This, too, shall pass, but for the short term, it does not leave a whole lot of time for misbehaving. Today’s Misbehaving Tuesday activities consisted of lingering in Target way longer than necessary –I went there for Drano and tea; in a way, the same thing– and spending a large portion on the week’s grocery money on dried fruit so I could make fruited couscous which is entirely for ME ME ME, since Scott doesn’t like that kind of stuff.

I also bought figs. Do you have any idea how expensive organic figs are? Oy. I don’t care. Figs are delicious. Thank you, Bacchus, for this tasty source of potassium and calcium. Bacchus wasn’t just the god of wine, you know, he was also the god of figs. And by extension, he is the god of the Fig Newton AND the Fig Newman. I bet he didn’t see that coming.

Since it is has been a mild Misbehaving Tuesday, I will take some time now to address a topic near and dear to my heart and other misbehaving organs: birth control. Since my last horrendous experience with the pill eight years ago (up three dress sizes in two months, which resulted in daily congratulations on my “pregnancy.” I believe the pill I was taking was Ortho-Tri-Irony.), I have resisted hormonal birth control. I have also resisted Scott’s whining*, but a gal can only take that for so long. There is a reason he is a successful sales person. So, I am giving it another go, with a NuvaRing this time, and in my typical neurotic fashion I am freaked out for the following reasons. Join me on my habitrail of hangups, won’t you?

1. The whole hormonal thing is just weird. It gives me the creeps that there is a piece of plastic leeching hormones into my body that stop it from doing what it is supposed to do. How can this possibly be good for me?

2. As I have mentioned before, if there is a non-fatal but annoying side effect that occurs in a nearly statistically insignificant portion of the population, I will have it. I am sensitive, dammit. I have stayed far away from websites listing side effects of the NuvaRing because I don’t want to psych myself into gaining fifty pounds, manic behavior, growing a third boob, or any of the other horrors we gals risk in the quest to be footloose and fancy free in the bedroom. I know what hormones do, and that is enough for now. On that note, I did do some research before the trip to the gyno last week, and it turns out that no one ever goes online to tell the world that something worked ok and everything is fine.

3. In keeping with this determination not to psych myself into a third boob, I have been engaging in daily, directed affirmations. In the morning, afternoon, and night: the NuvaRing is working without side effects, the NuvaRing is working without side effects, the NuvaRing is working without side effects… over and over. And I shall bind it as a sign upon my arm.

4. I have heard that it can pop out during sex, which is alarming. I don’t know if I could get turned on again, knowing that every escapade was going to turn into a game of ring toss. First that, then funnel cake in bed, then giant neon stuffed animals lining the walls of our bedroom. Too creepy.

5. Condoms never bothered me. For me, they are not an interruption, and they are neater. I surely do not miss sleeping in the wet spot, the post coital trot to the bathroom with my legs crossed, or, as if this post isn’t gross enough already, figuring out what to do with the dogs when there is a big wet spot on the bed that smells like the inside of a person.

But, on the other hand, there is the fact that I don’t want to spend another minute of my life standing in the dollar store with four pregnancy tests, alongside a decoy pack of gum and spatula; nor do I want to spend another minute of my life holding a piece of peed-on plastic up to a light, trying not to have a heart attack.

It’s been nine days and so far, so good, I think. I have had all sorts of stuff going on that could just as easily be stress and change of seasons as side effects, so I am not freaking out just yet. I’ll give it a couple of cycles, and in the mean time keep my fingers and legs crossed.

*But in a good way.

Then I spent the rest of the day freaking out every time I burped, terrified I had food poisoning.

So, every now and then, there is a Thing. I get this Thing into my head, and I will not rest until I find it.  Things have included the perfect backpack, accordions, a gray and black plaid skirt, and tie-dyed socks, to name a few. Lately there have been two Things. First, a blue shirt in the exact shade of blue that looks fantastic on me, you know, that shade of blue that is the exact color of nothing, anywhere in a store in shirt form. Second, days of the week underpants. I have been looking for a while, and after weeding out the options that were either absurdly expensive, or had a giant seam up the back for instant super wedgie (Why are underpants manufacturers doing this? As if thongs weren’t bad enough. Lofty though my ideals may be, I do not need my underwear taking the high road.), I was left with either a pack for $29.99 online -$36.98 with shipping- or a pack for $6.99 at Target.

