR it you have to HEAR it you have to HEAR it. It's most disturbing because it's an audible proof of some of the weirdness in my brain. I hate letting people have access to that part of me.

Just one more strike against me in the battle for control.

A heartbreaking victory

By the way...

Lil Pea cried on Friday when I left her at her aunt's house to catch my plane. I hugged her, kissed her temple, set her down. She zoomed off into another room, then turned just in time to see me heading out the door. Her eyes got huge and her face turned red and she ran toward me. Her aunt grabbed her and held her by the window so I could wave to her.

"Bye Sweet Pea! Bye, my love!"

She bawled, her mouth wide open, frantic tears running down her face, body contorted to reach to me.

I can't deny that I had some mistiness myself. It was partly sympathetic, and partly a huge emotion from the proof of her reliance on me. How will I ever leave this baby?

Leavin' on a jet plane

Tom and Sara drove me to the airport. Sara got out because Tom's new car is a coupe - she gave me a hug on her way to the front seat. I didn't think Tom would get out, but he did. He walked around the car to give me a hug.

"Have a good trip, Jo."
"I will. Thanks for driving me." Still hugging me...
"It was good to see you." Let go. Let go.
"Good to see you, too." He lets go, I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
He hugs me again. "We'll see you soon, I hope."
"Yeah." Let go. Let go. "Maybe Christmas."

It's funny how it works. Smacks and Cripps have this hero worship for Tom, wanting so badly to fit into his life somehow, to understand him, to draw him closer. And Tom... I just got it today. Tom needs my approval. He needs SOMEthing from me, and this huge discomfort I feel comes from the onus of that need. Is it a kind of hero worship?

More likely it's the same desperation I feel. How can this family be so... unseaworthy? What the hell can any of us do to fix it?

And why am I so unwilling?

News for your blues

The party was not disastrous. I got to hang out with a French kid who plays guitar and likes tequila shots and smells reassuringly like fresh tobacco. (And then he made out with Becca. HA!) More importantly, I got to see some people I get really excited about and never see - Dana and Matt, Jim, Brendan... People who make me feel comfortable in my own skin, people who always have something interesting to tell me. I love it.

Alas, the Housewarming Party was a sham. (Ben took to calling it a House Cooling Party.) I've been looking at apartments. I found one I like, now it's a question of who likes me. The place I found is $40 cheaper, one roommate fewer, heat included, in much better shape overall, no apparent freaks living therein. While I met one of the girls there was a jam session across the courtyard; sax, bass, drums, piano, pure jazz. It was like a beacon calling me home.

That girl better like me.


A miscellany of events in no particular order:

Roomie Jake asked me if I've ever thrown a sex toy party. Is that a pick up line?

Pea and I went to tot music class, and she was by far the most active baby, stealing maracas and strumming the guitar without invitation. I miss her less mobile days.

I've been weirdly reckless this week, agreeing to blind dates, drinking cider before seeing apartments, throwing my laundry willy-nilly about the room (WILD, JoBiv! Settle the hell down!). Figured it out - it's because I'm going home today. I have a track record of pre-parental-visit recklessness. It used to involve Uly.

Chorus and choir have been trying. Bach has this funny way of changing the notes on ya every time you close the book. Bastard. That's the Brookline Chorus - very challenging, interesting people, more time spent gabbing at breaks and before rehearsals with people my age. Community Choir is a shambles. I've been considering bringing a straw to choir so I can shoot spitwads at the director.

Got three freelance projects done so far; lots of money coming my way. Maybe I can pay last year's taxes now.

Last night, while waiting for the 66 bus (total wait time: 45 min.), a skinny kid on a bike zoomed past. Our eyes caught. He skidded to a halt. "John!" "JoBiv!" "Whoaaa..." He was a friend from SBU, a boyfriend of a friend who went a lil psychotic on me. As I told him last night, he was one of the few people I could stand at Bona's. He lives in Allston. We didn't exchange numbers.

I feel so broke up. Don't wanna go home.

Last night was viciously cold. I got up several times to put on more clothing and tried to cuddle myself in bed enough to feel some warmth. I didn't sleep much, but I did dream.

In this dream, I was meeting Gutter. He's a friend of mine from high school. We remained friends through college, but since neither of us enjoy our trips home to Victor, we tended to miss each other. Now I have no idea where he lives and his parents either moved or changed their phone number. So now I dream about him.

