Genius

Ah, Fox 25 Morning New, I love you so.

This morning, Virgin Boy was out in front of his Beacon Hill Studio with one of the weather guys. Two other anchors were in the main studio in Dedham. They were discussing unisex bathrooms, among other things.

And VB had a secretly concealed fart machine. "What do you think of that VB?" faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrt. "Do you think Angelina Jolie is hot?" faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.

The one female anchor, poor lady, just sat there with her head in her hands.

At the end of the program one of the anchors in Dedham decided to demonstrate the "miracles of technology" by having his finger pulled -- by one of the guys in Beacon Hill.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.

Yeah!

I'd like to see Katie Couric do that.

Okay.

So W is now on Press Secretary # 3.

Mr. President, I have a word of advice for you: It's not that your press secretaries are doing a bad job. It's that you keep on LYING to the American public. And let me tell you from personal experience: If you spray the smell of caca with lemon, you just end up with lemon-scented caca.

It's still caca, George.

Why not try the truth?

Ah, Family

My cousin C announced to me one day that he has “Three crazy Uncle K’s.” One of these Uncle K’s is my father, Polackpappy; one is an uncle from his mother’s side of the family (we are related through his father); one is the oldest of McMumsy’s four siblings. Pp sits square in the middle of the craziness ranking; the uncle I’m not related to is number three. I tried to fight for my father to come in at number three but then I was reminded by my cousin that this is a man who once cut off his own cancerous tumor with a sailing knife and threw it in the trash. My mother's oldest brother, who once owned a Clydesdale named Fluffy, comes in at a solid number one. This story is about that uncle.

Picture it: Easter dinner, 2006. At my and my aunt Q's insistence, the cremains of Wendy, beloved family corgi, sits in a place of honor in the dry sink right next to the dinner table. Someone has put the dog's red neckerchief around the wooden box containing the cremains. That someone would be me. I actually voted for putting the box at the Babcia's feet, so that Wendy could beg for scraps from beyond the grave, but I was outvoted.

Anyhoo. We are discussing the cremains when Aunt Q pipes up “Well, Mum never approved of being cremated. Remember when Aunt Myrtle died? And we went to her wake? And Mum looked around the funeral home and then yelled ‘Oh my God! She’s in the jar!’ when she spotted the urn containing Myrtle’s ashes?” Uncle K nodded. McMumsy said that some Catholics disapproved of cremation. Uncle K nodded again and then guffawed and said “Well, isn’t it funny that she died in a fire and ended up all burnt up anyway.”

Yet Another Reason Why I, McPolack, Wouldn't Make it as a Doctor

Because arterial spurt makes me laugh.

Last night on 24, skinny blonde who has a face like a collie (hello, needlenose!) got caught by a bad guy. Bad guy wanted to trade her to Jack Bauer for a tape that proved the president is the Big Bad. So Littler bad guy ended up letting her walk slowly towards JB while yelling at him to hand over the tape.

Unfortunately, before letting Needlenose go, bad guy sliced the *insert important-sounding medical term* artery in her arm and she was just bleeding all over the place.

Bleeding, unfortunately, like the guy in an old Monty Python skit I saw and enjoyed. Said guy was playing the piano in a jolly fashion when the piano lid slammed shut on his hands, cutting them off at the wrist. He held up his now hand-less arms, which were spraying blood everywhere, and screamed.

And I laughed and laughed.

I kind of giggled at Needlenose last night. Can’t guarantee I wouldn’t do the same if faced with lots of blood in real life.

Sometimes

it is easy to use the blog as an excuse to not work on the book. Like right now. I just opened the book. I have to leave in 45 minutes to get on the bus and go to my German friend's to eat homemade spring rolls, brownies, and blondies, and watch 24. I have not looked at the book in nearly a week. Why do I fear it so?

I do need to share that I caught the last hour of Alias last week. I had heard that stone fox MV might be returning. And sure enough in the last minute of the show there he was living in a yurt in Mongolia (okay not really but it was yurt- and Mongolia- like). I now know why he had to go away: so that he could grow his facial hair to a length appropriate for maximum stone foxiness.

Dear readers, he has MOST definitely achieved it.

Supergirl

Though I must admit that much of my weekend was spent in a dark, dark place, one that I am thankfully out of, and included such delights as scrunching up into a ball in bed to nap after lunch and scrunching up in a ball on the sofa and watching a hideous Nick Lachey post-Newlyweds reality program, I did actually get out of the house on Saturday afternoon.

