Drinking Tea in Heaven

So to say I was a little freaked out when my cousin called to tell me that her adorable six year old autistic son had been drawing pictures of Aunt Dasi flying up to heaven to see Great Grandma & Poppops is an understatement. When she had the child himself leave me a message reiterating this fact, I got a little upset. I mean, really, who wants to hear that someone, ANYONE, keeps imagining you dead? Ok, so I'm sure throughout my not-so-perfect life there may have been occasions where certain people may have wished me dead, but I usually had done something to deserve the ill thoughts. Here was an innocent kid telling me that, at least in HIS mind, I would soon be drinking tea with Great Grandma in heaven. And I don't even LIKE tea. I guess I should be grateful at least that he saw me going up instead of down.

But then I had an epiphany. Maybe what he is seeing isn't really the death of dasi, per se - maybe it is the death of the OLD dasi. The dasi who hasn't been writing on a regular basis in years. The dasi who has allowed herself to gain weight and has gotten lazy with her workouts. The dasi who had become complacent, if not happy, with her routine of work, eat, sleep, work. The dasi who stoppped taking chances in life and preferred to stick with only what she knows.

I wouldn't mind at all if THAT dasi vanished.

Maybe this is a sign. I mean, think about it: Timmortal just published a book. So did Marissa. Cheryl is getting married. Linda GOT married. And Amber - married AND a baby. Alice is still writing - as far as I know. All my blogging buddies have been moving forward with their lives, and I seem to have come to a complete stop. I keep on telling people, "Oh, I know, I've been SO busy..." but really? Not so much. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, yes - raising a teenage daughter and working two jobs does count as being busy. But it never used to stop me before. And to be honest, as a teenager Lexie needs less attention than when she was younger (and she usually would prefer hanging out with her friends than with her mom!), so there is really no reason for this mental shutdown.

Just before I got my cousin's message, I bought myself a netbook. I told myself that having something to write with at all times would help me get my groove back. And guess what? Here I sit, on the train, writing. WRITING! And it feels good. I also did some half-assed exercises this morning. And packed a Lean Cuisine (which I hope hasn't expired) for my lunch, instead of checking to see if I had enough money for chicken Mc Nuggets. I re-hired my wonderful cleaning lady, and yesterday I came home to a spotless, beautiful house. Which funny as it sounds, really does improve your mood & general outlook on things.
Spring is in the air, and I am sensing a kind of rebirth. My next major step will be rereading TBOTE and trying to get that finished. One day at a time, I guess. But I have a really good feeling about this.

So thanks for the info Kar-Bear, I'm not as freaked out anymore. I know you meant no harm in telling me - and as it turns out, your instincts were right again. Tell my little guy he has inspired his Aunt Dasi to start moving forward again. And thanks.

Unless I get hit by a Mack truck while walking to work from the train station. Which I hope doesn't happen, because that would REALLY suck.

Who I Am

So tonight I went out for drinks with a colleague from work. I was feeling a little down, had a fight with Lexie earlier (so what else is new) and plus had a bit of a cold. Add in a really busy night at the Lobster, and I was sooo ready to relax. And relax I did. To the point that my colleague (ok, FRIEND) recommended I “see someone.” Which even I have to admit is probably not a bad idea.

See, I have these “issues.” If you have been reading “TBOTE,” you may know a tad bit about them. But even that story is only the tip of the iceberg. Because my issues have gone waaaaayyy back… we’re talking to about the beginning of high school, maybe even earlier.

I have always had a need to be liked. Not just a regular need, but a NEED. And I was always quick to take the blame for any problems or worry about what other people thought about me. I would do or say anything to be liked, to be wanted, to belong. When I was in grammar school, this wasn’t a huge issue. I had my little group of friends, my best friend Ann, and Suzy, Dawn, and Linda. We were inseparable. I have the best memories of grammar school with them. Memories that I cherish to this day. But in high school things started to change. A new girl joined our group, Sheila. I liked Sheila well enough, but I must admit, I was a bit jealous of her as well. And at that time, I was also getting bored. I still loved my friends, but I wanted ADVENTURE. I wanted BOYS. I wanted to be a rebel. So I found a new friend, Marilee.

Marilee took me on a roller coaster ride like no other I had experienced in my life. She was wild, she was beautiful, she broke the rules. She was cool - and I wanted to be like her. So much so that I got the same haircut, wore the same clothes, shared the same makeup. I drank, and I flirted, and I broke curfew. Ann and the rest of my old group fell by the wayside. I had found what I was looking for.

Or so I thought. During that time, I put up with hurtful nicknames, numerous putdowns, and a general sense of disdain. The rest of the crowd knew I was a phony - that I wasn’t one of them. But I still tried and tried, and kept a smile on my face the whole time. To her credit, Marilee was a great friend, but even she got tired of me pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

I started working at a kitchen in the hospital across the street from school - and continued my charade. I was pretty, and fun, and flirted with all the boys, but deep down was so insecure it actually hurt. I was an excellent matchmaker (still am, actually), but could never find anyone to love ME.

When I went to college, I thought it would be my new lease on life. But it was the same old story. Trying so hard to make people like me… only this time I had the added problem of mistaking sex for love. No one ever took me seriously, and no one knew how alone and lost I felt. I was always the good time girl, and when people tired of me, they made it known - whether it was with hurtful words, or fire extinguishers, or simply being frozen out.