I was meeting him somewhere outside, but it was enclosed and there was a door to get there, a door I was watching. There were people but they were vague, non-people. I looked around me and he was right there, out of focus but very close. We hugged and hugged... he kissed my forehead. He was wearing a navy blue sweater that looked too small. His glasses kept disappearing.

I wanted him to kiss me, and without saying it he seemed to obey, but somehow kept his lips from me as we tried to kiss. Finally he told me he had to go and moved away from me. He moved too fast... I tried to chase him, and he let a book go over his shoulder, like a handkerchief. I caught it somehow. It was full of notes for me, written in red pen. I didn't want to read what any of them said. I was so afraid it was full of excuses.

Other people's news

I didn't mention that I was sick this week, for two reasons:

A. I'm not sure if I was actually sick or if it was just anxiety, and it doesn't help the anxiety to feel guilty about missing work BECAUSE of feeling sick from anxiety

B. I'm saying less about anything slightly negative that happens in my life. I'm sick of hearing it from myself, and I'm sick of making other people sick of me.

When things get this way, I tend to tell people other people's news. I noticed this the other day, when someone asked how I was and I started talking about Lil Pea. And then when pressed I talked about my niece's birthday coming up. When pressed further, I brought up how fascinating my roommate Ben's job is to me. Not my news. I'm connected, but not living any of that information. It's a weird tactic, something I don't notice til much later, and the result tends to be a sort of hostile isolation. It's the same feeling I got at Shane's funeral and other Shaney party-type things. "You can't help me. None of you know what I know. Telling you will make it insignificant, and then I'm stuck with the shame of feeling too much."

Lil Pea Lil Pea Lil Pea
Don't you dare grow up like me

All we like sheep

The Brookline Chorus repertoire includes a section of Handel's Messiah about sheepies a'wandering. The librette:

All we like sheep,
have gone astraaaaay.
We have turn-ed
Every one to his own way.

Of course, when sung, this sounds like,

Oh, WE LIKE SHEEP!!

I have to say, I certainly do.

I love this song already, but I have the sneaking suspicion that I love it because the director loves it, and I have a girl-crush on her. Some of her directives:

For "have gone astraaaay" wandering melodies: "Decrescendo... like you, the tenors, have indeed wandered astray. Perhaps you are headed toward yon cliff..."

For "We have turn-ed!": "C'mon, altos! Come clean! Ya know ya did it! Admit your guilt!"

The last page is a complete surprise. After measures and measures of up-tempo meanderings comes a page of half notes, whole notes, minor chords, meloncholy...

... And the Lord hath laid on Him
the iniquity of us all.


Baaa!

Mmm... bapples.

Yesterday, despite hourly panic attacks over my freelance work, I went apple-picking with Norah, Melissa, and Chris (the third roomie in that apartment). Ms. Chessman organized the thing, but we barely caught up with her crew. Mostly it was our roving band of four scouring the hillsides for Cortlands, Macs, Spartans, Empires, the occasional Bosc pear...

If you haven't met Chris (and in all likelihood, you haven't, O Cheese Aficianado), you won't have the amusing picture in your head that I have. Y'see, Chris is a giant. He's 6'7, maybe taller. Ducks in doorways. Doesn't fit in his own car. Has to cut his own shorts from pants. He's effing HUGE.

So imagine our glee when Chris agreed to come along on our apple picking trip.

"Wow! We won't have to fight for a ladder!"
"It's like we have the Jolly Green Giant on our side!"
"He can carry a sixty-pound bag of apples with his pinky finger!"

All true, people. All true.

Chris also served his apple-pickin' companions well by eating a total of eleven apples, all for the sake of science.

"Yes, but how do we know it's a Spartan?"
"I dunno. Chris, eat one."
"Okay." Chomp chomp. "Yeah, it definitely tastes different."

Razing the orchard with a giant on hand wasn't actually the highlight of the day, however, and I actually had a moment when I nearly decided that I wanted to get my driver's license. I had another spiritual moment - my second in a matter of weeks - when I bit into the hot heaven of a fresh cider doughnut. I said this out loud, shocking myself into yet another spiritual moment:

"Wow, I should get my license so I can come out here every morning and eat a dozen of these."