I joined my friend NA and her 15 month old daughter for a trip to the Museum of Fine Arts. NA had free tickets to the Hockney exhibit. I hadn't heard of Hockney before learning of the show but I must say I was quite impressed, not so much by this, one of his signature pieces, which (I think) normally hangs at the Tate, but by the fact that he included in his show (and as he is still alive I am sure he had some say about what to include) a painting of his wiener dog, Stanley.

I, too, fully intend to include all pets with me in my future works, in one form or another. And I still really want a wiener dog of my own. And when I get one I shall name him Francis. Or maybe Dixie.

Anyhoo, NA had to take her bebe out of the show after she went running full-on into one of the paintings. I kept the stroller, though, and some lady with a broken leg banged into it and gave me a cranky look. Well, eff you is what I thought but sorry is what I said. I returned the stroller to NA and went chasing after her daughter who I must say was looking quite fetching in red cordury pants, sneakers, and a Superman-logo blue t-shirt complete with detachable red satin cape. She zoomed through several galleries including one filled with silver and another with statues. I decided she was getting the lay of the land in case she needed to fly back later and protect the treasures from the bad guys. Unfortunately, this Supergirl was not impervious to danger and the second time she tripped over someone's feet, in a hall filled with album art from the sixties, she needed a pick-me-up from her mom.

Update

First, thank you for all the support.

I'm hanging in. McMumsy called/emailed and we talked. I feel like our conversation is something I need to keep offline, at least for now. I do love my Mum, more than anything, despite our differences. It's just hard to move to a place of acceptance with her for me, and harder still to move to a place of acceptance of myself, regardless of what she, or anyone else, says.

Want to know what I don't like about the library?

When a bad-smelling man in shorts with heavy backpack tails you and then sits down in the chair that is right next to you when there are plenty of other empty chairs, and then he doesn’t pick up his paper to read it at all for a good five minutes. I wanted to turn my head to him and tell him to leave me the fuck alone. Asshole. I get pissed for women everywhere when I am harassed like this.

Jesus' Bodyguards

At church last Easter Sunday my brother noticed Polackpappy standing off to the side near the Eucharistic ministers. A well-known one-legged parishioner stood with the help of crutches in a similar position on the other side of the church. I was quite amused when I found out what they were doing: They were there as muscle, to make sure that everyone who accepted the host consumed it immediately. Apparently the church had been having trouble with devil worshippers stealing the hosts and with non-Catholics, not knowing what to do with a wee slice of the body of Christ, dropping it in the parking lot outside.

This is a pretty big no-no in Catholicism. After all, it’s a piece of Jesus Christ, Lord and Savior. One does not drop Pieces of Him carelessly on the ground. For He might not tasteth as delicious with dirt on Him.

Oh, I am so sorry for typing that last line.

Anyhoo, one also certainly does not use Pieces of Him to worship the devil.

So of course the priest thought immediately of the right men for the job of guarding the Lord: a guy who is missing part of his leg, and a Polack.

Auntie

Had a nice surprise late this morning in the form of a phone call from cuarentayuno who was in town for a doctor’s appointment and wanted to know if he could buy me lunch. Well, no McPolack says no to a free lunch and certainly not when it is with as stellar a fellow as c.

After an embarrassing several minutes on the phone trying to give him directions (I have no sense of direction, and neither does c) he announced he was in the square near my house. I told him I’d meet him on my front lawn.

As I was waiting I saw a skinny fellow with dark hair approaching. He looked like an EMO outcast from afar, or maybe a hipster alien, and he seemed to be smiling at me. I stopped looking at him, stepped into my driveway and turned my back as he got closer, so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact or, god forbid, talk to the strangepork. But then the strangepork spoke.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, it was c. He was looking a bit gaunt due to not having eaten much over the past few days, and had feathered Farrah hair and some ginormous smoky sunglasses. The combo sunglasses/Farrah hair look was reminding me of someone, and that someone wasn’t a male. At first I though he had a real Julia Child look going but I realized I only thought this because I’d finished an excellent book of hers just the night before. But he was still reminding me of someone…who could it be?

…then it hit me: Aunt Barbara! Cuarentayuno looked like my crazy Aunt Barbara, who I haven’t seen since dinner-plate-sized smoky eyeglasses and feathered bangs were popular.

Anyways, his look was working for him, and that’s all that counts. We had sandwiches at Orleans and then I picked up my laptop and we headed to Diesel, where I am now sitting, alone again with my laptop as c has headed back to the hills of New Hampshire.

