I’ve been telling my mom for years that she needs health insurance. I cannot imagine going without it. But she’s never been the least bit interested. Now, I wonder why I’m so surprised because I was talking to my sister on the phone yesterday and she reminded me that we never had health insurance growing up either.

Couple the lack of health insurance with a stingy stepdad who was always suspicious that our main aim in life was to sponge money from him (which was probably one of the reasons he never got insurance), and I don’t recall going to the doctor as a kid, not even once.

But it wasn’t just that we didn’t have the money for medical care, it was also that we kids knew that if we ‘fessed up about being injured, we would get in trouble. We were always in trouble. I seem to remember that we were perfect children, who never did a thing wrong in our lives, but that didn’t keep us from getting in trouble. Once we had a sleepover and we were grounded for a year because we talked too loud and kept my stepdad awake the night before he had to get up early for work.

So, the times I recall that I could have benefited from medical care, I kept quiet to keep from getting grounded. Like the time I was trying to catch a lizard with a coke bottle (those tall skinny glass ones that they don’t make anymore) and I slipped, smashed the bottle on a rock, and cut my knee so deeply that I still have the scar. I didn’t go home for hours until it stopped bleeding because I knew that somehow, this would get me in trouble. I shouldn’t have had the bottle; I shouldn’t have been trying to catch lizards; I shouldn’t have been in the woods.

And the time I was riding a neighbor’s motorbike and crashed. I still have the scar on my forehead from that. But again, I stayed away until the bleeding stopped and the dizziness subsided. Surely I would be chastised for riding such a dangerous bike, for not getting permission, for going too fast.

My sister wasn’t so lucky. When she injured herself, she went all the way. When she was eight or so, we were playing in the backyard, just after sunset. We were running around, and you know that’s grounds for getting in trouble. She fell and reached out with her hands to catch herself. Unfortunately, there was a large piece of broken glass buried right where her hand landed. The cut went all the way to the bone, just between two of her fingers. She had a ring on one of the fingers, and she was pulling at it to get it off. And we kept telling her to stop because she was pulling her entire finger off of her hand. The girl needed stitches. There was no way around telling our parents, as much as we hoped there would be. The running, the falling, the glass, the cut? We knew we could get into some serious trouble here.

So, we showed them the evidence: my sister’s finger, pouring blood, bone visible, finger dangling off. My stepdad’s suggestion? That she put a band-aid on it. If only this were some crazy comedy show with Ben Stiller and a dog in a cast. But no, this was just my childhood. I guess my mom must have convinced him that a band-aid probably wasn’t quite up to the task and off to the ER they went.

Just before her fifteenth birthday, she had an ingrown toenail that was so infected, her foot was too swollen to even fit in her shoe. She knew that no good could come of telling our parents. She’d had fifteen years of proof, but eventually, she had no choice. She had to tell them. My mom’s solution was to poke it with a needle. My mom’s solution was always to poke the problem with a needle. I don’t know what it was with my mom and needles, but they were the cornerstone of her first aid kit. You didn’t want to admit any injury to mom because no one wanted to be held down and subjected to the needle. My sister refused the needle. My mom got mad. How could anyone resist the healing needle? It was disobedience, plain and simple. My sister ran. She knew the holding down part would come any minute. My mom yelled that if she didn’t let my mom poke her toe with the needle, she wasn’t going to get a birthday. My sister said that was fine. No birthday was worth that needle. She countered that was she really needed was a doctor. My parents were so confused. A doctor? Why would she need a doctor? She begged. She pleaded. Finally, my stepdad made her a deal. We’ll bring you to the doctor, but then we’re not getting you any Christmas presents. The doctor will be your present. Doctors cost money, you know. Fine. My sister said she’d rather have a foot than a Christmas. And finally, off to the doctor they went.

I don’t remember if they gave in and gave her a birthday and Christmas. I’m sure my mom would have figured out something, although had it been left up to my stepdad, he probably would have held his ground. Some girls want a pony. Some a bike. My sister wanted a doctor. My stepdad was just fulfilling her dream, after all. What other presents would be necessary?

When I was a kid, there was lots I looked forward to about being an adult. I could stay up as late as I wanted. Choose what to eat. And go to the doctor anytime I wanted. They say that kids don’t really know what being an adult is all about when they dream of getting older, but in my case, my dreams really did come true.

I’m a bitch. I want bad things to happen to people. And even though it’s only a little part of me that wants that, it’s there just the same. And what kind of person wants someone’s car towed? And takes a teeny bit of gleeful satisfaction from it? Me, that’s who. The bitch that is me.

Apartments in the complex I live in don’t come with assigned parking. There are a variety of unmarked open spaces that residents and visitors alike can vie for. May the earliest driver win. Actually, it’s not that bad. There are always spaces available. If it’s late at night, you might not find a space exactly where you want one, but there’s one nearby.

In addition to these unmarked spaces, residents can pay a monthly fee for a marked carport space. This is what I do. I have a space all my own, fairly near to my apartment. The beauty of a reserved space, of course, is that I don’t have to worry about finding a space. No matter what time I come home, my space is available to me. It’s covered, so I don’t have to worry about ice or snow (well, no one has to worry about snow this year), or parking under a tree. I pay for the privilege of this space.

A couple of times a week, I come home and find someone has parked in my space. It seems like a small thing, but it really irritates the hell out of me. Because my space is obviously marked, and this person has said, “I don’t care that I haven’t paid for this space and someone else has. I’m too lazy to hunt around, and this person isn’t here right now. So they can just deal.”

