Guilty As Charged

Sarah and I had one of our early-morning phone conversations today, her side accompanied by the cooing of Emilie, her always-happy baby, and me back in bed after my shower delaying the inevitable—having to get dressed and go to work. We were discussing guilt, and whether we feel guilty about everything because we’re Catholic, or if that’s just the default state of women everywhere. She figured being both female and Catholic, we have a double whammy and we’re just screwed.

But seriously, I feel guilty about EVERYTHING. My friend Adriana once referred to me when I get like this as “trying to save the world and clean your bathroom at the same time.”

I feel guilty that my house isn’t as clean as my mother’s.
I feel guilty that I can’t make everyone happy all the time.
I feel guilty that I’m always about ten steps (and 50 emails) behind where I want to be at work.
I couldn’t make it to Emilie’s christening last weekend in Massachusetts because I had been there two weekends in a row, and I’ve felt guilty about that all week.
I feel guilty (and a little weirded out) that last night I had a dream about one of my high school boyfriends.
I feel guilty that I’m a grown woman, and I had cold hot dogs for dinner one night last week .
I feel guilty that my gym membership is an expensive exercise in pretending I’m going to go.

I think part of the cause of my guilt is treating my life like a constant self-improvement project. Working on the kind of books I do, it’s not unusual for me to meet with a variety of psychics, doctors, medical intuitives, and healers. And each of them has the magic bullet of what’s going to make my life better. So this is it. I can fix everything—no more guilt!

I bought the fiber supplements so I would be less hungry and lose weight. I never remember to take them.
I learned the meditation that would heal my “closed-up” heart. I get bored doing it
I never Ask and Believe so I can Receive.
And I researched (okay, Angela researched) the right supplements to take for the pre-arthritic knees the medical intuitive said I have. I even bought them. But they smell bad.

That makes me feel guilty.

Too Funny Not to Share

My office faces 6th Ave, and I'm kitty corner to the Fox News studios. One of my friends came into my office yesterday to use my window to check out the Fox News ticker, because Jerry Fallwell had died and he "wanted to see it in the big letters."

I live in a largely Spanish-speaking neighborhood, and last night on my walk home, I saw the funniest t-shirt ever. It had a pitcher of beer on it and said "Pour, Favor." Totally made my day. On that same walk, I saw a Latino guy with a mullet wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt ('nuff said) and a clown riding a bicycle with a large live bird perched on his head and a small dog in a basket in front. It used to be a poofy white dog but now was dyed with brightly colored stripes. Mind you, this wasn't a professional clown. Just someone who likes to dress like one…

Mushy

Many of you are used to hearing me talking about mushy things. But this time there’s a catch. We’re not talking emotion here, we’re talking food. Mushy food. Food I will be able to swallow after surgery next week.

I am a slightly… restless… sleeper. Words others have used include “scary,” “dangerous,” and “horrific.” (You know who you are.) I make horrible noises, I stop breathing, I kick, I can completely clear a bed of blankets in my sleep. It’s not pretty. Polly once told me on vacation that she thought there was a truck idling outside our hotel room, only to realize no, that was me. She also claims that I flip over completely in my sleep, but that was the same vacation where she got drunk enough to vomit for 14 hours, so her memory should be considered suspect.

I finally went for a sleep study, and was diagnosed with sleep apnea. So I did what any sensible person would do in that situation—I put the test results away for about a year and didn’t think about them. But a couple of months ago I finally saw a specialist, and this is it. I’m doing it. I’m getting my uvula cut down on Monday. No, it’s nothing dirty. It’s the thingie (thingie being the proper medical term) that hangs down the back of your throat.

I had friends offer to come with me to the surgery, but they were trumped by an offer I couldn’t refuse. My parents are coming. Of course, I’m just letting them come for their sake. It’ll make my mom feel better to be here. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a complete mommy’s girl. Or that every time I’ve been under anesthesia I’ve woken up crying for her (the most recent time I was 22). Or that she’s the most comforting thing in my world. No, I’m just letting them come for their sake.

