Gearing up for Man Child's exit

I shouldn't complain because I HAVE work, which is more than a lot of people can say, but I will, anyway. The problem is that I took on extra projects a few months ago because my finances were in terrible shape, thanks to Man Child. Now that he's leaving Monday (whoo hooo!), I'm not going to need the additional income as desperately, but I'm stuck with the projects. Oy. Well, I do have an expensive move coming up soon.

Being busy has the benefit of keeping me too occupied to dream about eating chocolate. I haven't lost more pounds recently, but I must be getting smaller somehow because I'm fitting into clothes I couldn't wear a few months ago. My big news is that I bought a pair of boots the other day that I can actually ZIP. With my short, German milkmaid calves (TM Sasha), finding knee-high boots I could zip was difficult. These boots are black leather and bad-ass--well, as bad-ass as I'M capable of being. I'd post the picture I took, but Ed seems to think it's risque and is probably dubious about me posting it on the Innerwebs for the *gasp* public to see (not that hordes of people are eager to see my short middle-aged legs in a pair of boots).

I've been busy this week catching up on grooming that I was too broke to afford while waiting for checks to come in. My eyebrows, for example, were a shanda. I've been getting them threaded for a while, so I've lost my tweezing skills, I'm afraid, and the little Indian lady does a MUCH better job than I could ever do. Wednesday, I stopped in to get my eyebrows back in shape, and I noticed she uses plain old sewing thread. All this time, I thought she used special eyebrow thread or something--and in my imagination, it was imported from India and very expensive. What a letdown!

Next up is my damn hair. Ever since I got it cut extremely short, it's been growing like the weeds in my flower beds (which are flourishing, thankyouverymuch). I feel slightly ridiculous saying "It's too long!" but it is. Another thing I love about Ed is that he adores my cropped hair. Other men I've known have been fans of long hair and were always urging me to grow mine longer. I don't think they believed me when I explained that curly hair grows OUT, not DOWN. No more struggling with longish hair for me. My "styling" process consists of getting out the shower and running my fingers through my hair, and the lazy girl in me loves that.

I'm taking a break from work to watch another episode of True Blood. Good show, great sex scenes (one of the advantages of shows on HBO).

Killer Ballerinas

Don't let ballerinas fool you, with their wispy bodies and tranquil faces. They're tough as nails and are out to hurt you--that is, if you're foolish enough to think you, a mere mortal, can keep up with their workout. Yes, I tried the NYC Ballet workout last night, and Oh. My. God. I made it about two-thirds of the way through it, which isn't bad, I guess. All the graceful arm movements and pointed toes make the moves look effortless, but that's misleading. These moves are work, and by the end, I was sweating like a chocoholic touring Willy Wonka's factory. The exercise that finished me off involved lying on my stomach (a challenge right there, as my front side is not completely flat) and lifting my legs. The instructor said, with a hint of a sneer, "You shouldn't feel this in your lower back at all." I hollered, "Oh, but I DO!" and had to curl up in the fetal position. I might have whimpered a little--but with a tranquil look and graceful arm movements.

Seinfeld fans, take note: The Soup Nazi is back!

From the Department of Good News: Finally, I got a check yesterday. I've never been so happy to pay bills before. Being broke makes me feel powerless, but now, I have ze power again. I'd like to use it to get Accounts Payable Guy fired, but I'm trying to remember to use my power for good, not evil.

From the Department of Even Better News: Kevin's going to be OUTTA HERE next Monday. Apparently all Dramatic Sam's ditherings about his family objecting to Kevin's presence were simply manufactured melodrama. His family is thrilled and urged him to have Kevin move in earlier than August 7. Remind me to send flowers to DS's family, would you?

Now that I know when Kevin's leaving, I can make other plans. Barring unforeseen complications, I should be in Georgia some time in September, if Ed doesn't get sick of me before then or if the killer ballerinas haven't left me a weeping wreck huddled on the floor. That gives me some time to get ahead on work and pack. I just realized I'm going to be living alone for the first time in many years, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I used to like living alone, but back then, I didn't know the love of my life was waiting for me. Makes a big difference, you know?

29 hours, and oh, how about a few more just for fun?

Bad Energy Company has quite the sense of humor! Saturday at 7 p.m., a horrendous storm knocked out power for almost 5,000 people here in College Town. Good thing I buy candles like a crazy survivalist. I lit candles all over the house, and the storm had chased away the humidity, so the evening was rather pleasant. I'd just charged my cell phone, so I chatted on the phone with a couple of friends, took a candlelit bubble bath with the hot water remaining in the tank, and read by candlelight, which appealed to the Amish woman who lives inside me. Bad Energy Company's hotline estimated the power would be back on by 10 p.m. Piece of cake! I can stand anything for three hours.

Except the hotline LIED. The estimate changed to midnight, and then noon Sunday. So I woke up Sunday to the horror of no coffee. I threw on some clothes, and I might have brushed my hair but who knows, and went to the grocery store, which has a little coffee station. I bought two huge cups and promptly spilled half of one down the front of my shirt. I don't recommend this technique as a way to wake up. I refilled the spilled cup and bought some ice for the cooler.