Be thankful, O Ye Readers, that I don't have my license, as I'm sure you have some kind of vested interest in my cholesterol levels remaining healthy.

Anywho, we got home, and I told myself I'd get right to work on freelance as soon as I had some food that wasn't apple-y. And then I made Teriyaki chicken sausage (TJ's) with sliced apples, potatoes, and onions cooked in gyoza dipping sauce. And THEN I made apple crisp with too little flour and too much ground clove. And THEN I made tea. And then I thought I'd clean my room a bit. And then I had a panic attack. And then I got to work.

But the bapples were worth it.

A little bit cruisey, a lotta bit boozey

Just imagine... A huge dance floor under the stars, stunning views of a twinkling Boston horizon, planes surging overhead, glamorous people in sparkling evening wear nearly impaling your feet with their spiked heels as they reel from drunkenness and sea sickness...

And when I say evening wear I mean skanky club clothes. And when I say glamorous I mean full of self-importance. And, if I haven't worn out this construct, when I say dance floor, I mean sticky pit of claustrophobia.

It's a dream come true!

Now, I have to say, I was pretty stunned when I first saw the Providence II lit up, booming with music, bursting with people. I had this moment of wonder at the possibility of it all. And then I realized that I'd experienced something like this before. It's called a Frat Party.

So Norah, her roomie Melissa, and your favorite JoBiv sat on the quieter deck for a good portion of the night. We let the wind push us around and we talked of many things: traumatized friends, BC Law School Students (the main population on the boat), the status of the whole big wide world... And then we decided to eat some underheated pizza and join the dance party.

And at times, yes, it was beautiful, surreal, exotic. But mostly, I spent the night dodging women in the aforementioned scary shoes, saying, "that's okay," to their, "sorry! Excuse me's" and trying to dance while my shoes were firmly glued to the floor by a mixture of spilled drinks and what could only be military grade epoxy.

The night could have ended when I was sitting on the bench lining the entire side of the boat, the wind blowing through my hair, and then something wet landed on my face. I looked up, as it couldn't possibly have come from the water thirty-odd feet below. A guy in a suit was leaning over the side, who, as I looked up, spit toward the water. The wind caught it. I dodged it this time. He leaned over further and wretched. I grabbed Norah and launched us into the crowd before we could find out what else would come out of his mouth.

Check. Don't need to Booze Cruise ever again in my lifetime.

Yes, but what does Pea have to say on the subject?

Pea thinks she's talking to me.

I noticed this last week or so. While I prepare her lunch, mushing avocado or hiding cheese in Beech-Nut sweet potatoes, she sits happily in her high chair, chomping veggie booty. I prefer not to watch, because veggie booty makes me ill (just to think of the spinach particles floating about!). When I do look, occasionally, to reassure myself that she's not turning purple due to a firmly lodged booty-glob, she smiles and laughs and tries to charm me.

And then, she pulls the "Now that you're looking" maneuver.

Pea grasps a puff in her right hand. She looks me in the eye. She thrusts her right hand straight out from her body. She deliberately loosens her grip, and smiles. The booty pings lightly on the floor.

Trying not to laugh, I sternly turn my body toward hers and sign "stop" with both hands, a sort of chopping motion onto an open palm. I say, sternly, I swear, "No, Pea. Stop. I don't like it."

She talks back!

Before I finish my reprimand, she yells at me in a stream of indignant gibberish. Then she repeats the maneuver. The episode ends when I remove the excess booty from her tray whilst she complains loudly, and I quickly begin the spooning of the mushy food.

Then today, while we played on the living room rug, I asked her, "Pea, are you hungry?"

"Adaht."

I laughed a little. It sounded so definite. I asked again, "Are you feeling hungry?"

"Adaht."

Yes ma'am!

Later in the day I asked the same question. This time, the repeated answer was "Ikeee." I've concluded that she understands that I require an answer, but has yet to commit to one word in response.

Keggar at JoBiv's House?

Kegger or keggar? Keggar sounds much closer to the image I have of invading hordes.

I should tell you why you didn't receive the Bea Arthur invitation. Well, those of you who have catapulted yourselves over state lines, that is. My roommates decided we should have a party. This serves different purposes for all of us.