Kitty Salad

When I came back from the coffee shop today I realized the grass on my front lawn, sparse though it may be (due in part to my asshole neighbors tearing out clumps of it and planting it in the backyard so they can have a nice green expanse to look out on from their deck), was long enough for picking. And pick it I did, so I could feed it to my spoiled ball of fur, Daphne-Moon. Kitty greens are one of her favorite treats and as her dear mummy (that would be me) is on a limited budget, I pick it for her for free.

Miss Moons could smell the springtime the second I walked in the door and she followed me, yowling, into the kitchen and continued to yowl at my feet while I washed the kitty salad in the sink. Then I sat on the floor next to her and fed it to her in clumps; she likes to grab onto a clump with the side of her mouth and munch munch munch her way up it, leaving a trail of kitty spittle in her wake. While she is munching she is purring, frenetically, and I have to be careful she doesn't gobble her way up to, and through, my fingers. She's like a furry little Al Pacino at the end of Scarface, mad for the greens the way he's mad for cocaine; she can't see anything but grass, man, and she hoovers her way through it the way he does the drug mountain on his desk.

Only when she does it it's just the cutest thing ever. Whereas the Al Pacino scene is just sad and pathetic and very Brian De Palma.

On Prayer and the Babcia

I intended in my coaching call this morning to write from 6 until 8 tonight. Ended up getting back from yoga at 6:10, decided that since the recycling guy still hadn't come that this was clearly a message for me to put out the recycling, then read a couple of blog posts. I also still have to take a shower and prep dinner. So my 2 hours of writing is quickly turning into less than an hour and a half.

Anyhoo, I wanted to share my thoughts on what I noted in the subject line. I went to church on Easter Sunday, for 11 o'clock mass. After the wacky priest yelled at us for not being loud enough (He is risen! I should be able to hear you in downtown Concord!) and had us renounce Satan and then sprinkled us with water for a re-baptizing (which I must say it quite the nice thing about being Catholic. Just go once a year on Easter. You get the whole past year of badness erased and a nice little baptism refresher to go with your main dish of Jesus being resurrected. Good stuff.) and after I took communion I knelt down to pray. We were seated in the second row, right behind the handicapped section, so as to be closer to the Babcia, who is becoming older and decrepiter by the minute.

But not, at least according to McMumsy, fast enough. And I trust her opinion enough to be nervous about what she said. She thinks my grandmother might have five years left in her. The problem is that her mind is starting to go. The cracks in her psyche are starting to widen. But she's got the super-peasant body, thick, and strong. And she's built to last: She had a kidney out in the 1930's, had a kidney stone removed, then had stomach cancer, a hysterectomy, had her gallbladder removed, and now has congestive heart failure. And still she lives.

After communion at church this Easter Sunday, I prayed for her death. And I don't know how I feel about that.

Sleepy

I've been feeling this weird exhaustion lately. Went to bed last night at 9:30 and had the lights out by 10:30, then got up still feeling really tired this morning. Had my coaching call at 7:30, then ran, then grocery-shopped, then picked up a little, and then had to take a nap because I felt so wiped out. Now I'm finishing up my copyediting test and my eyes feel bleary. I thought maybe I was coming down with something but my only symptoms have been that I'm sleepy. I've definitely been super-emotional too, kind of on a hair trigger, and had been having lots of self-doubt (I'm done with that) and strange dreams (not sure I'm done with that one yet).

One dream in particular stood out for me: After getting in trouble for not writing something I got on a bus with a college friend I haven't seen in years. We were driving through rural Vermont and on the shores of Lake Champlain there were geese, lots of geese, and they were being slaughtered by these hound dogs -- some sort of new goose control plan, according to my friend in the dream. Then I was on the shore with a family and the family was out to kill the geese. I was instructed not to let any of the babies get away. I turned around and covered my ears but still couldn't drown out the mother of the family shouting "Why can't they just die" as the goose she shot was screaming.

Needless to say, I should not like to have that dream again. Yipes.