This has happened to me so many times that I know the drill well. Normally it’s late, so I leave a note on the car. “This space is reserved. Please do not park here.” Normally, that’s all it takes. The next day, I see that the car has moved into someone else’s reserved space. If the office is open, I’ll tell them, and they’ll leave an official note.

A truck parked in my space on Sunday. I left a note. Monday morning, it and the note were still there. On Tuesday, I told the office. They also left a note. Wednesday, the truck was still there. Still! Thursday? There was the truck. It’s one thing to park in someone’s space overnight, but quite another to leave your car there for five days. So, I went back to the office.

“You’ve left a note?”

“I left a note Monday. You left a note Tuesday. Today is Thursday. The truck is still there.”

“OK, well, we can have it towed if it’s been there for 48 hours. Has it been 48 hours?”

“Uh, it’s been four and a half days.”

A few hours later, I noticed the truck was gone. I don’t know if it was towed or if the owner finally moved it. Part of me hopes the person moved it, because how sucky is it to come out to get your car and find it gone? But another part of me hoped it was towed. What kind of jerk parks their car in my reserved space and just leaves it there? For five days? Part of me even wants to see the guy come back to find his truck and just watch him look at my car in the space where his truck used to be. It would be kind of funny. But also sort of sad. And I feel bad for him just thinking about it. And also, I wouldn’t want him to think me responsible for his missing truck and then do something bad to my car.

If only people would stop using my space to store their vehicles, I wouldn’t have to deal with these conflicting emotions. I swear, I’m going to start taking down license plates and sending bills for my therapy.

Here’s the thing about chicklit. It can be so real. Seriously. I can hear you saying, “right. Clicklit. Real. Uh-huh.” But it’s true. There’s so much I can identify with. So much that I read and think, “oh me too! me too! That’s exactly how I feel! Finally, someone has captured what I feel exactly. And even I could never really describe it right to myself.”

And I read on obsessively, hoping maybe this time the heroine will discover a real solution to these exact problems I have, these absolutely same feelings I feel, so that I too can end up with the happily ever life I just know is awaiting her by the end of the book. Of course, the trouble with chicklit is that the writer goes and fucks it up by skipping right by any solutions and just handing the heroine some wonderful life that would solve anyone’s problems.

These books are fluffy reading, but they do touch on some of the real issues of life. Well, they sort of hesitantly poke at the issues with a really long stick and run away, which is really kind of the problem with taking them seriously.

I understand that the writers of these books don’t want to spend all their time dwelling on things that are depressing. And loneliness, lack of self-confidence, and feeling lost in this world do not a feel-good romp make. I get it.

But these books are really frustrating when they encapsulate so perfectly the very emotion I feel, but then dismiss it with a cute guy’s smile. It’s as though the writer looked deep into my eyes and told me that she understands completely, and then told me to fuck off. She’s dismissed my deepest fears, my greatest anxieties as petty problems fixed with slightly better apartment or a new couch.

Not that there isn’t something to be said for a new apartment, as evidenced by the very difficult to read scribblings in my paper journal less than two years ago, but a new apartment in New York City, just because your mom’s friend has one to sublet, with no work on your part and no significance whatsoever, does not for an epiphany as to the meaning of inner happiness make. Yes, I know. It’s New York City. Whatever, there was no journey, no discovery, no accomplishment. Just a phone call. One that you didn’t even solicit.

How do you achieve inner happiness, anyway? As I was crying myself to sleep once again, telling P. that I just didn’t know what to do to be happy, he asked me, “what will make you happy? what do you need to do to be happy?” I told him that he made me happy, and he said that no, that’s not what he meant. That I need to find out how to be happy with myself.

How does someone do that? How do you separate inner happiness from happiness due to circumstance? Maybe a great relationship, a fantastic job, and a sunny day aren’t necessary for happiness, but if your boss just yelled at you for something you didn’t do, or your boyfriend forgot your birthday, it’s probably not going to do wonders for your mood.

And sure, some people seem to have some inner zen where little irritations like this just don’t seem to bother them, but are they just able to project a calm front? Or do they have some genetic disposition for not being bothered?

What is happiness anyway if not satisfaction with yourself and your surroundings? And if that’s what happiness really is, are we all fated to have our emotions forever tied to what happens around us?

Oh no, I can hear you say. We are masters of our own destiny. If you don’t like something about yourself or what’s around you, you can change it! I’ve heard this one before. And I sort of get that, and I’ve done it, and I’ve seen the results. But that can’t be all there is. You may be unsatisifed with yourself, but that doesn’t mean you know what needs to be changed. Also, your actions don’t guarantee a particular result. They just don’t.

P. asked me what would make me happy? I told him it would make me happy to sit in a cozy room by a fire, in a comfortable chair, reading a book and drinking tea. But that’s not what he meant. I can’t make a living at that. I should write. And so I said, but just writing doesn’t guarantee I can make a living at that either. And it said it only mattered that I tried. It does? I don’t know. How is writing different from sitting by the fire then, really?

Consider: Say I pour my heart and soul into writing a novel. And I get it published. I would be happy. And you could say that I was master of my fate. That I decided what I wanted, and worked hard, and achieved my goal. Result: happiness. But what if something else happens? What if I pour my heart and soul into writing a novel. And I try and try, but cannot get it published. Ever. I’d be pretty bummed. Same effort, very different result. In fact, I might feel pretty despondent about wasting so much time. But I tell P. this and he tells me that the act of writing is enough for my happiness. But again, how is that different from sitting by the fire?

Is it really the effort that brings happiness or the result? The circumstance?

This latest chicklit I read was particularly frustrating because it started out so near to my heart. If only the author hadn’t gotten it so right, I wouldn’t have minded the inevitable non-solution style ending.