The issue here is that the ones from Target are from the kids’ department. Every so often, I will buy something from the kids’ department because I can, but I worry that this is extremely creepy, especially when it comes to underpants. The thing is, I just could not see spending $36.98 for seven underpants. Relatively, that is not terribly expensive; it works out to $5.28205714 per… underpant? which is about what one would pay for the more expensive stuff at Target, or the less expensive stuff at Victoria’s Secret. Still, it seems like a lot, as if it should be less expensive because I am buying in bulk. I went back and forth about this for a few days, and then yesterday decided to buy the pack from Target. It’s just pieces of cotton and elastic, I figured, and if I am not supposed to wear them, they should stop making them in my size. Besides, it is not so much that I have gotten that small -proportionally, I still have ample booty- but that kids have gotten larger.

As it turned out, I picked up the wrong pack and had to return them today. I came to my senses, and decided that there will be no misappropriated underpants. I proudly paid for my foil and manicure sticks and left.

Then I changed my mind. Fuck it, it IS just pieces of cotton and elastic. What does it matter which section of the store it comes from? So, I went back to Target, and now I have days of the week underpants, and I am delighted because the Tuesday ones are purple.

I know that there are at least a few of you out there -hi!- wondering if I am going to post pictures of myself in my Misbehaving Tuesday underpants. How could I not?

Maybe the real reason I went back and bought these was that I didn’t want to wait another week to post a picture of myself with underpants on my head.

Other misbehavior: had cookies for lunch, painted toenails, drove around in the sunshine.

One more time:

I was also drinking. And single. There is nothing quite like a beer and a biological imperative to bring out the gift of gab.

Things have changed, though. I don’t drink anymore, I am not single, and I am probably a little too comfortable with myself – comfortable to the extent that I make myself so happily alone at a party that I freak out other people. It has happened countless times: I will be at a gathering, standing by myself, having a dandy time watching what is going on around me. Some good-natured person will see me standing alone, figure I must be lonely, and strike up a conversation, only to find themselves ill at ease when they realize that I am not standing alone because I am desperate, I am standing alone because I like it that way, and there occasionally may be times when I make that just a little too obvious.

Absent the beer and the biology, I have realized that I am actually a little weirder than even I thought. I am bad at smalltalk that doesn’t involve flirting, and I don’t watch TV or go to movies, so unless you immediately have something very interesting to talk about, we probably won’t have anything to say to each other.

I know this makes other people uncomfortable, but I am fine with it, and I like to think that the people who are comfortable with silence are the ones most worth talking to. Over the years I have come to regard not filling silences with chatter as a discipline. I often think fondly of the line from The Talking Heads: When I have nothing to say / My lips are sealed / Say something once / Why say it again? and I have to remind that the line is from Psycho Killer, and the song is about a PSYCHO KILLER, and maybe I could just give in and talk about weather for fifteen seconds.

I went to a dinner party last night to which the hostess and host each invited three people who did not know each other. It was an interesting group, and I was happy to be there. As the dinner itself wound down, one other guest started doing dishes, and I decided to help, as my wonderful hostess friend was frazzled, tired, and tipsy, and really needed to sit down and enjoy her guests. I had about half a minute of stuff to say to my dishwashing partner. After that, we washed dishes in silence for a long time, listening to the conversation going on around us. During dinner, I made a few zingers, and had an opportunity to riff on why pantyhose are more comfortable on men than on women, and after that I was ok with not talking anymore. At some point, some one told me I was nice and thoughtful for helping. “Nope, just anti-social,” I quipped, with a grin.

The point in all of this is that socializing without the great social lubricants -alcohol, and the desire for use of the other kinds of lubricants with people in my presence- is a thoroughly different experience, and I am still surprised at how much a beer or a glass of wine and a raging libido colored my social life for so many years.

Regardless, I had fun last night. It was nice to get out with intelligent, odd people, even if I was more of an observer than a participant. (And here is my fifteen seconds on the weather: It snowed most of the day yesterday and roads were bad. 83 was fine, but by the time I was onto the little winding streets in Hampden, I was driving on eight inches of packed snow. As I drove down a twisting, one-lane street behind Steiff Silver, I looked toward the stop sign at the bottom of the hill and thought, “Man, I hope so.”)