So next week I’ll be eating mushy foods and sucking on popsicles. This week I’m trying to clear my desk, make lists, and in general prepare my life to go on without me while I’m recovering. Oh, and make sure my house is completely spotless for my mother's visit. Some things never change....

Happy Days Are Here Again

So after months and months, I finally figured out how to recover access to this blog. Which should make it easier for everyone. Unless I screw it up again. Sigh...

New York winters are long and hard. Now, I know there are many places where winter is longer and harder. But most of those places are not pedestrian cities. Plus, I don’t live there. So I win.

It’s 78 degrees outside, I got my first pedicure of spring yesterday, and I’m wearing a pair of sandals that I dug out from under my desk. They’d been there since last summer. I got a salad for lunch, and I was going to eat it outside, but they haven’t put the summer benches out on Rockefeller Plaza yet. And a few of you have reminded me, rather vehemently I might add, that I’ve been remiss in my blogging, so I decided to take the time to do that.

This good mood and general bonhomie has been particularly hard-earned for me this spring. I’ve been sick. I mean really, really sick. Sicker than I’ve ever been. I know as an adult I’m not supposed to still be blaming things on my mom. But this one really is her fault. See, I went home for Easter. My dad hates strong smells, so my mom has taken everything smelly in the house—scent diffusers, a particularly horrific eucalyptus wreath—and stuffed them into my bedroom. I understand her rationale. That way she gets to keep it, but it doesn’t bother him. Everybody wins. Right? Wrong.

I slept one night there, and broke out in this full-blown asthma and allergies extravaganza that turned into a cold that took two weeks of doing nothing but going to work, antibiotics, cough medicine with codeine, 2 inhalers, and finally a heavy-duty dose of steroids to clear up. Now, I come from a family of the bronchially challenged. There’s always someone sucking on an inhaler, and when my nephews were little, every trip to the beach involved trekking up to first aid to plug in their nebulizers. But it’s still shocking when it happens to you.

After two weeks of this, this past weekend was the first time I actually felt like a human being. So I decided, as is my style, to ease back into a social life gradually—by drinking for about 12 hours on Saturday. Now, it wasn’t exactly my fault. See, I had a bridal shower that segued into a bachelorette party. And there was champagne punch at the shower. How much do I love champagne punch? And then there were wine tastings. And wine tastings. And wine tastings. And really I was just drinking to be polite. And then there was the wine in the limo. And a few pitchers of margaritas back at the house. And then I think some read wine when everything else ran out. But really—I was just being social. Isn’t that the rule? You have to keep drinking so the bride has company? I think that’s definitely the rule.

So here I am, warm again, social again, and back in the swing of things. Happy days are here again.

When It Rains It Pours

They say that into every life a little rain must fall. Those of you on the east coast who have been traveling around in these torrential rains know exactly what that means. It's been kind of nice, actually. Growing up, we spent our summers camping, and the sound of rain on the camper was always one of my favorite noises. When it pours like that, I can listen to the rain on my air conditioner, and it makes almost the same sound.
My life seems to be attracting all sorts of metaphorical rain too, though, these days. My aunt Jeanne passed away last week. It's hard to really mourn someone who lived to be 98, though. She clearly had a full life. She was my grandmother's sister, and their family came to the States from Quebec when they were children. I interviewed 2 of their other sisters for a college course I took on the Depression, and they told me stories about how they all lived together (there were nine of them) and whoever managed to get a job would pitch their earnings into a communal pot. The girls had only one pair of hose and one nice dress, so they would take turns going to mass. One would go to an early mass, come home and change clothes, and the next would put the dress on and so on.
Jeanne was my cousin Missy's grandmother, and when my grandmother died when I was 8, Missy offered to share hers with me. We stole her money for the paperboy once, for or our "secret club." The club was a treehouse we built, and the money went for one thing and one thing only--candy from the corner store. (Missy, of course, confessed, and we got in trouble.) Jeanne used words lke "bad lucky" (the opposite of lucky), and one year after she was already starting to go senile, she showed up on Christmas in a pair of bright purple polyester pants and a fuschia sweater. And every time she'd see you, whether or not she remembered who you were, she'd give you a big hug and say, "it's so nice to see you," as though you had just made her year. She was the last alive of her siblings, or friends, and outlived her husband by 20 years. She used to say, "It's not funny, you know, to be the last one left." And now she's back with them all. I hope she told them all how happy she was to see them.