I discover you can’t go home again (at least, not without marriage prospects).
I never would have thought this was true of my mom, but I guess that’s because I generally always had a serious boyfriend once I reached a marriageable age, and I got married before she started to worry about me. Now that I’m divorced, it’s a whole new story. “How’s P.?” She asked me last time she called. Which is weird, because she never even asks how I’m doing. “He’s doing well.” I replied hesitantly, wondering what was up. “He’s still hanging in there, huh?” What? “Well, he’s put up with you for quite a while now.” Huh?

All I have to look forward to now is support hose and short-term memory loss.
A couple of nights ago, we were watching that birthday cake competition and P. joked that he was going to get me the scary sock monkey cake for my birthday. My birthday! My God. This year I’ll turn 33. 33! How did I get this old? What do I have to show for…? Fuck. 33. I even started crying a little.

I don’t even like me anymore.
I admit, this is the one that really got me. What do you do when you don’t like yourself? The crazy thing is that I actually do like myself, but then I get into these periods of self-doubt and unsurety and then I get insecure and whiny and stressed and I cry and I annoy myself. So whiny! So insecure! So annoying! And then I start disliking myself, which only makes the insecurity worse. If this is the great discovery the chicklit heroine has made, how does she resolve it? How does she find a way to like herself again? I flip ahead, hoping to find my salvation. Of course, it never comes.

I begin to question my own sanity.
Only every day, sister.

It is now public knowledge: I am a complete and utter failure.
This one goes hand in hand with not liking myself. And feeling old. And well, OK, the sanity thing too. I hate feeling like a failure. Why do I like others dictate my feeling that way? Do I care that much about the opinions of those around me that they define me? Apparently.

So what do you think happens to our self-doubting girl? Does she discover how to best self-doubt, self-loathing, and despair? In a way.

She discovers the cute boy she’s discounted because she thought he was a store clerk is actually a successful something or other who really likes her and they fall into an effortless, fantastic relationship. Her boss gives her the name of a magazine editor who accepts the first article query she sends and soon she quits her job and writes freelance full time, because the jobs just keep pouring in. Her mom’s friend just happens to have a free apartment in the city that’s huge and lovely and at below-market rent.

And so goes the trouble with chicklit. Her despair and her happiness, were all due to circumstance. And her circumstance changed through random acts of luck. How do you deal with pressure to get married, feeling like a failure, not liking yourself? You fall into situations where things go your way, where your efforts are rewarded. And not because you did anything differently, or learned how to deal, or somehow managed to get beyond what was weighing you down, or struggled through and changed your life. Just because things happened that way.

I know chicklit isn’t self-help. But it’s still frustrating to identify so strongly with some of the things that the chicks in the lit go through, only to have them abandon me at the end. Because in the end, it really doesn’t matter what the specifics are of what these characters go through. The resolution to the story really has nothing to do with working through those issues. It just has to do with getting the girl happy again. Which is nearly always based on chance that changes the world around her.

Which brings me back to wondering: what is happiness? Is it mostly circumstance? That can’t be it, right? That’s just the easy answer for someone who needs to end her book. So what about the rest of us? Most of life doesn’t have easy answers. And we’re not really looking for endings. We know that life goes on beyond that last page. So, what is it? Is it effort? Validation? The satisfaction of a job well done, even if no one else appreciates it?

Or is it really just a sunny day, a comfy chair, and a cup of tea?

I am so very tired of crying. I hate that I cry when I’m frustrated or mad or stressed. I can handle crying when I’m sad or hurt, although I really wish I could control that too. You don’t always want to show your emotions so blatantly, you know. You want to be able to keep something back, only be that vulnerable to people you trust, and when showing vulnerability won’t hurt you.

I don’t have that luxury. Whatever part of me it is that deals in crying decides it’s time, and crying it is. There’s no stopping it.

I know I’ve been feeling stress lately. Stress is a funny thing. I’ll start to feel overwhelmed by lots of little things. I’ll get cranky, tired. I’ll have trouble sleeping, focusing. And I’ll think, what is wrong with me? And then I find myself at the drive-through window at Jack-in-the-Box trying to order one of those new ciabatta sandwiches, and my stutter keeps me from saying anything at all, and only then do I realize that I’m feeling stress. Do you know how frustrating it is not to be able to place an order at a fucking drive-through window? And to top it off, those ciabatta sandwiches aren’t even all that good. The bruschetta one kind of sucks, actually.

So, I was having a bad week, and I thought to myself that things were bound to get better, and then, things got worse. Nothing really awful happened, I just encountered some frustrating disappointments. And any hope I had that things were bound to get better just vanished. Things could just keep getting worse forever, really. There’s no reason they have to get better.

I got angry, I got frustrated. I cried. In front of people that I really had no desire to see me cry, ever. And as the days went on, I kept crying. I cried again this morning. It’s my new talent. It’s the little something extra I can bring to any gathering. Or meeting.

I also gained two pounds. Why is it that when things are stressful, I eat everything in sight? Well, I shouldn’t ask why. I know why. It takes work to pay attention to what you eat and exercise willpower to say no to the good stuff. And when the stress takes over, there’s no strength left for that kind of work. I want something to enjoy. I want Indian food with heavy cream sauces, and cheeseburgers and fries, and potato soup made with bacon fat (and crappy Jack-in-the-Box sandwiches, apparently). The joy is fleeting, I know. And those pounds can take weeks of work to get off. But in the moment, it just doesn’t matter.

It’s not like I’m all that attractive with my raccoon eyes (I really should go back to waterproof mascara), so what’s a couple of pounds on top of that?