Sunday was, of course, hot and humid. By noon, there was no sign of Bad Company's trucks, so I went to the library. I browsed around and found a few exercise DVDs; one's a workout from the New York City Ballet. I took ballet lessons when I was little, and when I see professional ballet dancers, I still get tutu-and-leotard yearnings. Of course, I had no way to play the DVD at the moment, but I assumed my power would be back on when I got home.

The AC in the library wasn't much cooler than the AC outdoors (which is to say NONE), so I went to the mall and wandered around. I don't particularly enjoy malls--at least not often--but it was cool, and I was grateful for the respite from sweating. A tiny Chinese man was offering free massage "samples" and coaxed me into his massage chair. Kevin offered to hold my glasses, but Massage Man glared at him and insisted he would take care of them. Heh. His hands were so warm and felt great. He hit a tight spot on my back and said, "Ooooh, many knots. Very tense, right?" RIGHT.

When I got home, still no power. Bad Company's hotline estimated restoring power at 8 p.m. FINE. I took a cold shower, and let me just say that I can see why it's recommended as a libido-killing method. I continued reading (I finished an entire book) and sweating and peering down the street for a sign of Bad Company's trucks. Meanwhile, the city sent out trucks to pick up tree branches piled in front of every house, but no Bad Company trucks. Finally, at 10 p.m., Bad Company arrived. The workers stood out on the street and, as I believe they're contracted to do, laughed and joked and wasted time while I glared at them through my window like Gladys Kravitz in the throes of a hot flash.

Finally, at midnight, the power was back on! I fired up my computer--my sweet baby, how I missed you--and answered a few e-mails, joyously proclaiming the Return of Electricity, but 45 minutes later, boom! The power was out again. Ha ha, Bad Company! Stellar practical joke! I sat here in total blackness, stunned. I groped around for the flashlight, found my cell phone, and called Bad Company's hotline for the 3,897th time. Estimate: noon Monday. I threw my phone across the room and stomped off to bed.

At 3:00 a.m., power was restored. I got up, closed the windows, turned on the AC again, and went back to sleep, muttering dark curses aimed at Bad Company. I suspect I wasn't the only one.

FRRREEEEEEE-DOOOOOOM!

Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't be bellowing a line from a Mel Gibson movie, given his inability to keep his trap shut. Nevertheless, I do feel almost giddy with freedom. Kevin left yesterday morning to take some boxes up to his cousin's and won't be back until this afternoon. Wheeee! Amazing how relaxed and happy I am when he's not around. The dogs seem bewildered, however. Eh, they'll adapt.

I finally downloaded some pictures from my camera, so I can tell you about having lunch with Celeste and include a picture. We'd planned to meet at a Greek restaurant near campus, but to my dismay, I discovered the restaurant had closed, after 30-some years in business. We decided to go to Five Guys, which is nearby, and get a burger. Sign of the 21st century: We discussed this change of plans via cell phone WHILE we were in the same parking lot. Hee! I had a great time with Celeste, and two hours just flew by. She's so funny and warm, and as I said to her, why the hell do all the people I like the most live so far away? I did my very first first bump with her, too, and I assume I looked very cool doing it. (Hush, I can hear you snorting.) After lunch, I remembered I'd brought my camera, so I was trying to take a picture of us together. We have an extreme height differential, so poor Celeste obligingly hunched over so that our heads could be in the same photo. A nice young man passing by (that description makes me sound ancient, no?) offered to take a picture for us and didn't even run off with the camera afterward! Awwwww. Here it is:



As part of my Freedom Celebration, I went out to dinner with Daniel last night. He's been so excited for me about Ed and asked me a lot of questions about my plans. I just love that kid, even if he doesn't shave as often as he should. Also? He's incapable of being on time--at least when he's meeting ME. I think he manages to make it to work and classes on time. Hmmmph! I'd put my camera in my purse so that I could get a picture of us together and took a few of myself to while away the time waiting for me. Here I'm concealing my impatience rather successfully, I think:



After three attempts, I finally got a picture of us together in which Daniel wasn't closing his eyes or making a hideous face:



My baby's all grown up, isn't he?

Exercising my patience

Since the weather has turned sauna-like lately, I've been looking for exercise I can do indoors. I like walking, when the weather's bearable, and I even started "faux" hiking at a nearby park with slightly hilly trails. I just can't get myself moving early enough in the morning to walk before it gets too hot, however.

The other day, Kevin was cleaning out an old steamer trunk I fixed up a few years ago and found several videotapes I'd stored in there. Most were taped performances of plays I did with the theater group in Mayberry, and I'll hang on to them, in case I need to be amused by bad amateur theater some day. One was a jazzercise tape I used to do when Daniel was little. I popped it in the VCR and started giggling almost immediately. The tape is from 1986, and the instructor and all the women in the class are festooned in headbands, leg warmers, and neon leotards. I haven't seen so much '80s exercise wear since Flashdance. And the music, oh, my God. Tres cheesy.

