In a mood like this . . .

. . . there are only two things to do. Smoke, and listen to Elvis Costello.

I adore this man.

Specifically, tonight it's ONLY Blood and Chocolate, an album that took me a year and a half to get into. This happens with Costello. There's a dark, boozy, anxious, sedate, dark country road in my past, in Iowa City, when only All This Useless Beauty would do. Literally. I was physically incapable of listening to ANYTHING else.

Tonight, I have woken up from the most beautiful dream.

I'm learning that the biggest things can happen in the tiniest, most intimate and impossible spaces. These spaces are dreams when we are asleep, but when they spill over into real life . . . you become a sleepwalker. You move through the day, longing for your little spaces, perfect little pockets of play in a tapestry of work.

Did I love the dream itself? Or was it just that I loved the idea that the dream might not actually fade in daylight, or in the scope of what is possible? The former is more likely, and the latter is what will help me stop chiding myself that I am smart enough to have known better. Maybe it's about the difference between faith and stupidity. I like to think that I am learning to be faithful, and that I am not just perennially stupid.

The worst part is that I find myself finding hope. Well, looking for it. I'm too smart to delude myself into thinking I've FOUND hope, but I am faithful enough to look for it. Can I just go back to sleep now, and return to my dream? Probably not. After all, I've been trying to wake up.

But I know myself, and I'll dream again tonight. Maybe it's a new dream, and maybe it's the residue of the old one, but something will be there. And I'll be waiting for it.

$44.07/month savings:

Whilst in Iowa City this weekend, I figured out how to turn on the wireless function on this here company laptop. One advantage to corporate slavery: the $2000 in laptop equipment I got at the first of the year. I freakin' LOVE this thing and I'm chagrined to think someday we will be parted.

So, I switched on the laptop at home and the wireless connection worked. I double-checked the strength of it by unplugging the modem in my living room, just in case it was somehow pulling the signal from there.

It's not. I have wireless.

Which means, to hell with ComCast! To HELL! I don't watch the cable enough, and the internet is now available in the tub or on the porch or in bed, all for FREE!

Granted, I just gotten bitten by the zombie of NetFlix, so now, drooling and braindead, I'll be dropping 20 bucks a month on that. But, it's a good chance to catch up on some films and even get things for school, without having to go out. Again, in this case, FREE was better when I would rely on the Public Library. But after getting confused and not returning two discs, the $10 fine alerted me to the merits of no late fees, and movie returns I can make at the post office box while waiting for the elevator in the morning.

Anyway, off to watch Donnie Darko. Amores Perros last night was incredible, by the way. You should queue it . . . .

In Town Again

KK is doing KR's hair in the bathroom, and we're debating whether or not KR has "man hair," "lesbian hair," or "anorexic hair."

This town has wrapped itself around me again, in the most pleasant way.

I miss having friends who are NOT tied to my job. First thing I do when I return to the city is STOP being a nun and get myself a life.

We're getting ready for a night of dancing at the only gay bar in town, with an entourage of friends and acquaintances. I haven't been here in over a year, but I'll know people there. That never happens in Chicago, with one very odd exception. And that exception is this girl from Iowa City I keep running into, to the point that it's becoming scary.

I know that I can wander into the Tobacco Bowl and wait. Before long, someone will come in.

I also bought a pair of Versace pumps at Revival, a fantastic consignment shop on Linn St. With the store credit for items I brought in, I paid less than NINE dollars for them. Yay! They're slightly 80's fabulous, white open-toe 3" slingbacks with rainbow neon spraypainted stripes, but they tone right down with a pair of jeans.

I won't wear them out dancing tonight.

My apologies to the good "Professor"

In the posting "Auto da Fe" a few days ago, I alluded to "the second season" of "Father Ted," an Irish sitcom I watched again recently. One "Professor J. Grubelsnatch" of the UK commented on the posting and chastised me for not calling it "the second series" as is the British custom.

My apologies. While I do recognize that the terminology is different on either side of the Atlantic, I did not wish to confuse my largely (term used relatively) American audience. To the both of them, "series" means the entire length of a program, and not the individual years which are instead called "seasons."

But if I am correct as to the individual's true identity, Professor Grubelsnatch is well-versed in teasing me about my Yankee-isms, I must confess I appreciate the close reading.

The Dry Run

So, tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Iowa City. The friends I want to see are busy, working and such, so I will have time to catch up on my grading and correspondence, both professional and personal.

And I realize that this is the first test of my proposed change of livlihood to adjunct online faculty/world traveler extraordinaire.

I already got the word from KK about the weekend's itinerary, and about where I can get wireless internet access on the Ped Mall. I have mid-term grades due by Monday at noon, so this should work out well.