I’ve decided to buck up and stop crying, but the trouble is you can tell yourself “enough with the crying already” all you want, it doesn’t actually stop you from crying. It’s like saying “stop sneezing” when you’re in a dust-filled barn.

One of the hardest parts of a week where you feel like you keep getting knocked down is the getting back up. You feel worn out, your strength is gone, you just want to rest. But you have to get back up. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I really wanted to write about mice and about how they’re so cute in pictures and maybe in the woods but then they somehow morph into these scary monsters if they’re, oh say, in your house, and about how I’m strong and smart and independent, but part of my smarts is being able to make someone else go check out the mice situation.

But then I got distracted and very stressed about other things, so I thought I’d write about those things instead, but the writing process did not help me work through my feelings and refresh me, it just made me depressed, and so now those entries are half-finished and mind-numbingly boring and would crush your spirit. If you’re lucky, I’ll trudge through them and post the depressing things later. Something to look forward to.

For now, I’m going back to the cheery subject of mice. Theoretically, I think mice are cute. They have those cute little eyes and whiskers and ears and they scamper along on their little mice feet. What is there to be afraid of? Just this past weekend, I fed a wild squirrel from my hand with no fear at all, and squirrels are much bigger than mice.

The thing that makes mice scary is their location inside the house. If a squirrel were in the house, I’d be scared of him too. I don’t know why just their being inside is scary. What, are they going to gang up on me and trap me so they can scamper all over me with their little feet and gnaw me to death? And since I’m inside I’ll have nowhere to run and I’ll be unable to open the front door because they’ll have barricaded it with their stockpiles of cheese?

Whatever, they freak me the hell out.

Several months ago, the new and improved management company for my apartment complex left me a note that I needed to get rid of my bird feeders because they could be attracting mice. I noticed many other balconies with bird feeders and in fact, several ground floor apartments near me with huge dishes of bird seed right on the patios. Surely my bird seed specifically was not so much more attractive. So, I went in and asked, and no, this was not a blanket policy and no, they weren’t asking everyone to remove their bird seed, it was just that a guy from the pest control company noticed mine and so that’s why I got the notice. And that made no sense and irritated the hell out of me and so I told them I was leaving my bird feeders out. Neener.

I did check to make sure I was not unduly attracting mice. I was not secretly excited about the idea of a mouse buffet on my balcony. I keep my bird seed in a heavy duty trash can with a locking lid, and I keep that in the storage closet on my balcony. I looked to make sure the lid was still locked (it was) and that no little mice were inside having dinner (they weren’t) and that they hadn’t managed to gnaw a hole in the trash as an all-you-cat-eat tunnel (they hadn’t). Satisfied, I forgot all about the mouse problem.

A month or so later, I went back to the storage closet to get a suitcase. When I brought the suitcase inside, I noticed what appeared to be a few mouse, erm, gifts. So, that was kind of icky. I washed the suitcase up, inspected the inside for any other tell-tale signs, and then once again, forgot all about it because I was in that state of panic before a flight when I don’t know what to pack and I don’t want to get on the plane and I’m trying not to hyperventalate and there is no room in my freak out process for mice.

I did mention it to P. later: “you should check my balcony for mice.” He’s just about as lazy as I am, with possibly a worse memory, so he ignored me.

Another month went by and I had a burst of cleaning energy. I wanted to clean the balcony and storage closet, but then I remembered about the mice. I’m not going into a teeny, dark closet if mice are in there. Nu-uh. So, I made him come over and check. We opened the closet to find evidence of mice everywhere. They had quite a bit of fun during that month that I ignored them. So, P. started taking everything out of the closet while I looked on from inside the apartment, screen door between us just in case. Also, I put on hiking boots in case a mouse ran out, managed to open the screen, and crawled on my foot. You just can’t be too careful.

“Why do you have corn in here?”

And then it hit me. I had bought a big bag of corn cobs to feed the birds, but I had never put it out. I never put it in the nice locking trash can either. The mice had found their buffet. We (and by “we”, of course I mean “P.”) took everything out of the closet and cleaned the whole thing out. The mice appeared to have moved on as the corn cob supply was exhausted. They seemed to have enjoyed sleeping in my golf bag and chewing on my beanie babies. (Well, at least someone enjoyed them.)

Could I have faced the potential mice alone? Yeah. But I help P. with his scary taxes, so I figure he can help me with my scary mice. It all evens out in the end.

We were in the car the other day, and out of nowhere, P. said, “we’re not doing anything for Valentine’s Day, right?”

As proof that we are a perfect match, my first thought was, “hell no, we’re not doing anything. Why would I want you to show your love for me because you feel this great obligation due to pressure from Hallmark? I want you to do things to show you love me because you want to. All the time, not just on some predetermined day. And what would I do with a teddy bear with a non-huggable plastic heart on it anyway? Or an approximation of your love for me as told by some stranger who writes greeting cards?”

But, I didn’t want to let him off the hook that easily, so what I said was, “why not?”

And he said that it seemed hokey, to buy into to the whole Hallmark crap. I told him that I felt really unloved, because according to every commercial currently on TV, no one loves me if I don’t receive a chocolate-covered diamond.

We decided that we would cook some tasty food and drink wine. Which is what we do just about every night, but as P. said, why mess with a good thing.

I was driving past this gas station a couple of days ago, and someone had set up a bunch of tables and was selling Valentine’s Day gift baskets. These were Easter basket-quality baskets, covered in cellophane, with sundy stuffed animals in them that must have been three feet tall: things like huge mutant yellow chicks. Come to think of it, they might be left over from last Easter. They were without a doubt the tackiest things I had ever seen. OK, well that’s not really true, because there’s a lot of tacky in this world, but these were definitely in the top ten. And super-scary. If I had one of these things staring at me when I was trying to sleep, I’d have to hide a gun under my pillow.