I encountered one such task last night, one of those uncomfortable little nuggets that I know will require my attention from time to time, but which I usually keep out of my conscious awareness so that I may move through my days happy and light. Yes, last night I finally had to come face to face with it: the spouse / partner company holiday party. I should state for the record that Scott works with nice, fun people, and his boss and boss’ wife are superb hosts. That said, there is something about the dynamic of the S/PCHP that is inherently uncomfortable (for me, at least), beyond my usual level of discomfort in large gatherings of people who are better than I am at smalltalk. I am not sure what happened to me. I used to love to talk to everyone at a party, but then, I also used to drink and be single.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I am perfectly happy at a party standing by myself and watching everyone else, occasionally listening in on a conversation. I can do this happily for hours, but it makes other people uncomfortable and then they feel compelled to talk to me because I must be lonely, which I am not, and then they realize that I am just like this, and then everyone is uncomfortable.

Anyway, some observations from the few moments I got to spend being a loner, uninterrupted:

Wife Clones

Most of the employees at the party were men, and most of the wives in attendance had an eerie sameness about them. Maybe it was the uniform: long sweater or sweater dress, leggings or tights, knee high boots. Makeup. Fake smiles and other parts. It was more Pikesville than Stepford, but I still felt out of place. I am not a salesman’s wife.

The People Who Can’t Talk About Anything Other Than Their Kids

A common fixture, it is forgivable if the kids are young and require all of a couple’s focus, but a little odd when the kids are closing in on thirty.

I Am A Big Freak

After a few bites of veggies and hummus, I became hyper aware of the fact that people were shaking hands and touching food and shaking hands and touching food some more, and I have absolutely no authority over their bathroom habits or the bathroom habits of people in their care and oh my god it is norovirus season and proteins and bacteria growth and danger zones, oh my, I think I will just stay here with my tonic water and hope my glass isn’t contaminated.

Shoes

Fine, FINE, I’ll admit it. I am a little obsessed lately. Once the boot brigade cleared, I noticed there were a few of us: one with four inch silver strappy heels, another wearing a pair of blue pumps with this funky ring/strap thing, another in big crazy platform ankle cuff contraptions, and me with my shiny red patent stilettos.

For pod-sterity, a photo. After dinner, I ducked into a restroom to check my email and slip these off for a moment. I didn't expect to be standing as long as I was, but fortunately, half of each foot went numb after the first hour.

We all ended up around the same table toward the end of the evening, in our adventurous and somewhat outfit specific shoes. As my mind started to wander away from the conversation (sports, TV), I wondered: are they just stylish, or do they have a shoe thing? A foot thing? Are their fellas into it?* I did a quick visual sweep of the room to see if any of the fellas were checking out my podogoodies. Maybe one. Then I was drawn into a conversation about naked yoga. According to one of Scott’s co-workers, there is a place somewhere on Harford Road offering naked yoga classes, both co-ed and men only (not sure about women only). I am not sure I could handle that.

Another Way In Which I Am A Big Freak

The hosts -who clearly love entertaining and are very, very good at it- made a special dish that was both vegan (for me) and gluten free (for a guest with celiac). It was a baked ziti with brown rice pasta, veggie sausage, and soy cheese. It was nicely done and and impressive show for some one who has never cooked with those ingredients, but when the host was announcing the menu, the mention of it was met by some rude comments and guffaws. It was as if he had used a whole other v word to describe it. That’s right: vagina casserole. I double-dog dare you. I guess it didn’t occur to anyone that they made a vegan dish because there was an actual, real live vegan in the room, who will throw paint on your leather boots any second now because we have nothing better to do than obsess over other people’s behavior. Super classy. Have another beer.

So that’s it. This little nugget of adult life is behind me for another year, and I can go back about my light and happy business.

*That’s right a FOOTnote.** Ahem. It has been pointed out to me that the shoe talk and pictures may start drawing in a different kind of audience. I am fine with that. No such thing as bad publicity, right? And if it happens to segue into a new career, say, writing foot erotica, I am cool with that, too, and I need the money. Shoes + tax deduction = WIN. Just please don’t come to my house expecting a show.