It's LIKE a vacation, but it's really a time trial for the telecommuter. Let's see if I qualify.

But this trip is also about moving forward, letting go. I'm going back to go forward. I didn't always get what I wanted there, but from Iowa City I will take what I need.

Auto Da Fe

Without my noticing, Spring arrived officially yesterday morning. I've been grousing about the seasons long enough now, and winter finally ended with little fanfare.

Of course, it's not the seasons that really affect me. All of the things that were bothering me yesterday haven't gone away today just because of a little cosmic slide.

I've never been a very faithful person, but suddenly this year I have found myself in a position of believing in something, and being called upon to have faith in it. I continue to struggle to maintain my faith, even without much encouragement or justification from the object(s) of that faith for continuing to do so.

I'm beginning to understand being Catholic, though my faith and need for that faith is not strictly along traditional religious lines.

I understand now that Catholics are waiting for the return of Jesus, who will come again to judge the living and the dead. Until this weekend (thanks to my current crisis of faith and the second season of the Irish sitcom "Father Ted") I didn't understand that Catholics, like lovers, are the ones who wait. We martyr ourselves to the promise of things that will likely never come to pass. We spend so much time looking ahead for the pending miracle that we could miss the actual in the every day.

I realize now why "aqui y ahora" is so difficult for me to fully grasp. It's the opposite of what I have ever known, ever been taught, or ever socialized into. It makes me feel a little bit better on the one hand. However, I am also more Catholic, more nun-like, more ascetic than I think I ever have been, in all aspects of my life right now. I want something I cannot have yet, and I have to have faith that someday I will have it, and I have to try to not destroy it while I wait.

But waiting for the miracle is precisely why I think I left my Catholic roots as a teenager. It was all so rarefied and arcane, so out of touch with what was my here and now at that time. More than anything, I'm terrible at waiting, I hate waiting, and I constantly fear that the line between blind faith and glaring stupidity is ever-blurring.

However, I get it. This is a lesson that for 26 years now I've fought against having to learn. I have waited, have been waiting, and I continue to wait. What choice do I have? Faith compels me to wait. Though it seemed like winter would never end, it did end after all. The days are still cold and will be, but it's on the run now. And who knows, maybe my ship will come in and the wait will actually end favorably. . . and hopefully before Jesus decides to return for his encore.

Spring Cleaning

Easter weekend, early this year, falls on March-something. Easter, probably the most widely celebrated of the Catholic "Moveable Feasts," hits me by surprise every year.

Already rather nun-like, I tend to avoid giving things up for Lent. I've given up sunshine long enough. Plus there's no time to prepare for giving things up. I tune out so hard in wintertime that Ash Wednesday only occurs to me when the odd coworker or student pops up with a smudgy forehead. By that point, my day usually planned so full that it spills into the next one and I don't observe the holiday. And Mardi Gras, that HUGE hedonists' ball the night before. Yeah, I was probably in bed by 10 pm.

Then suddenly it's Easter and things are changing.

I've been on a couple of purge-kicks already this year, but that was of things to give away. A trip to Iowa City next weekend means it's time for full-on Spring Cleaning. There is a consignment store I know well there. I'll pack up the Hyundai only with things I know they'll take, and I truck it out West.

It's like going to market. Crap that I have from Chicago will sell, and in a few months VR will mail me a check. It'll probably only cover the gas to and from the trip, but it's something. The real benefit is that I am less a carload of THINGS.

There are so many ways to diet, and so many parts of ourselves that need to lose weight.

Style

When do habits become addictions?

I read my horoscope a day ahead, every day, on two different sites. I am addicted to Manolo's blog, and I'm thoroughly enjoying Go Fug Yourself.

I miss smoking, because it organizes your time. The larger longer more complex tapestry of the long view is given order and reason in the short term, when you plan on doing something regularly. Habit, ritual, addiction.

Habits are private. Rituals are shared. Addictions are rituals that should remain private, but don't.

I'm smoking again because it orders the end of the day. The way that telenovelas have, or work, or habits or rituals or addictions. Because it lets me sleep; and because I don't want to, but I don't want to not to.

Bodies, Rest and Motion.

I can't tell if I'm tired or if I'm bored.

I do nothing but work. I don't say this so as to play the martyr or to fish for accolades. It's just the truth. I've always been like this.

But tonight I just feel this . . . blah. I know that a few months from now I'll probably look back on this time alone as a lovely respite, when whatever will be will have become. And I'm really quite relaxed by all this working because I'm retreating from the day to day otherwise. All of my social connections right now exist via the internet and with people who live far away. Physically, I am only in contact with my co-workers and my students.

But this is not physical contact. There is an intellectual and emotional distance between me and all of those near my physical body. I have no physical, corporeal contact with anyone.