So, I got to thinking about the guys who would buy these things. Surely they would be in a panic, no idea what to do for Valentine’s Day, see these hideous baskets and assume girls would love them. Maybe some girls do, I don’t know. What do you do with a scary three-foot tall yellow chick anyway? But I was trying to imagine how that scene would play out… a girl hoping for a nice romantic dinner, or maybe diamond earrings, and her boyfriend brings her home this monstrosity covered in plastic wrap. That he got at a gas station.

A guy got me this rose from a gas station once. It was actually red panties that were folded into the shape of a rose. I assumed it was a joke. It was a joke, right? No one buys rose-shaped panties from a gas station as an actual sign of affection do they? The panties were scratchy. I had to throw them away. (Yes, I washed them before I wore them. Eww.)

You will succeed by believing in your abilities.

The message came to me in a fortune cookie the other day. I guess it’s supposed to be motivating and inspiring, but of course it’s bullshit. Probably a lot of American Idol contestants got the same fortune. No wonder they all seemed confused when Simon told them they were the worst singers he’d ever heard. “But… the fortune, it said to believe and I would succeed. And I believed. So, you just can’t be sending me home! You have to crown me the ultimate winner. Do you want to see the fortune? I have it right here in my pocket. It might be a little damp. I get sweaty when I’m nervous.”

If believing was all it took, I would sit here and believe right now that I would win the lottery tomorrow night. I wouldn’t even have to buy a ticket. I could just believe right on my couch.

Not only is believing not enough, but a lot of the time, talent and hard work aren’t enough either. Generally speaking, success isn’t going to happen if you don’t have all three, but even if you have all that working for you, it’s no guarantee. Of course, sometimes success happens even if you sit around all day and eat cheetos, but Britney was pretty hot for a while, so she did have that advantage.

Tangent: we were watching a rerun of that Britney Spears concert last weekend in high definition. You might think this is perplexing, but honestly, we can’t look away from anything in high definition. I’m getting pretty pissed off at whoever does HD programming for the cable company because those bastards have made me sit through both Stuck on You and Starsky and Hutch in the last week and no one needs to see either movie in HD, especially more than once. Please, cable programming people, stop showing these two movies. I don’t want to have to watch them anymore!

But anyway. We were watching Britney in high-def, and we got to the part where the Onyx hotel security guards are spying on everyone masturbating in their rooms and Britney gets acquainted with her hand in the bath and then later hops down to have grubby sex with a guy who just five minutes earlier had been passionate with a bath towel. And P. said, “I’ve seen soft-core porn that’s less explicit than this.” And he was all repulsed by the creepy stalker security guard, dancing in his hat, and feeling ripped off that Britney wasn’t even pretending she wasn’t lip syncing. So, when we had to leave before it was over, of course we had to Tivo the rest.

The point being, Britney had some alluring slutty quality that made her successful, and you and I just don’t have that. So, all the believing in the world probably won’t be enough.

For a minute, I thought the fortune might work in the tradition fashion, in bed, but then I got to thinking about past experiences and realized that believing in your abilities doesn’t guarantee success in that area either. Sometimes too much confidence can work against you there, actually.

The believing thing is difficult, but doable, the hard work part sucks, because I’m lazy at heart. the talent? That’s the tricky part. How can you really know? Sometimes I wish I had my own personal Simon. He could be an objective voice telling me when it was worth it to work hard at something and when I should give it the hell up already. Plus, when I did something really well, he would smile at me and look really hot.

Those American Idol contestants don’t know how good they have it.

Instead of my own personal Simon, all I have to work with are bullshit fortune cookies and my own imperfect sense of my life. Maybe I should order Chinese food tonight. I can use all the help I can get.

Today when I got home from work, I was so exhausted from getting up at 5 AM to go to the gym and being all despondent and sad that I really had no choice but to take a nap. Only then I had this nightmare where this Hannibal Lecter guy was chasing me and I was trying to hide in the crowd by putting on a chef’s hat and randomly putting chef’s hats on everyone else (we’re all chefs! he’ll never find me!) only he cornered me in this restaurant and started eating everyone, like really taking big bites out them, trying to get to their internal organs, and I was trapped there, just waiting to be eaten, watching him chomp away.

So, then I woke up feeling icky and not at all refreshed. And I started wondering what freakish creepy part of my brain thought up that dream. And what does it say about it me that I would even think up such a thing? The guy was not nibbling on these people, he was like a lion devouring a wildebeest, seriously.

I tried to put it out of my head by having mashed potatoes for dinner. Note that I also had mashed potatoes for breakfast and lunch. My tooth is estatic about this. My stomach? Not so much. Last night, wine was too cold for my tooth so I had to switch to tequila shots. I figured that cowboys in those old westerns with toothaches were always drinking whiskey as medicine, so maybe it would heal my tooth right up. It didn’t work. Possibly I needed more tequila.

I spent my day writing documentation for a product that’s in Korean. As you might imagine, it went really really well. It went kind of like this: Huh. I wonder what that squiggly line means. And what happens when I press this button? Oh. Another squiggly line. And a bar is now on top of that fish thing. Great! I have no idea about the fish thing. I’ll just take a lot of pictures and hope it’s self-explanatory.

I jus realized I have been watching Dr. Phil talk to “self-proclaimed gold diggers” for forty-five minutes. This is much more disturbing than the internal organ eater.

I honestly worry about my brain.