For Ben: forces Becca to clean the apartment
For Jake: allows him to use his grill and educate us about beer balls
For Becca: allows her to systematically reject/alienate all of our single friends of the male persuasion.
For JoBiv: benefit yet to be determined.

I thought we'd have a little get-together, each of us corralling five friends or so. Becca's evite list grew to 48 people very quickly.

JoBiv: No, really, do you know these people?
Becca: Mostly.
JoBiv: Are they nice people?
Becca: If they're bringing single men, they're nice.

I brought up the topic of the Flaming Cabbage. Ben seemed enthusiastic. Jake consented with a saintly nod. Becca seemed confused.

Becca: Jo, you should have put something in that evite about "bringing dancing shoes" or something.
JoBiv: Why would I have done that?
Becca: Well of course there's going to be drunken dancing...
JoBiv: Oh, it's that kind of party.
Becca: Um, yeah. What kind of party did you think we were having?
JoBiv: The kind where you get to meet nice people and talk, actually hear what people are saying to you.
Becca: (glare of utter incredulity)

I'm just praying that some of my people show up to balance out her people. But then again, they can't all be like her, right? At 26 and older? Employed or in grad school? Chronically tired like the rest of us?

Please?

Busy bee is me

I got two freelance book projects from Baseline, so my time is suddenly worth a lot more money. TONS more than the Baby Mama pays me, but I'm deluded enough to think I should stick with nannying while I do these projects in my free time.

Which, suddenly, is sparse. Two choirs, finishing painting my room, baby's b'day party, Brookline 300th Anniversary booths to attend to for choirs (which one? which one!)... When it rains, etc.

By the way, my Pea is turning one! One whole year of existence in the breathing world! Impressive, I say. She seems fairly proud of herself. I wonder if she'll show off her mad skillz at the party. She betta.

Pout

If you got an evite that said





















...you would go, right?

My roommates are so lame.

Good evening, Dr. Jekyll

Maybe Wicked has invaded my psyche more than I expected, but I'm a bit worried about my own potential for becoming a super villain. If I were written into a book, would I turn out good or evil?

I wonder about this when I'm under stress and should really be thinking of other things. Such as, why haven't I bought real groceries for three weeks? What, exactly, have I been eating? I can't answer this question. I've felt sick for a while now. ...Besides the point.

I wonder about this when my parents are either threatening to visit or actually visiting. Like now. They're in town, my mother voluntarily enslaving herself as a house-painter for a few days, and I can't make myself feel good about them being here. THE WOMAN IS SAVING ME BUTTLOADS OF WORK AND FRUSTRATION, and I can't be happy about it. I've lost so much hair this week, it's a good thing I got my hair cut last week. My hairdresser praised me, said that it looked thicker, that I was clearly doing better (yes, she's the closest thing to a therapist at the moment. Shush.). And now my fingertips hurt and my stomach hurts and last time I looked in the mirror I couldn't make my forehead smooth by force of will. I had to smooth it with my hands and it bounced back into its deep furrows.

And so I become Dr. Jekyll, burying my inner Hyde. I carefully dress for dinner, make a list in my head of pleasant things to say and to ask, keep my elbows off the table, compliment my father's wine choice. None of this makes me less evil.

I've assumed that I'm basically evil since I was about twelve. No, I didn't hear the devil's commands in my sleep, but I always hated the conniver in me. I hated the hater. And I've always felt so terribly prone to these things. Perhaps my awareness was a good sign. I told my therapist from high school and college about the terrible compulsive daydreams I would have (I won't detail them here, they're disturbing), and he eventually copied a pamphlet for me about "Bad Thoughts" OCD. (Look it up on Google, I dare you.) The message of the pamphlet was essentially this: JoBiv, you are not evil.

I can't believe that. What does that pamphlet know? It doesn't know that I can't stand to be loved. That must be a sign of true evil.

God, I hope that's not true. Any of it. I'm so tired.

Catch a falling star And put it in your pocket

"And what about your ceiling?" my Mom asked the other day.
"It's okay. A little dingy, but probably doesn't need repainting."
"Well we have ceiling paint, it's easy to bring it."
"Yeah, but it also has these glow-in-the-dark stars all over it."
"We can paint over them."
"Hmm... I think they'd peel eventually... I guess I can take them down."