**It has been several months since I moved my blog to wordpress, and in all that time I have been a little grumpy about the lack of formatting for footnotes in this theme. Somehow it never occurred to me to just modify the CSS, which is kind of the whole point of these themes. Big fat duh. Talk about cursing the darkness.

I usually have an idea of what I am going to teach a week at a time, and sequence the class in my head while driving to the studio (almost 50 minutes to Midtown this morning – plenty of time). Recently, I have been getting anxious the nights before I teach, and during the drive I just can not seem to get myself to focus on the class. Fridays are especially difficult, when I know I will be teaching twice.

This morning I was having the usual distraction and anxiety. I started wondering what the hell this is all about, and decided to follow my own advice. Steady breaths. Watch the thoughts. And… oh. It’s not teaching. It is letting go of all of these lovely distractions for a couple of hours that is stirring up the anxiety.

Anxiety about letting go of the stories is nothing new. I know that over the years I spent plenty of time thinking about the worst because I did not want to be blindsided and made to look like a fool when it (maybe) happened. That is an old pattern. What is new is the fear that if I stop thinking about something, it will go away, or it will change. My brain has been so busy lately with all sorts of wonderful ideas, thoughts, and stories, and I have had this sense of being in a big transition for much of this year, that letting go for a couple of hours just suddenly became sort of terrifying. It feels like I am breaking up with my thoughts.

And so, I come to another level of understanding about the practice, and about the mind. I have always understood the concept of fear that letting go of the negative stories would send life spinning out of control, as if thinking through the worst would somehow keep it from happening. But, the fear that comes along with letting go of the exciting, interesting and enticing is so much more consuming and generates way more anxiety when it is unchecked. Yes, yes, pleasure can be a trap, but now I really get it.

Realizing this did not completely erase the anxiety, but it helped a lot. I taught well this morning. Instead of the usual line about leaving the stories at the door, I asked the question: What thoughts are you afraid not to have?

As an only child, I got the message from very early that of course I am self-centered and selfish, because that is just one of those things wrong with only children. People joke about it, but by the time I was eight or nine years old, I was so tired of hearing about it that I started working very hard not to be self-centered and selfish. Most other only children I have met are the same way; the ones with self-awareness tend to be generous to a painful fault. But, at the same time, we tend to move between extremes – in this case generosity and a ferocious internal focus that excludes just about everyone. (Not to say that we can’t grow up and moderate -everyone has their stuff- but the tendency is there.) I will give you everything, just back the fuck off. Push pull. We are not easy.

One afternoon when I was volunteering at the humane society in Illinois, I was cleaning the kitten room with a few other volunteers. One was griping about some one in her extended family, and mentioned the person was an only child. With abundant sarcasm and a smile, I said something like, “Well, you know ALL only children are weird.” As they all agreed vigorously, I learned that the stereotype holds true even into adulthood when we should know better, and the midwest really does not get sarcasm or inference.

But wait – this post is about ME, not Illinois. And my shoes, or something. Well, I got my new fuzzy shoes, and they’re fantastic. So soft and warm and delightful. Maybe I would like them in every color.

Me (staring blankly into the refrigerator): I wanted cold water.
Scott: Use some water from one of my bottles in there.
Me: They have your germs on them.
Scott: Uh, we were just making out.
Me: That’s different. Those are making out germs.
Scott: Alright. I won’t refrigerate my mouth, then.

It’s nice how Scott usually comes around to my way of seeing things.

I have been thinking recently that it might be time for me to look into getting glasses, and this was confirmed as we drove into Philly and Erin could read a street sign before I could read it. She told me this outright -that if she can see better than anyone it’s a problem-  and as proof went on to describe how even with glasses, she can really only see if she tilts her head a certain way to look through one part of the lens. So, yes, it’s confirmed. Monday morning I’ll be making an appointment with an optometrist. I’ve been avoiding wearing the glasses I have for years, mostly because I didn’t want to get dependent on them, but lately it has been more that I don’t want to admit that any part of me is declining. Still, I have always found glasses wildly sexy, so I guess it’s not so bad. Of course, I have found them wildly sexy on men. Who aren’t me. I suppose I could find a man to wear them for me, but I don’t think glasses work that way.