1. It’s really cold outside.

2. On the other hand, the bed is really warm.

3. Also the blankets are toasty and snuggly.

4. I would have to scrape the ice off my car windows, and ice prefers to melt naturally. Also, scraping would be cold.

5. There is no coffee at the gym. If I have to be awake, I should get to drink coffee.

6. I’m sleepy. It’s 5 AM, dammit.

7. I mentioned the cold thing already?

8. Working out is hard.

9. Sometimes the desk guy at the gym isn’t very nice. Probably because he’s been working all night and is tired and cranky, but still. I don’t like people to be mean to me when I’m suffering such a hardship as waking up early and working out.

10. Just when I’m finally getting into my cardio, something like Simon and Garfunkel comes up on my iPod. How am I supposed to work out to Bridge Over Troubled Water?

11. Given a choice between a warm soft bed and cold hard work, how am I supposed to pick the icky one? I’m not a strong-willed person. I’m very easily enticed. Ask anyone.

12. It’s fucking cold. Seriously.

Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll think about going back to bed the whole time. You can’t stop me.

Do you ever feel like some days are just one big test? Today, I’m pretty sure I’m failing. In fact, earlier, I broke down and called P., absolutely sobbing, and I feel like an idiot because lots of people have actual problems and everything I’m dealing with is so trivial. Which is just another way I’m failing the test, I’m sure.

I had to go to the dentist this morning for my temporary crown. I got up really late (Amazing Race was two hours long last night; I’m not used to staying up until 11!), but figured I had plenty of time to have some coffee, check work e-mail, and take a quick shower before heading out.

But when I checked my work mail, a last minute request had popped up, and it made me jittery, because I didn’t have time to do a good job. I did as much as I could until I absolutely had to leave for the dentist. My shower, it was short.

And I was struck by wondering what I should do. Do I cancel my dental appointment? Do I stand behind my work even though I know it’s crap and only scratching the surface? I said that I had to head out, but that I would call as soon as I got back to see if there was time for a closer look. Did I pass the test? Was that the right thing? I just don’t know.

But I was off to the dentist. I was feeling really brave. Maybe my dentist phobia is over! Last time wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have a panic attack in the chair. I’m cured!

Right.

A crown fitting involves novocaine. Novocaine always wears off in the middle of drilling. It is just me? Do I have some wacky body chemistry that repels numbing? Every time I’ve had drills near my teeth, I wait, tensed and ready for the moment when I feel the pain. Every whirling sound is another step closer. It’s pure torture in that chair as I wait for it to come.

I had the glasses that played a movie, although it didn’t distract me all that much since the drill drowned out the sound. I sat there, digging my fingernails into my palms, trying not to cry, trying to remember to breathe, waiting for the pain moment. The dentist and hygenist were very soothing: “you’re doing a great job; everything’s fine; it’ll be over soon; you’re in total control, just raise your hand if you need us to stop.” Finally, I had the pain moment, which wasn’t really as bad as I hyped it to be in my mind. I didn’t raise my hand or say anything. Part of me wasn’t sure if I was feeling the drill or only imagining I was. But I think I started physically shrinking away from the drill, trying to press into the chair, and the dentist asked me if I was starting to feel it. “Uh-huh,” I said, trying very hard not to cry.

They gave me another shot, and even my nose felt numb after that. Then they found another cavity starting next to the place where they were putting in the crown, so they had to fill that, and didn’t have time for the filling replacement on the other side of my mouth. So, when I go back for the real crown (I have a temporary for two weeks), I have to get that filling, so I can look forward to more drilling and hyperventilation.

Do you know that they grind your tooth down all the way around when they put in a crown? It’s really horrific. Especially if you happen to feel around with your tongue before they put on the crown part. It’s like you have no tooth left. And I can’t really think about this any more, so let’s just move on.

I finally left the dentist, all emotionally distraught from the two-hour panic attack, and I checked my voice mail. The billing people for my physical therapist left a message that it turns out insurance won’t pay for the claim, and now I owe them $800. Plus, if I keep going, I’ll have to pay it all myself.

I called them back. I called my insurance. Sure enough, it’s true. Turns out that just because a place takes your insurance, that doesn’t mean they’re in your insurance network, and apparently, there’s really no way to know without calling your insurance each and every time you go see anyone new for any reason. The insurance plan I had last year did have coverage for out-of-network providers, but I switched because work gave us this song and dance about how they were raising rates and cutting coverage to save money so this plan I’m on now was the way to go and everything would be covered and no problem, let’s all be healthy. Bastards.

So, in addition to the $2500 in taxes and $600 in dental bills I have to pony up, I need to scrounge up an additional $800 for lack of health insurance. Despite the fact that I pay for health insurance each and every paycheck. Sucks, huh. Also, I need to find a new physical therapist, although that probably means completely starting over and maybe I should just suck it up and deal with the pain rather than figure this all out.

I stifled the tears to called work back to find out if I had time to do a little more on that last minute project. No. It was already at the printer.

Fuck.

Anyone who comes across it won’t know of my last-second whirlwind of typing just moments before I had to go under the drill and will assume it’s my best work.

Then I got another e-mail from another project manager wanting the current draft of a sadly unfinished document to send to an important company, and they needed it right that very minute.

Fuck.

So, off went my half-assed draft to a major client as another example of my best work.

I’m beginning to wonder if I should stop worrying about a raise and just hope I don’t get fired.

It was all just too much. My hemorrhaging savings account, my aching teeth, my crappy writing skills. I lost it. P. was very nice, and didn’t tell me I was a crazed lunatic or whining baby, and instead was very supportive and made me feel better, although I’m still feeling really crappy about the whole thing.