And so over the past few nights I have left my light on for an hour, attracting the moths who have taken over the apartment, then turning it off, standing on my bed, I grope the ceiling to pull down the stars. It's funny, the same thing happens with these stars that happens when you look into the night sky; if I stare at one intently, it suddenly disappears. I resorted to scraping my fingers against the textured ceiling, searching for the flat paper stickers among the cheese grating.

I was sad to take them down. On my first night in the new room I was pleasantly exhausted, looking up at the fake stars, looking at fake constellations. A backwards big dipper, a too-tight Cassiopeia. My father had just mentioned to me how charmed he was that when I was last home, looking up into the starry sky was the first thing I did after emerging from the car at 1:30am. My mother reported to him that I found Cassiopeia right away. My father was impressed with his own teaching skills from way back when.

But the glow-in-the-dark stars have other memories tied to them. During the summer of 2000, when I worked at the YMCA camp, I was almost-dating a guy named Paul, who was the music teacher and had his own cabin/classroom. He was staying with his rather stodgy aunt and uncle that summer, and sought refuge in his little cabin, painting it, decorating it, cleaning the lush carpet. The kids loved that room, its comfy bright softness.

I was a little in love with Paul, with what he might do for me. I thought he could rescue me somehow, with his jazz guitar, his vegetarian enchiladas, his soft-spoken respect. He was careful and confusing with me, making huge efforts to see me outside of camp, then not returning phone calls, then begging me to go on the road with him. During our once-a-week overnight, we'd get the kids sleeping, then the counselors would take shifts to go down to the dwindling bonfire. Paul would play his guitar, I would sing everything I knew. The other counselors would dazedly burn marshmellows and put in requests.

One week I helped Paul bring his two guitars back to his cabin. The carpet was so soft and nice. I couldn't help wishing we could sleep there. The other counselors called it "The Love Shack," and at that moment, with the bright mothy fluorescent light buzzin, the guitars settling into their cases, our hair smokey, fingers ashy, I felt all of the possibilities rushing into me.

"Do you want to see something?" he asked.
"Sure," I said.

He ushered me into the middle of the room and walked over to close the door. Then he turned off the light.

"Look up."

On the low raftered ceiling, he had meticulously placed a hundred or more stars. Many of them made constellations. There were so many, it was dazzling. No one else would know they were here, I thought. No one is here at night. Was he sleeping here? When did he have the time?

"This is amazing, Paulie!" I whispered. Darkness always makes me whisper.

"Thanks." He brushed through the air toward me, stood in front of me as I gazed up. The cabin had good storm doors and blocked all light. There were no windows. The darkness was complete, except for the stars. I could only make out his silhouette against them. He was nearly a foot taller, and I was looking up, wondering if I could somehow find his eyes in the dark. They were blue. They should have glowed.

What did we talk about then? Whatever came out of our mouths was surely nervous bullshit. My whole body was pleading him to kiss me. I felt the entire dialogue; how he'd said he couldn't date anyone right now, how he'd said I was so talented, how I tried to find a closer place to him when we watched movies on his aunt's couch, how he touched my arm so lightly to get my attention, how overwhelming my loneliness could be, how his eyes lit when I sang with him. It all funneled to this point, right here.

Kiss me, jackass.

He cleared his throat. "We should go."

Paul found the door quickly, shakily opened it, let me pass through, careful not to touch.

Standing on my bed last night, my fingers sore from searching out stars, I felt that same juvenile confusion for a moment. Paul and I kissed, eventually, once, on my porch, some night before I had to go back to college after a short break. I never could tell if he did any of it for me - the stars, the enchiladas, the kiss. He always seemed to act out of some higher moral sense of duty that occassionally allowed him to dip down and serve me somehow.

I asked myself, are glow-in-the-dark star stickers juvenile or romantic?

My arms, head, fingertips aching, I decided. Juvenile.

Sleep snot and other spiritual matters

So I auditioned for the Brookline Chorus, and lo, I got in! As mentioned below in quite a lengthy, but necessary, post. I perhaps should keep private the fact that I found out about this chorus through a Coolidge Corner Community Choir member who was two-timing with the auditioned BC.

No longer private. Whoops.

And so. I showed up on time last night, despite the Great Forces of the Universe attempting to slow me. I found my way around, found my two-timing choir friend, met his lovely wife, and sat myself down in the back row of the alto section.