Marathon

Headed downtown today at around 12:30 to meet L and a date of hers and watch the Boston Marathon. To doll myself up for the city (and because even as I say I have given up on finding a man I still want to not look and/or smell like ass in case I run into my future husband on the street) I used the last of the Aveda Volumizing Conditioner with clay (passed on to me by OSB) and blow-dried my hair. And while I didn't end up running into my husband I was a big hit with the residentially-challenged set. One guy begging for change at the top of the stairs at the Hynes T told me my hair looked great and then asked if I would shake the hand of a black man, which I did. Then he told me he was Irish. Black Irish. Uh-huh. Then he asked me if I wanted a black kiss and I left. I rounded a couple of corners and another homeless fellow told me I had nice boobs, in exactly those words. So as you can imagine I was feeling quite attractive. Actually I really was feeling attractive. I ran into a friend in the coffee shop later on that afternoon, and when I related that story to her she, unprompted, said she kind of is glad when the homeless guys holler at her because at least she knows she’s still a certifiable hottie on some level.

Anyhoo, I headed to the (almost) finish line with boosted spirits and got there in time to see the top mens' and womens' finishers. I have to say it was pretty neat to watch the runners start the race on tv over lunch and then hop on the train and see them (near to the) finish in person. Every runner I saw go by looked surprisingly good – not tired at all – and as I knew I’d be standing there for a long time and only seeing a few seconds of action (which was rather like my experience losing my virginity) I was not the least bit disappointed. (I can’t say the same for the virginity-losing but I was 22 and it was time for it to go.)

After the elite men went by, I headed back for the train, because it's a work day for me (I'm an Official Writer now and so have a job to do even when I am not making money). Got into a bit of a logjam except with people while heading back to the T. I was stuck behind a middle-aged man and his son who looked to be about ten. In front of them was a 19 year old. They were going nowhere but there was a steady trickle of people headed in the opposite direction. The 19 year old gave up and got directions for a way around the bottleneck, but the guy and his kid kept standing there, waiting for an opportunity to go.

Well I, seasoned city dweller that I am, knew there would be no such opportunity. I tapped the dad on the shoulder and said "I may not look it, but I'm a pretty good shover. Mind if I step in front of you?"

He let me go and instructed his son to follow me. And I ever-so-gently excusedme'd and shoved my way through the crowd. When I turned back to look the crowd had swallowed the guy and his son; I felt kind of bad. Maybe next time I'll let them hold my hand.

Okay...

...so I found two of the three files. They were the two I had done the most work on so now I've only lost like 45 minutes of work, at most.

Thank God!!!!!!!!!!

It's actually a copyediting test I'm working on. Funny thing: this past weekend I had an epiphany: McPolack is not, and was never meant, for a full-time career-type job. It only took me ten years of failures of varying degrees of misery and nearly four years with Chickenfucker, esq. (who definitely didn't see me as legit)to figure this out, as opposed to two or three lifetimes, so yay me!

My new plan is to focus on my writing and to find work to support me while I am writing a book. To that end, I contacted a friend with a baby to see about nannying (haven't heard back yet) and, when I went to that job interview I was dreading on Monday, I told the interviewer about my epiphany and asked if he had any freelance work. Hence the test. He was surprisingly understanding and actually pretty great -- his wife majored in creative writing in college, and she does marketing writing now, so he got some agency contact info from her for me so I can find freelance work.

So. I don't know if it's possible for me to stress enough what a breakthrough this is. It's a really, really, really good thing. It's tough, believe me, and I'm scared, and it's going to require a lot of trust, and a lot of stick-to-itiveness on my part, but I know I can do it.

Because it's what I was supposed to do, all along.

OMFG

I just lost 12 FUCKING HOURS of copyediting work.

It just disappeared from my computer.

Goddamnit.

I Still (?) Hate my Neighbor

So longtime readers of my blog may recall that I live above some stinkin' lazy-ass bastahds. I have referenced time and again their sins: They don't take out the trash, they don't shovel the driveway, they in general walk around hunched over and banging into things because their heads are shoved deep inside their anuses.

Now lately I have to admit they have shown some improvement. I think it was one of them that ran my walkman upstairs after I left it on top of my car, and when they filled the trash area up with a mountain of boxes and other assorted pieces of shit, they actually (again, I think, because I didn't actually seem them do it) dragged the stuff to the curb.

And mid-winter, after some wrangling, the wife started helping shovel the driveway.

But I cannot seem to let go of my hatred of them. Right now they are both outside; someone is visiting the husband. He is all "Hey, my brothah!" He is Caucasian. Is that enough reason to hate him? I have been filled with such delicious inky black poisonous feelings towards him for so long that it is hard to let it go.

They were noisy the other night and cooked some food which stank up my whole apartment. I will try to hold on to that. But they just aren't pissing me off like they used to.