And I had to buck up and get back to work, although I couldn’t quite face going into the actual office, since the sniffling continued throughout the day. And now my tooth is throbbing in pain, and I feel really sick, so I don’t know if I can face the gym either. And all I really want to do is cry some more.

I guess I really jinxed myself when I told my therapist yesterday (the head one, not the physical one) that I was feeling really great and felt like I could manage anything that came my way. Because I’m pretty sure that wanting to run away and cry isn’t the coping mechanism she was thinking of.

We’ve finally decided where to go on vacation. It went a little like this:

Where do you want to go?

Where do you want to go?

I asked you first.

Well, you’re a dirty pirate whore.

So are you.

Oh yeah.

We should go on an Alaskan cruise.

(research)

Oh. We need a lot more money because I want to climb glaciers and sled with puppies. And also have a huge suite with a wraparound balcony. And I want my butler to bring gourmet dinners to our room so we don’t have to get out of our pajamas and be nice to strangers. And I want to be on a small boat that can frolic with the whales. And I want our butler to bring me champagne sparkling with real gold. And I want the whales to learn my name and do an interpretative dance they choreographed just for me.

We don’t have enough money for that.

OK, let’s do that later when we’re rich.

OK! So where then!

Mexico! It’s cheap and they have lots of tequila!

I’ve been spending some time browsing the forums at various vacation message boards to get some ideas about what we should do and what we should avoid. I’m not looking to find the best place to have waiters pour tequila down my throat and twirl me around, so I can skip most of the threads. (I lived in Southern California when I was younger. I went to Tijuana many times. I think I’m full up for a lifetime.)

As I read through the questions, I have begun to wonder why some people go on vacation at all. I can excuse the partiers who just want to know the cheapest place to get drunk. I mean, the answer is probably right in your living room, since you get to skip out on airfare and hotel costs, but they want the ambiance of Mexico while they drink, and sure, they could get that El Torrito, but see, by “ambiance”, they really mean “girls who they can sleep with who they will not then run into and have to avoid every weekend thereafter”. I get it.

But I think some people are missing the point of vacation a bit. Why go somewhere completely different if you only want to experience things that are exactly as they are at home?

I don’t feel bad quoting these people and mocking them, because after all, they posted their dumbass questions on the Internet for all the world to see and mock and they are certainly free to mock any dumbass thing I might say here.

And so I present: questions about traveling to Mexico:

Should I take a bus or a taxi to get to Wal-Mart?

Can I buy Ugg boots in Mexico?

Yeah, I know. I’m kind of a bitch. But really. Country music and bacardi breezers in Mexico? And seriously, there were A LOT of questions asking how to get to Wal-Mart.

So, collectively, to these people who will never read this ever, I offer the answers you seek:

You are in Mexico. Don’t go to Wal-Mart. Go outside. Go buy a taco from a vendor on the side of the road. You do not drink bacardi breezers in Mexico (or, uh, actually anywhere), you drink tequila. You might try Italian food one night, but hell, if you’re going to an entirely different country, why not try their local food? And possibly their local music. Why drink beer in your hotel room that you smuggled in from Wal-Mart when you can get 2-for-1 specials at every bar in town?

I can see needing the Ugg boots though. I hear it gets pretty chilly at night.

And in case you’re worried about the poor guy without a mini-fridge, someone suggested he fill his tub with ice and bathe in the ocean. He seemed pretty jazzed about that idea, so I think he’s all good.

Damn you, Harmony and your sparkling white teeth!

Ahem. What I meant to say is that Harmony’s journal entry reminded me that I hadn’t had my teeth cleaned in over five years. Possibly a lot more than that. The years tend to blur all together when it comes to teeth cleaning. I have tried to go to the dentist, but the universe has thwarted me every time. And all Harmony’s talk of being freshly clean made me feel dirty and she shamed me into going.

Well, OK, what really happened was that I was shamed by my dirty teeth, but them promptly had some chips and forgot about the whole thing. Only due to the wrath of a vengeful, or possibly easily amused god, my tooth started to hurt. From the chips. And then the pain got worse until that entire side of my mouth was throbbing. All because of Harmony!

So, I tried to figure out what my dental insurance was, and who I could go to, and I finally found a list of dentists and randomly picked one. I called and told them I had been walking around with dirty teeth for at least five years and they said that I could come in the next morning.

Well, I figured that was either a sign that my tooth really needed immediate care, because why else would the universe suddenly make going to the dentist so easy, or this dentist really sucked and didn’t have any clients. I wasn’t sure which I wanted to be true.

What was true though was that my tooth ached all night, so of course I had to whine to P. about it and you’d think that would cause him to be extra-nice to me or sing me soothing songs or make me pudding or something, but no. Instead he kept telling me that he could pull my tooth right out and chased me around the room with a staple remover. Also his pocketknife. In all fairness though, he also greeted me at the door with a freshly made margarita to help numb the pain, and his margaritas are the absolute best things in the entire world, so I couldn’t be too mad at him.

I went to the dentist this morning. I say that as though it were easy as cheesecake and I just glided in like Mary Poppins with her umbrella or something. Of course, the real story is that I had a completely wrong idea about where the place was, and ended up about 20 blocks too far north, but when I realized I was in the wrong spot, instead of continuing south, I turned around and went even farther north because I am a dumbass, and I didn’t actually write down the address, and although I had the phone number, I had left my cell phone at home. So, by the time I got there, I was nearly 20 minutes late and figured that for sure they would turn me away, only they didn’t. They were very nice and saw me anyway, which only increased my suspicion that something was really wrong with my tooth because why else would it be so easy? Relatively speaking, I mean. My direction-impaired driving not withstanding.