That Makes Me Happy

In high school, my friend Liam used to always say, whenever he liked something, "that makes me happy." Very simple. Just a declaration of happiness. And I always loved that best about him, because I feel like people just don't do that, don't just decide, in the moment, to be happy. Somewhere in a box I still have a greeting card from my friend Amy, wishing me "a lifetime of Liam-like happiness." So, like all good ideas, I stole it. And I've spent my life trying to take those moments to just be glad, and to regularly declare, "that makes me happy."

For the past couple of weeks, I've been in a funk. Remember that Flintstones episode, where there's the guy with the rain storm that just follows him around all the time? Yeah, I've been that girl lately. I've felt bad about my job, my body, my life…But no more. I've had enough of that crap. I watched The Secret this weekend, and just made a decision to be happy. And once you set your mind to being in a good mood, you are. Funny how that works…

Actual exchange with my sister Mich yesterday:
Me: Yay!
Mich: Yay what?
Me: Nothing. I've just committed myself to being happy and grateful.
Her: You are a horse of a different color… and I mean that in only the nicest way.
Me: What color? Can I be pink? If I'm going to be another color, I'd want to be pick
Her: Sure. It would definitely be something cheerful and bright.

For those of you who haven't read The Secret, the premise is that the universe is governed by the Law of Attraction. If you send positive thoughts and feelings into the universe, that's what will come back to you. As much as I hate New Age anything, this one really makes sense. Plus, it appeals to my innate Pollyanna-ness. Has anyone else heard about this?

Girl Armor

Bookgirl note: Yes, this is the same ol' blog. It's just got one new home.

I'd like to begin this post by saying EVERYTHING'S FINE, and IT WAS NOTHING. But I had to go for an ultrasound today because my doctor found a lump in my breast last week. The first thing I did was call my sister Celeste, because she's the most level-headed person I know, and tell her, "This is me not freaking out. So I need you to not freak out with me." The next call, before I even made it back to my office, was to my friend Polly, because that's what I do in these situations. I call one of my family members, and then I call Polly. And she told me that I shouldn't overreact, but if I did want to overreact, then I had every right to. Because if you couldn't overreact over something like that, what could you overreact over? And that was it. Panic over. Because hey, now I had an "Overreact if you want to" card in my pocket. And once you have one of those, you don't need to overreact. Half of the reason you overreact is because you're trying so hard not to. Once you don't have to try not to, then hey! you're halfway there. (If that paragraph made sense to you, then congratulations! You can follow girl logic.)

So today was the appointment, and I wore tights and and a pink skirt and heels, and on the subway down to the office, I put on some lipstick. Because if I was going to potentially have breast cancer, I damn well was going to look cute when I got tested. Now, I'm lazy about nail polish, blowdry my hair literally once a year, and never wear makeup to work. But if I'm facing a situation that intimidates me, you better believe I'm going to be done to the hilt. Girl armor. There's just something about knowing you look your best that makes you square your shoulders and face problems a little stronger. I was dating someone years ago, and he came over late at night when I was already ready for bed. We were fighting, and he was launching into"do we just walk away now?", and all I could say was, "We cannot have this conversation when I'm not wearing make-up." He looked at me like I had lost my mind, but another woman would have understood perfectly.

A handful of my girlfriends met me out for dinner last night. Two of them planned it, and they called it a girls' night, and we never once mentioned the test, but I knew exactly why they suggested the dinner. And it made me love them even more. After all, aren't our friends the very best form of girl armor there is?