Dinner was fabulous. After appetizers, Erin had the pacific rim grilled tofu, and I had the grilled seitan. We were having a nice chat about lots of things, among them Harry Potter (she has a Ravenclaws for Obama tshirt!), and I gave my little ardent missive in defense of J.K. Rowling’s ability as a storyteller, and the value of this outside the realm of literary fiction. I finished my dinner before Erin finished hers, and as I was waiting for her to finish, my mind started to wander, and I had the thought that hey, maybe, just maybe I could find a very subtle way to work a Harry Potter reference into my next tattoo. Then I told Erin about the dorkiest thing I have ever thought in my life and we had a nice laugh. Still… maybe Gryffndor colors? Although, I probably would have been a Ravenclaw. Yeah, no doubt about that.

Wait, where was I? Right. Dinner at Horizons, my favorite restaurant in the world. You know how sometimes women get all faux-orgasmic about chocolate, like every piece of chocolate is the most sensual experience ever? Well, I love chocolate tons, but tonight I had an autumn parfait -candied pears, cinnamon (soy) ice cream, figs, and some kind of spice cake- that was absolutely, positively, otherworldly. About halfway through, I realized that I was staring off into space and I hadn’t said anything in a long, long time. It took a moment to identify the exact sensation, but there it was: I felt stoned. Super stoned. That parfait could have been a great big purple bong (hellllooo google analytics) for the way I felt. In a way, it’s like cutting out the middleman – going right from zero to blissed out / turned on / munchies without the actual pot. Quite an accomplishment for a cute little dessert.

The drive back was even worse than the drive there, but I was still all stoned from the autumn parfait, so I didn’t really mind driving home at forty miles per hour in the rain.

I’ve tried to keep that air of audiencelessness for the past couple of years, but it’s been feeling a little off lately. I DO have readers. Whether I intended it or not, there is now an audience, albeit a small one, so forcing audiencelessness is becoming disingenuous.

There has been a major transition going on for me creatively over the past five months or so, and although I’m not even sure what I am transitioning from or to, there is something going on, and taking my blog out of the dark is part of this process. I don’t know whether this will bring a different focus to my writing, but time will tell.

So, hi audience! I had no idea there would be people interested in some subset of writing, vegan baking, yoga, shoes, and the nerdly splendor that is me, yet here we all are. I’m here because I have to be here, doing this, and whatever it is that brought you here, well, howdy. Enjoy.

Flash class started last week, and on the first day the instructor -let’s call him Helmut- was somewhat worked up over having shared a computer with a student who had the flu. He talked about the syllabus a little, gave a few instructions for the lab, and then went on about having taken his temperature pre-emptively for the past couple of days. Helmut was especially indignant that the student’s mom called him to say that her son couldn’t come to class because of the flu, and that the thermometer he purchased could be used orally and anally. In fact, he threw out the plastic sheaths, just because some one might put them in a butt. It was kind of nice to meet some one whose germphobia is on par with mine, yet seems to be functioning in the world.

When I arrived in class today, the first thing I heard from Helmut was the he had in fact caught the flu. He made a point of announcing, repeatedly, that he wouldn’t be coming around to help people with their labs because he didn’t want to get germs all over us, that we shouldn’t get too close to him if we have questions, and he also announced, repeatedly, that he wasn’t handing out instructions for the lab because he didn’t want to handle papers that others would have to touch, so we were welcome to print the instructions ourselves. After ten minutes or so of this, then a few minutes of instructions about today’s assignment, we got to work. And while we worked, Helmut made a point of reminding us every few minutes that he wasn’t going to come around and get germs on us, and we shouldn’t get too close to him, and we were welcome to print the instructions ourselves, because he had the flu. For almost an hour and a half this went on, punctuated by references to South Park episodes. He also mentioned a few times that he wasn’t coming around to answer questions because he didn’t want to get germs on us, that we shouldn’t get too close to him, and that we were welcome to print the instructions for the assignment because he didn’t want to handle papers that we would have to touch. Because he had the flu.

So, I had a moment of great intellectual maturity -dotage, even- in class today, as I found myself simultaneously thinking, “DUDE, you are totally fucked in the head,” and “Oh my god, THANK YOU.”