The cleaning was fine. And by fine, I mean it was horrendous torture, with lots of scraping and pressure washering, and the feeling that tiny needles were being driven into my gums. Other than that, great. She said things weren’t too bad for five years of neglect due to my superior body chemistry. Or something like that. I mean, I don’t think she was hitting on me or anything.

But then the dentist came in.

I blame all of my dental woes on this sadistic dentist I had in sixth grade. My parents had dental insurance through my stepdad’s job for the first time ever, so they hauled us all in. It may have been the only time I went to the dentist the entire time I was growing up. I wish I could go back in time and punch that dentist right in the head. He made me terrified of dentists, absolutely phobic, and every time I go to a new one, I marvel that they are actually nice and not out to murder me or terrify my heart into stopping.

This guy said I needed not only braces, but also headgear. (My parents declined both as those were not 100% covered by insurance; so I guess I can be thankful in this one instance that my parents were total cheapskates.) He also felt he needed to do awful things with a drill in my mouth to that point that I could smell the burning flesh. He yelled a lot. And told me that if I didn’t move my tongue, he’d drill a hole through it. You know, nice comforting stuff like that. He also said I had two cavities, the only two I’ve ever gotten, and he put in two fillings.

And that was it for dentists until I was in college, when I got to go to my university’s dental school for free dental care. My dental student wanted to be a tennis pro, and was only studying to be a dentist to please his father, and would take me out to lunch and hold my hand during the exam when I would get scared. He found that my fillings needed to be replaced. And I believed him (because of all the hand-holding and lunches) and didn’t think he just needed filling-replacement credit to graduate. He wasn’t really looking forward to graduating anyway. All that would mean is that he’d have to start actually being a dentist. (I wonder if he’s a dentist now or if he one day woke up and decided his dad could fuck off and started teaching tennis at the local country club.)

I was so bitter at my sixth grade dentist for those crappy fillings. OK, I know fillings sometimes need to be replaced. But both of them? Cracked and falling out to the point that I nearly needed root canals? That guy sucked.

Anyway, fast-forward to today, and the nice dentist in his tie and geeky glasses. He told me that the hurting tooth was one with a filling. It is cracked and needs a crown. The other filling is broken, nearly falling out, and needs to be replaced. He recommends I go with a porcelain inlay, to keep the tooth together.

So, next week, I have to go back to the dentist again, and pay him many hundreds of dollars, and hear the whirling drills burning through my poor defenseless teeth. They tell me I can watch a movie in these special glasses during the procedure. How cool is that? Maybe I’ll ask for laughing gas and then watch The Wizard of Oz or something.

I still blame that first dentist for fucking up my teeth. Bastard. And also Harmony. If she hadn’t have gotten me thinking about my dirty teeth, I’m sure none of this would have happened.

I was ironing P.’s shirts last night (shut up; I lost a bet) and it got me thinking about this time during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school when I lived on my own for a few months (long story). I had to bring my clothes to the laundromat, which was in a scary part of an already kind of scary town, and I’d really never had to do my own laundry before, much less all in public like that, so it was a little intimidating.

This really old black man worked there, ironing people’s laundry. He was tall and lanky, with deep wrinkles that cut grooves into his face and hands. It seemed like he was always there, at least on Saturdays, when I would tiptoe in with my black garbage bag full of clothes and pretend I knew what I was doing.

And while I waited for my clothes, he would explain to me the proper way to iron: don’t push the iron into the clothes; let the iron’s weight do the work for you.

Man.

Oh how I push. With clothes, with life. And it’s so much work. And it doesn’t help. But I can’t let go of the weight and let it do the work for me. Because that would take patience.

Last night, I was complaining to P. that I’ll never get into shape. I’m trying to get back into running, after taking a break for several months (long story that’s also boring), and even though I’ve been doing other things instead, it’s like I’m back to square one: out of shape, no stamina, no strength. He told me that I just needed to stick with it, that it would just take time. “But I don’t want to wait. I want it now.”

“I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

I get so anxious. I want to know every little twist and turn ahead of me. I’m so busy pushing ahead, I lose sight of what is now.

Stop pushing and let the weight do the work for you.

So, last night, I tried to remember what the old man taught me. I spread the shirt out on the ironing board taut, and slowly brought the iron across it. I let it sit a moment, then moved on, and again, and again. Until everything was crisp and fresh and ready. No pushing required.

I can’t take the chaos.

It’s bad enough when my refrigerator is so full I can’t close it without slamming it really hard to shove everything towards the back, and when I wear a sweatshirt and baseball cap to work because I have nothing to wear that isn’t wrinkled, but now I can’t do my taxes because I can’t find the returns from last year. I can’t find electronic copies; I can’t find printed copies. And I’m fine holding off on filing mine, since apparently I owe, which is wrong and sucks and I want to file a formal protest, but I need to send in my mom’s because she’s actually getting money back and she could use it about it now. But can I find her return from last year? No. Of course not.

I recently had to reformat my hard drive, and moved all of my data onto an external drive, but I can’t seem to find the files there, so I have a sinking feeling that everything may be reformatted and gone forever, which would be bad. Really really bad. But I’ve realized that this chaos that surrounds me has infiltrated even my virtual reality, and my computer filing is just as bad as my paper filing. Which I knew already, actually, I just figured that with the handy search feature, I didn’t have to be so organized. I was wrong.

And the cats have been yelling at me all morning because I haven’t fed them. And I haven’t fed them because they’re out of food and I’m not organized enough to buy more before they run out.

But every time I put my foot down and say enough is enough and vow to get organized, I end up right where back where I started, which is to say, exactly where I am now. In chaos.