Except Mojo, but admitting that is just pathetic, really.

I don't miss the drama that's associated with living with people, or dating someone, or having girlfriends around. I'm a bit of an anchoress right now, shut in but working very hard in order to open my doors. But I miss physical bodies, intimate bodies. The bodies that steam the windows when taking a shower and leave wet footprints on the floor. The ones who exhale smoke. The ones that tangle up in mine when we sleep.

I'm Out Wandering Around

I always loved it that that phrase forms an acronym for "Iowa" where I lived for a little over three years.

I-O-W-A also can stand for "I Oughta Went Around" as my friend TF always used to say.

I left a drug problem and three of the hardest, loveliest, most lost years in Iowa City in December 2003 and I have not been back yet.

But I've decided that that's where I'm going next weekend when my students are on the shortest Spring Break ever. RMC is notable for being in session 50 out of 52 weeks a year. They're almost as bad as my day job, where there are only 6 paid holiday DAYS OFF all year, and none of them are between New Years' Day and Memorial Day.

I've wanted to go back to Iowa, but just couldn't. But now I'm so excited. There are some much-loved dear and cherished friends still there and I need to see them again. Plus, spring is coming to the Midwest. Stormy, intense, and powerful, Spring is what reminds Midwesterners they are still actually alive.

It's early yet. Spring only gets more and more intense until it settles into hot, hazy summer around the middle of June. But I'll go back to Iowa City, roam downtown, spend long lazy hours in conversation. The Lion will shed the winter and prepare for all the storms and changes to come.

Wax On, Wax Off

Tonight, MP from the office led me to the home of Z, a petite Indian woman who provides hair removal services from a bedroom upstairs in her home. MP is the one who also introduced me (and the entire office) to threading, and now she has to keep a spool of white 100% cotton on her desk because we're all hooked. She's begun doing my eyebrows and upper lip on Thursdays, right in my office.

So this discussion of dipiliation turns into an invitation and introduction from MP. I have had my lip and eyebrows waxed, but I had no idea what I was getting into.

Keep in mind, I have a tattoo. I have had up to ten holes pierced in either ear. I have my nose pierced.

I'm going to venture that waxing ACTUALLY hurts more than the above.

So, for the last couple of weeks I have been growing all of my body hair until I turned into a right proper fur beast. I seriously could not stand myself any longer, so MP called Z today and set it up for after work.

MP and Z spoke a bit in a language I didn't recognize, and we went up to the spare tiny bedroom where Z works. There was a long bright fluorescent light that tinted everything blue, but I suppose it helps Z see the little hairs better, and a twin bed with a wax-stained sheet on top. On a table next to the bed were a stack of stiff strips of muslin, and a little warming unit that held half a dozen bottles of various waxes in little roll-on bottles.

MP stayed for the first pull. We started with the armpits, and dear GOD that was rough. See, the hair grows in EVERY direction under there, so getting a good rip requires hitting all the points of the compass, MANY times.

All I could think of was how I would survive the bikini line.

MP left and Z went to work. Full legs, a very thorough job on the bikini and lower butt, armpits and even the tops of my feet (yeah, there's a little bit of the Hobbit in me). The cost was significantly less than what all of that would have cost in a spa or salon, and I think Z did a much better job than I would have had if I had spent more. The armpits are still rather sore, and I did sustain a pretty livid and nasty blue-black bruise from a bad pull on the bikini line. What we do for beauty.

I did get used to it though, and even got a little zen after a while. Other thoughts I had: I'm SO taking my daughters to do this at a YOUNG age, just to get 'em used to it. Also, I hope I get some after going through all of this. I want someone to appreciate the fact that I just had myself plucked like a chicken.

Eh. I'll appreciate it. As soon as I get all the last patches of wax cleaned off.

Yeah, got a little trashed . . .

Last night was just what I needed.

I passed out by 10:10 pm. Oh yeah!

GF and I decided this morning that neither one of us remembers embarrassing ourselves too badly, and we don't appear to have done any damage to our relationship. I definitely did not flash him my knickers via webcam, and we only dredged up the past in the most nostalgic of terms.

After the posting, I added to my a cappella repertoire with a little Italian aria, "Nel Cor Piu Non Me Sento" which I had to learn for voice lessons I took in college. I love that aria, and I loved singing it. In private. I have deep-seated emotional damage about how crappy my singing voice is, and how terrifying it is for me to sing in public.

I can do just about anything in front of other people and NEVER get stage fright, but singing is a different story. I could belt out that aria in my dorm room or in the shower. But getting up in front of a hundred or so people for that afternoon voice recital was a nightmare. I barely squeaked through it. But I did it, and I think I even got an A in the class. The instructor, knowing my terror, was probably just relieved I didn't pass out and hit my head on the piano, forget that I actually finished my aria.