Moo Updates

Just got off the phone with Dr. Moo. She had a wild c-section on Saturday which resulted in the stillbirth of a ginormous -- 240 pound (normal size is 80) -- calf. Naturally, once she had finished sawing the baby out, she took lots of pictures because hey, abnormally large dead thing. She had some of the men that were helping her out pose next to it, for perspective.

In other Moonews, one of her oldest friends (I think they met in the first grade) moved in right around the corner from me. We're all going to go to dinner on Friday. Moo said when her friend asked if I was looking for any new friends, she told her "no." When I asked her why, she said I wouldn't like her pal because she is a "Whinocerous."

Hmm

So I am walking back from yoga and am crossing the street that bisects the one that runs in front of Brooks Pharmacy and a slightly chubby kid (and by kid I mean he's probably 25) with black hair and pink cheeks is in the back seat of a small green four-door sedan that is blocking the crosswalk and he asks me as I am going to cross the street "What's in the bag? Hey, got anything good in that bag?"

"Uh, a yoga mat," I answer him, wiggling it.

I cross the street and as I am walking away I hear him say "Look! I should do yoga, huh?!"

I turn to look and Mr. Tubby Apple-Cheeks has one besneakered foot tucked behind his ear.

Maple Walnut Blondie: A Poem

I cannot resist you
covered in the wrap of Saran
and nestled near the brownie
on the counter of the bagel shop

I will skip the cheese on my veggie burger sandwich
and the side of chips
and have you for dessert

And while it's impossible for me to not eat you
avoiding white flour and sugar like Oprah
I can eat just half of you
and save the rest for tomorrow

Amen.

One more thing

Oh, contagious, I just tried to go to your blog and I got an access denied button because it said the site might be harmful to children! Now who's the gnaughty gnome?

Okay, two more things...now I am watching the backpack of some suit while he goes to get his other bag. Must be the braids I'm sporting. I've got a very Heidi of the Alps look going. Quite trustworthy.

Well, lah-dee-dah

hi all.

currently posting from within the downtown Boston Sheraton. I came into town last night to meet JoyceFrances, who is staying at the Westin but working a yoga conference in the Sheraton, and it turned out the only person who could help her had an emergency. So instead I am helping her. I stayed with her in her room last night. It was the fanciest place I've ever stayed (which isn't saying much). It's more than 200 bucks a night -- and though they say in their ads that the beds are "heavenly" both I and Joyce found them a bit more hellish, and got only 5 hours of sleep each. Jf did let me take all the travel size bath products though and she also made sure noone was looking at breakfast while I slipped the wee jam jars in from the table into my pockets. She's a great lady.

What I'm liking about the whole experience is that it's real bartering. She's paying for my dinner (Figs on Charles Street last night; Sage in the North End tonight) and giving me some free nights at the yoga retreat center she works for. Meanwhile I get to run around downtown Boston in some stretchy purple pants, a stretchy blue top, and sneakers. I also have braids in my hair.

It goes without saying that there are people with amazing bodies at this conference but oddly enough I am not feeling so bad about my own today. Even in lycra. Go figure.

In other McPolack news, I have a job interview on Monday. Which would normally you'd think be a reason to rejoice. But I have a bad feeling about it. I can't quite put my finger on why -- maybe it's because I'm having such a positive experience today, and am starting to realize that life for me just feels right if I have a lot of different jobs, as opposed to just one? Also, the job is in Rockland which I think might be pretty far away from me, and doesn't pay all that well. But, the manager contacted me (he saw my resume on Monster; I didn't apply) and was very forthcoming with answers to all my questions. So I'm going to chat with him. Ideally I would want to work from home at least a few days a week and I don't know if this is a possibility either. I just know that I don't have any space left emotionally for another crappy job blow. And afraid of having my soul sucked out of me. Yee-ugh.

But for now it's back to the yogis! After I pick up an iced coffee, of course. A side bonus of being in a city conference center on the weekday would have to be all the hot uptight suits. Yummy!

Early Bird

Got up at 6:30 this morning to meet one of my employed friends (oh, hell, they're all employed) for an early run. She cancelled due to a sore throat so I went alone. It was nice being out early in the morning, especially since I drank a small cup of instant coffee to, uh, move things along in my lower GI tract so I wouldn't have to make any emergency poop stops.

I treated myself to coffee and a scone when I finished and now, I am feeling inspired. And so, in honor of National Poetry Month (I've been getting a podcasted poem a day emailed to me from Knopf of the unsilent K), I have decided to do a poem a week. Word to the wise: I am a horrible poet. And by horrible I mean so atrocious that your eyes might bleed. So read on at your own risk.