I've been sticking with it because the routine is short enough that I don't collapse, and it does get my heart rate up. That damn instructor is so perky that I want to strangle her with fluorescent green leg warmers, however. At one point, she actually says, "Are you smiling?? If you're smiling, I know you're breathing!" I'm not admitting anything, but I MIGHT have snapped, "No, I'm holding my breath just to be ornery and frowning at your insanely cheerful squirrel face." I don't handle perkiness well when I'm at my best, so you can imagine my reaction to it when I'm sweating in contorted positions.

I'm determined to keep exercising, mostly because I'm getting positive results, and it helps with stress. A tiny part of my determination is also fueled by proving my mother wrong. About a month ago, I told her I was taking several pairs of pants to my church's clothing drive because they were falling off me. She said (and I'm still angry about this), "Oh, don't get rid of your big clothes! You'll need them when you gain the weight back." Oh, yes. She DID.

A couple of days ago, I told her I'd lost 5 more pounds, for a total of 55. Today I got a big envelope in the mail from her, containing articles she clipped from her "lady magazines"--you know, Good Housekeeping, Woman's Day, etc., etc. Help me decipher my mom's mixed messages, would you? She attached a note to the articles, saying "So proud of you, and you are so pretty," meaning, I'm assuming, I wasn't pretty before. Fine, but I'm choosing to believe her note was largely positive. OK, partially. Now get this: The first article is about "diet derailers." Let me quote the opener for you: "You've been dieting for a few months and have dropped some weight. You're feeling pretty good about your progress and then--bam!--something gets in the way to land you back where you started."

That woman isn't going to be happy until I gain every pound back. Well, I hate to disappoint her, but I'm going to disappoint her.

Nothing like finding out just how stupid you are, especially on a hellishly hot day. I've had a headache all afternoon, and not even the Ibuprofen God is touching it.

I wanted to get out of the house this afternoon, so I went down to Mayberry to visit Jon and Suzie, my friends who run the secondhand bookstore there. After hugs from both and being plyed with coffee, I told them I'd broken up with Kevin. Yes, you guessed it: They weren't surprised. Then Jon said "Getting high shouldn't be a lifestyle," and I was surprised. I was aware Kevin did occasionally, but he knew I wasn't crazy about it, and when he was unemployed, I informed him he'd better not use my money for it. He agreed--or so I thought. I was SO fucking naive. I'll just say that he bought frequently, and with guess whose money? No wonder he never had the incentive to look for a job.

My head is pounding, and I don't know whether it's still the headache or a combination of fury and embarrassment. If I have to interact with Kevin, I might wind up running him through with the bread knife. I should just go back to bed, huh?

Next!

For the past few weeks, I've been dreaming about old boyfriends. No, no, not like that. I've never had dreams like these before. They're an abbreviated form of the entire relationship, almost like looking through a kaleidoscope and seeing bits and pieces in a colorful jumble. At the end, the break-up, I summarize what went wrong in one brilliant, concise statement (definitely the stuff of dreams there) and say exactly what I wanted and meant to say--but didn't at the time.

They're the most satisfying dreams I've ever had.

I won't describe every one; I'm too lazy to type all that, and who the hell wants to read about a series of dreams? The dream I had tonight, which was so vivid it woke me up, was about my ex-husband. Trust me, it doesn't take a Freud to figure out the symbolism. I'll skip past the parts representing our relationship to the last "scene." We'd been at a party with a lot of his family and old friends from theater days. The Ex was in his element: He talked to everyone and wound up being the center of attention, holding court while he told jokes and stories. I noticed a lonely-looking teenage boy sitting in the corner; he was around 17 or 18 and clearly miserable. I worked my way over to him and sat down. I attempted a little chit-chat, he responded well, and soon we were talking away a mile a minute. He turned out to be very sweet, sensitive, and smart, with a surprisingly quick wit. We made smart-ass comments about other people in the room and sent each other into fits of giggles. I spent the rest of the party talking to him.

The Ex seemed to be in a good mood on the way home, but as we were getting ready for bed, he turned on me, as he so often did. Now, are you ready for the surreal part? In my dream, I was a real, flesh-and-blood woman, and he was a plastic, life-sized doll. So as he was screaming at me about flirting with someone at the party (yes, the teenage boy, which is exactly as irrational as he was in real life) and embarrassing him, his creepy glass doll's eyes were rolling around. Instead of feeling scared, the way I usually did, I started laughing because he looked so ridiculous. I said, "You put on this charming, caring act with everyone else, and they think you're such a great guy. To me, though? You're cold and unfeeling and cruel, just like the doll you are. I'd like to push your stupid plastic doll's face in!" And then I proceeded to do just that.

I woke up smiling.

I've been puzzling over why I'm having these dreams now, and I've come to this conclusion: It's my brain's way of sorting and summarizing what happened in past relationships so that I don't make the same mistakes again. I've started what I intend to be the last romantic relationship I ever have with a man, and I'll be damned if it's going to end because of my stupidity or his. These dreams are certainly cheaper and more efficient than psychoanalysis; however, I could schedule therapy sessions to not wake me up at 1:00 a.m. Oh, well, there's a trade-off in everything, right?

I'm going back to bed. I wonder who's next in my dreams?