Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

Oh, the past two weeks! A visit from my mom, and she brought a wonderful guest. Seems "Aunt" Ellen is the same good old friend she used to be, as she has grown into her age like a perfect Golden Girl; sassy, generous, and tattooed. Both Mom and Aunt were three days in and out, though, and now it's over and all really good. Except...

My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.

I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.

All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.

After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.

My Orange Sweater

There has to be a way.
There has to be a way I can fit in to my life.
I am so uncomfortable, like a girl in an itchy orange sweater
In July.
Lightening starts in the clouds
It starts in the clouds and heads straight for the earth
I cannot connect, my white blaze runs parallel across
tall dry grass.
I can light little fires on what I barely touch and eventually
they'll all burn themselves out
or drown themselves out
or be smothered.

Just Because You Work for Fox Doesn't Mean You Are One

Crazy busy days. Good, great, gigantic things happening. Not a "baby-steps" kind of week, this one goes down in history as the best that sober life brings. To see the Dalai Lama would be enough, certainly, but it wasn't, not by a long shot.

My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.

The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!

Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.

I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.

To be continued, or not.

There had been no fiery Armageddon; the family had just stopped breathing. It had not existed so long that anyone passing through would really notice it was gone. The house remained standing on a manicured lawn, the curtains pressed, meals made and eaten, windows put up at night and pushed down securely in the morning. But the family was no longer. The house seemed to maintain itself just fine.

Hijacked hijacker.

My new favorite word. Lately, I can use hijack for any situation, as in:

My project at work got hijacked by a short woman with a big ego and a european accent. You can't fight that bitch, gotta let the project go. I picked my battles; actually, I picked no battles, and guess it all worked out in the end. The kids seeded flower pots for Earth day, which was my original plan, so everybody won.

Also as in:

My oldest child is living a life for which she patiently waited more than 2 years. She is about to graduate with a degree she wasn't sure she should want or could earn. She's rented a 2nd floor walkup over a bagel deli/Domino's pizza, and her new home is filled with light and scented candles and owl paintings. (Also in this new flat is a nice guy who is rather cute and very much in love with her, but maybe too old for her, but maybe not, it's not for me to say.) She helped out a friend in need a few days ago, and now her life has been hijacked by an angry drug addicted lesbian who has been tossed out of rehab due to her "problems with authority". My child came home to lie on her old bedroom floor, pet her left-behind cat, and cry. I used to love the angry drug addicted oppositionally defiant lesbian; I guess I still do. I'm just really disgusted with the bad-behavior-in-rehab spiel. Look, kid, this is your third go round doing 28 days. Swallow that shit that comes out of your mouth so you can get help, or move along so someone who deserves your bed can have it. You're like a punk holding a knife to a bus driver's neck. Get arrested, already, would you? Yes, life is hard, I get it. No, no one understands you, I get it. Get locked up, you may finally be the one who gets it.

Today I:

Hijacked my diet with a trip out to the Stewart's root beer and hot dog joint in Denville. I didn't order fries, but you know I ate 10 or 12 of Steven's. Feeding the ends of my chili dog rolls to the dog does not count as discounting the caloric content of the meal; I am only kidding myself.

My final example:

I am a recovering hijacker. I hijacked the expectations for a somewhat normal life not only from the above child, but her two sisters as well. I did hijack the idea of unconditional love from their dad. I hijacked my father's pride in a daughter who could rise above bad luck and poor timing. I've hijacked hundreds of people's plans to have a nice day. I have hijacked conversations, good intentions, and interventions. I took over that plane at gunpoint and turned it toward Mexico more than once, let me tell you, and I am more like the angry lesbian than I am my own kid. That is, I was like her. Now, I am more like my own child. I can hand over the controls and say, that's ok, I guess this flight will just take a little longer than I had planned. Does anyone have extra peanuts?

Priority Number...9???

I have a lot of important things to do, like write critical papers on Socrates, and take on-line exams about ethics of psychologists, and get my car inspected. I have to press my embroidered fingertip towels, and bleach the grout in both bathrooms, and walk the dog. Instead, I am doing what I am the absolute best at doing: Procrastinating.

I'm wrapped in my old familiar worn out blanket of fear, frustration, and denial. Ah, it's warmth! That smell, that scratchy edging, that impossibly heavy weight that keeps me still, paralyzed. Forget that I have so much to do...It's so much easier to do nothing!

This is bad behavior, I know. I occasionally jump up to put out small fires, and this eases my guilt (somewhat) that is my constant companion when I return under my big old blanket. A few days of this, however, and I am in deep shit, my friends, and my blankie is starting to stink. I tell myself, I will get going as soon as I order dahlias online/finish my pudding/spot the first robin of spring. I blame others for my laze, like if I didn't have to sit on the couch and watch that bad movie my boyfriend's been bugging me about, I could write that 3 page analysis of Descartes' Meditations. Each moment that I think about what I should be doing instead of what I am doing gets me sicker and sicker, and when I get sick enough, I do really stupid things. So, it's time to throw this old smelly blanket off my shoulders, and get going! Prioritize! Make lists! First things First! Feel the fear and do it anyway!

Ok. I'll do it! As soon as I trim my bangs, and change the status on my dog's Facebook profile.

Consider this...

Life is good, and kind, and busy, and what got me sober now keeps me away from the rooms and people I need desperately to stay alive and well. An academic's schedule, and one meeting a week, and thoughts swirl around, creep in, speak to me.

Happy hour, Friday night. Delicious.

Music mixes with flighty moods, and for some reason, R.E.M. plays a loop, rarely interrupted. So, in succumbing and downloading and listening and dancing, I sing and recognize the truth.

Right before I got sober, in an unmanageable time of a hellish life, I was struck then by R.E.M., "Losing My Religion", and found what was slipping through my fingers. I found myself in the corner or in the spotlight, grasping at sanity, dishonest with myself and life about what I was really up to. I didn't intend to ever post words here that aren't mine, but these saved me.

Life is bigger than you, and you are not me. The lengths that I will go to, the distance in your eyes. Oh no I've said too much, I've set it up. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight. I'm losing my religion, trying to keep up with you, and I don't know if I can do it.
I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try. Every whisper, every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions, trying to keep an eye on you like a hurt lost and blind fool.

I think I thought I saw you try. Vodka gave me those visions, made it all look so fine. But that was just a dream. I woke up screaming one night, I really did. I knew that to get out, I had to stop drinking, and I hated it all, me, him, life, love, false identity in all of it. Most of what was me was gone, drunk away, you hold the bottle upside down praying for a drop and nothing is there, I'm all gone, baby.

Shaking the bottle, shaking my head, shaking my fist, shaking.

When happy hour whispers, so does My Religion. A gentle, loving reminder of where I was, and how it was, and to never ever go back to that life again. A dishonest room full of dishonest people, me in the corner/in the spotlight, hurtlostblind. I set it all up to get out of there, I left that room and walked into another, and my rooms became my castle, and this is my confession, all of it. My blame, my responsibilities, my dreams, my sobriety, my songs, my life.

Few of us in sobriety thought we could face the truths and still be happy; we needed others to show us the way. Now, I'm no longer dreaming, I'm living, and so are those around me, in a life that is bigger than all of us, and just the right size.