I tried this morning to find the lyrics to the aria, but couldn't. I remember the vague Italian translation is that the poor woman singing is so in love, but her lover's indifference causes her great pain.

. . .

At any rate, with a bottle of Pinot Grigio down the gullet, I was able to dust off the notes and words from somewhere back in my memory and sing my aria like a right proper diva. Had I only been more savvy in college to have gotten drunk before the recital . . . .

At the End of Another Long Week

I went out after work and got a manicure and a cheap bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio. I got drunk via IM and a webcam with my beloved friend GF, all the way from Manchester, England to Chicago, Illinois. Now, I am repeatedly singing the chorus from the old chanty "Bottle of Wine" and amazed at my lovely lovely singing voice.

My telenovela is about to start. But before that, another cigarette, and:

"Bottle of Wine,
Fruit of the Vine,
When you gonna let me get sober,
Leave me alone
Let me go home
Let me go back and start over"

GF, another lovely conversation. Sweet dreams, sugar. It's almost 3 am there.

"When you gonna let me get so-ber. Leave me alone, let me go home, let me go back and start o-ver."

Time for my last cigarette. La vida, esta BELLLLLLLLLLA.

For CJ and JS . . .

With whom I braved late-winter Chicago snow/sleet/freezing rain for a long leisurely dreamy-schemy lazy lunch today. The escape was brilliant and much-needed I think for all of us. Thank you for being amazing friends and my support-system during these crazy days.

CJ, when you sell out your first headlining gig in Chicago, we'll be there from wherever we are.

JS, see you in Madagascar. Or Burundi. Or Tanzania.

And if JL ends up knocking that golf ball through the window and we all get sucked out of the office building in the depressurization, it's been a slice.

So. Very. Tired.

I have managed to shock now three of my co-workers by developing a taste for coffee. This happened at 1 pm yesterday, when I was faced with the choice to either get myself a cup, or curl up under my desk for nappy time.

This must be a sign of the apocalypse.

I love it that they know me well enough to know that it is indeed shocking that I need coffee. I'm usually high-strung enough sans caffeine. But it's almost the end of the third week of my new teaching schedule and I'm a shell of a shell of a human being. However, I have let go of my Tuesday night Spanish class, so that might help. I figure I'll pick it up once I get to Venezuela.

And besides, I now use that time constructively to watch "Te Voy a Ensenhar a Querer" on Telemundo, so I'm still getting my education. Between Monday and Tuesday night alone, there was a wedding (almost), a kidnapping, a hostage-taking, and a shooting. Deborah was revealed to be a crazy murderer, and it turns out that she was never pregnant with Alejandro's baby. Dede revealed however that the father of her unborn child is actually Alejandro, and not Pablo (who is love with Camila who got kidnapped on Monday night).

Keep in mind that I don't understand much Spanish, but I'm getting good at deciphering the telenovelas. When trying to adapt to a new culture, I often turn to soap operas. I had an unholy fascination with "EastEnders" on BBC during a Eurotrash phase, for example; and as a young girl my best friend Melissa and I were addicted to "General Hospital" thanks to the influence of Meli's mom and sister. The people are so beautiful on the Spanish-language ones; and there is a lot of screaming and very earnest dialogue which I think will be useful.

Sadly, there was some soccer game between Mexico and Argentina last night that trumped my show, and I have to teach tonight so I'll miss it again. The good news is that you can catch up pretty easily on telenovelas, just like any other soap. So on Friday night, I will gather up all of the dry crackly rinds and peels that remain of me after the end of the work week, deposit myself on the couch, and find out if Alejandro is going to pull through after that gunshot wound.

Bulk Email Yields Many Happy Returns

After waxing melancholic on Saturday night, I sent a bulk email to long-lost and much-loved friends far and near. The result has been replies from like EIGHT people so far, much to my delight. I love you all, and it's been great to catch up.

I also invited everyone to check out this blog. But of course, in the initial email, I put the wrong URL. Classic Jessica, and very embarrassing. So, if you got that email and you're reading this now, congratulations on finally finding the site.

I also want to say that one of the best results was a long girly heart-to-heart on the phone tonight with Erin, who is like my sister. I realized that part of why I've felt like I've been out of touch is not only because we all have busy lives, but that I have been too tangled in my own head and not opening up to my loved ones and support system. Burkie, thanks as always for being there. I love you!

I'm a lucky person. I've lived in a lot of places and had many many lovely and intimate friendships. I'm grateful to all of you for all you have meant to me over the years, and I carry each of you with me wherever I go from here on out. :)