Laura, the director, started us off with breathing exercises, scales, and harmonizing exercises. She had complete and utter control over every aspect of the choir from the minute she told us to begin, and more than that, the choir was capable of response. This may sound strange. I mean to say that in the old choir, the members come from "all walks, all skill levels." This is to say that many do not know what choral singing entails, how to produce good tone, how to attack a note, how to follow a director, even! And so, when Laura pointed to the sopranos and asked them to sing a high arpeggio, I allowed myself an anticipatory wince.

And that's when the spirit invaded my formerly wandering soul.

HOLY CRAP, people! They could SING! Not sharp, not flat, not nasal, not wavering. Perfect, ringing notes lilted from them, and something in my chest fluttered with absolute satisfaction.

Laura then repeated the process with each section. The tenors made me shiver. The basses made me tear. And my own alto section sent me to some pillar of exhaltation I could not have previously imagined.

Appropriately, we started singing from Mendelssohn's Elijah. As we started on "He watching over Israel" (recently added to my repertoire at the CCCC), the choir read the new-to-most-of-them material almost flawlessly. After ten minutes of work, we had achieved something near angelic. We had surpassed, by LEAGUES, any kind of performance put forth by the community choir. At some point I thought to myself, "Wow, this would be PERFECT if I could make my sleep snot joke!"

This is the joke: (warning, not a good one.)

The Mendelssohn text loops and layers the words,

"He watching over Israel
slumbers not nor sleeps.
Shouldst thou, walking in grief, languish,
He will quicken thee.
He sleeps not."

When singing en masse, choirs often ellide end syllables to make the consonants crisper and to create a more fluid, graceful sound.

So, to me, "He... slumber snot nor sleeps." Similarly, "He sleep snot." Tehehehehehe.

In a serious choir, one is not allowed to utter such things, as one is working terribly hard to keep up with the director. Therefore, I nearly shit myself with happiness when Laura advised us to sing, "Slumber snot." My tenor friend leaned back in his seat, caught my eye, and raised his eyebrows significantly. The look said, "You belong here."

One of my 43 things is...

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

You deserve it

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

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

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

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

On Friday:

- Helped Jake move in a bit

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

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

Saturday:

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

Sunday:

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

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

Monday:

- Norah’s Labor Day BBQ Madness!

Tuesday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Johanna.” Why lie?

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Johanna. And yours?”

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

“You mean the redhead? Norah.”

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

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

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

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

He bowed a bit and we parted.

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

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

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

“Oh, we’ll see,” I laughed.

“You laughing at me?” He pretended offense.

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

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

“Goodnight James.”

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

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

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

I swung my hips as I walked away. Gloatingly.

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forcefully jettisoned into the future

(singin' and performing a solo conga line)

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

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

JoBiv's Whirlwind Tour of Western NY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pea's up. Must attend to her fever.

Bullet holes in my foot

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

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

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

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

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

Or... I'll weed a garden.

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

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

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

JoBiv's hollow head

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

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

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

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

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

We have mice

I want to cry.

Sushi and sniffles

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

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

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

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

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

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

King of Drag

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

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

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

Unless, of course, you dress up as Elvis.

The new bachelorette pad

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

This is the situation:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cotton, go back from whence you came!

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

Perhaps I was getting a little cocky.

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

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

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

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

The heavens opened over me.

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

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

And poor Maurice without his swimmies.

Step right up for new tricks!

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

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

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

3. Growing a top tooth! Ow!

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

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

God, babies are cool.

Movin' on over

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

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

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

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

6% doodads and whatnots

11% clothes

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

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

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

And Tina's coming into town.

And then my head will explode from happiness and stress.

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

Saraaaah...

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

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

Small update:

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

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

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

Habits

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

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

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

Finally, it happened. And not as I imagined.

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

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

“Jo!” Who, me? “Jo! Hi!”

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

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

“Hi Stef.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“Oh… sure… go ahead.”

\The Pea looked at him, expressionless but steadfast.

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

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

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

“God, look at those eyes,” he said.

“I know. She’s so sweet.”

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

“Oh, y’know. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, what are you up to?”

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

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

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

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

“That good?”

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

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

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

“No, actually, North Brighton.”

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't wait to see Sarah...

4th of July: a discussion in two parts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Part 2: In which JoBiv wonders about patriotism

Hahem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can I be that?

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.