A Haiku, for the Rindge Ave Crossing Guard Lady

Shaped like a weeble
At your age some are feeble
But you stop traffic

Streeeeeeeeeeeeeeetch

At yoga last night the instructor led us through a pose called “Bird of Paradise.” It involves shoving your right leg under your right shoulder while on the floor (or your left) and then standing up on the opposite foot. I could not achieve what is called “full expression” of the posture. I managed to shove my leg maybe three-quarters of the way under my shoulder, then hopped around in a low crouch with my ass in the air while my lithe-limbed classmates stood and stretched and seemed to almost preen themselves. I re-named my version of the posture “A Hippopotamus Goes to Disneyland.”

Swedish Update

So my day as a Swedish girl was big fun. I actually didn't get into character all that much, although I did call myself Inge and Olga alternately, got checked out a fair amount, and did a good job of looking touristy. L took a fine picture of me having my ass sniffed by a brass donkey. Then we played with other peoples' dogs in the park. Unfortunately I got a sunburn on my Swedish-level decolletage. Such is the punishment for a sinner.

I posted this one mainly for its last sentence

Since I don’t want to spend all that gas money and time driving to Concord on Saturday morning for my therapy appointment and then driving home only to drive back on Sunday morning to go shopping, I will have to stay the night. Normally this is not a problem; it’s not like I have spent every night of my thirties hanging out with my parents (although, to be fair, I have spent more nights than most). But this weekend my parents are hosting prayer group with what my mother refers to as the Super-Catholics. They’re hardcore and Republican and I don’t know any of them. If I stay home I will have to hang out in the back room watching tv alone. And I don’t want to feel like the loser man-less, job-less, thunder-thighed-thirtysomething daughter lurking behind a closed door like the hunchback of Notre-no-life.

Sartorially Challenged

McMumsy is hosting a luncheon soon for my brother’s fiancées family. Said family is old New England, lovely and refined I am sure (I have not met them but little brother’s fiancée is lovely and refined) and there’s even an elderly grandma for my elderly grandma to spend time with. Trouble is, my elderly grandma is not big on wearing fancy clothes. Or bras, for that matter. We’ve all tried (well, I’ve sort of tried), for years, to get her to change her polyester-pants and pilled-stained-inherited-from-her-dead-friend-Josephine-blouse-wearing ways but she is one stubborn woman who dresses in whatever the hell she wants. Which is often an ancient outfit with a certain joie de bag lady feel.

But you can’t bring a bag lady to meet the in-laws. So a-shopping we will go. It should be an interesting trip. I’ve tended to be the one who feeds her addiction for inappropriateness, taking her on combo Goodwill/Market Basket shopping trips where I agree with her on what a bargain the horrible pants are/hold the bag open while she drops the jelly doughnuts in. I think this might partly be why I am her favorite. (It might also be because I once removed an engorged tick from her breast, but that’s a story for, well, that’s a story for never, now, isn't it.)

Anyhoo, if anyone has any suggestions for where to shop for a nearly 90 year old woman, I’d love to hear them. Because I feel like the upper end for Talbot’s is your sixties. After that, where do you go?

Blah

So I am back in the coffee shop – a window seat today, yee-haw! – working on the book but thought I’d do a blog post first to get the creative juices flowing.

It’s super therapy week for me – tonight I have my coaching call and I set up a meeting on Saturday with the woman who has been my therapist by name on and off for the last 17 years (but who is really now much more mentor and friend, and who was integral in helping me save my own life) because things have been rocky for me lately; despite my cheery posts I’ve had some bad days. I’ve just been doubting myself, a lot, and feeling overweight and ugly and loserish. Wondering where my ship is and when it is coming in. It’s hard when you’re doing everything right and nothing is changing.

Let's Pretend

One of the things the chickenfucker would never do with me was pretend to be someone else. Sometimes I like to adopt a bad foreign accent, just for fun. My new sexy boyfriend will enjoy doing this with me, and not (just) in the sack.

Today, however, I shall have to satisfy myself alone. I'm going to walk the freedom trail with L, something neither of us have done before. I have adopted the personality of a Swedish exchange student, which means I have put my hair back into these two funny knotty things, am wearing a white spaghetti-strap tank top with an inappropriate black bra underneath, and plan on saying "Yah" a lot.

My apologies to the Swedes.