You can read “TBOTE” to find out about my young adult years… and now? Not much has changed. I am a mom - and I’m not even sure I am a good mom. My daughter doesn’t think so. I’m not sure I do, either. I do my best, but I worry all the time that I may be doing the same things my father used to do to me, focusing on what I DIDN’T do instead of what I DID. I’m tired. I work two jobs, and I raise my daughter the best that I can - all by myself. I’m really not trying to sound all “poor me” here, but you know what? It sucks. And it’s hard. And I really wish I had a husband or boyfriend to help me out sometimes. Believe me, this is NOT where I thought I would be at 42.

Ha.

Not by a long shot.

I’ve been through a lot in my life, most of it brought on by myself, some of it not, but I’ve survived. Yes, I suppose I am a strong woman, but please stop telling me that. I’m tired of being strong. I need someone to lean on. I need to figure out why I am so unhappy with who I am, despite the fact that I am successful even without a college degree, and still somewhat attractive, and have plenty of “friends.” I need to stop feeling so inadequate when I look at or hear about other people’s lives.

I need to stop looking at pictures of Ann, and Suzy, and Linda and Dawn because it hurts so bad knowing that I let that go that I can hardly breathe sometimes.

But I think what I need to start doing most of all is loving myself - and making no apologies for who I am.

Blackout

Now 15, my daughter is starting her sophomore year of high school. Which I am really having a hard time wrapping my mind around. Not just because she is almost halfway through her teens, and I still feel (ok, sometimes!) like I just completed them, but because I remember all the things I used to do starting in sophomore year. And it scares the hell out of me.

Her high school has a summer reading list, and this year I found two books I thought would interest her - one about teenage drinking, and one about teen suicide. I wound up checking both out from the library, and she picked (of course) the melodramatic “Thirteen Reasons Why,” about a girl who had offed herself. Since I had the other book as well, I decided to read it myself.

It is called “Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood.”

Can I just start by saying that I cannot recommend this book enough? I am only 100-odd pages from the end of this 350 page book, and I started it yesterday. It is haunting, it is scary, it is real. I remember so much of my wasted (no pun intended) youth mirroring many of the events of the author’s life. Alcohol was the way for girls to “loosen up” and be “social.” And it was inevitable that eventually you would begin to become a bit too loose, and social to a fault. That you would begin to feel “less than” instead of super cool when you drank. That you would do and say things that you regretted but could never wipe away.

Obviously, if you have read any of “TBOTE,” you already know that the bulk of my issues centered on drugs rather than alcohol, but oh I had my moments... Funny thing was, once I started using the alcohol always took a backseat. Of course, this was after the college year (yes, I only managed almost a full year at college) I spent at keg parties, and International drink nights, and buckets of beer during happy hour on Friday afternoons, and drinking a complete bottle of apple schnapps by myself before the Valentine’s bash - while writing down a toast for each and every shot. Back then, I prided myself on my “tolerance,” and the fact that I could usually drink anyone under the table. Not the thing that most good girls would normally be proud of, but I waved that fact around like a banner. In fact, my 18th birthday is carefully documented in my diary from the afternoon happy hour at which I downed untold amounts of Jack Daniels, tequila and Southern Comfort (all with beer chasers, mind you) - then continued the celebration at a frat house with friends by drinking copious amounts of champagne and eventually passing out.

The thought of those days actually makes me shudder. How young and stupid I was. How lucky. How ironic, though, that the thing that eventually curbed my drinking would also be the thing that brought me to my knees...

In any case, all those years of “partying hard” eventually took their toll. I quit drinking altogether when I first got involved in Cocaine Anonymous, then after two years decided I wanted to be able to drink socially again. I was scared shitless, since in the program you are basically told “if you are addicted to one thing, you are addicted to everything.” I truly felt deep down that I wasn’t addicted to alcohol - but I still made my friends promise to watch me when I sipped my first beer in two years to make sure I didn’t wind up going out to score or anything.

I didn’t, and I didn’t get wasted, either. What I realized was that I could drink responsibly. At 30 years old, I no longer had the desire to drink until I couldn’t drink anymore. I could have a few drinks at a party, or a wedding, or just while out with friends, and be fine. I could keep beer or wine or vodka in my house, and I wouldn’t chug the bottles and then go out looking for more. I wouldn’t always drink, mind you, in fact, I was usually the designated driver, so often I just let others imbibe. And it didn’t bother me at all. I turned into the “mom” drinker - I remember as a kid noticing that the younger crowd always drank beer, and the moms and aunts drank mixed drinks or wine. For whatever reason, about five or six years ago, I found I could no longer stomach beer. I had definitely become the mom drinker.

When I started waitressing and the younger crowd would go out, I would occasionally join them. But I never drank too much, in fact, sometimes I would just drink water. Even when there were times I would tell myself and others “This weekend, I am going to have FUN! I am not driving anywhere, so I can drink all I want!” I would usually end up stopping after a cool buzz, and switching to water. I just didn’t like the feeling of not being in control, of being sick, of not being me.

Which is why what happened Monday night still makes me queasy in the pit of my stomach.

I went out with some friends to a Cubs rooftop game. All you could eat and drink for a pretty sweet price. I informed my friend Gina that I was ready to have a good time, and forget about any issues about dealing with teenagers. She was with my 100%, but since she had school in the morning, decided to only drink root beer. I started drinking my little cups of chardonnay at 6:00. I ate, I drank, I was merry. I could feel the warmth of the wine, and was getting tipsy. I was chatty, and feeling good. I was socializing with anyone who would socialize with me, and in the Chicago Cubs atmosphere, that is usually pretty much everyone. It was a good night. I spoke to my daughter and my brother on the phone around 8:45, and definitely wasn’t drunk at that time. In the 7th inning, at around 9:30-ish, the cutoff time for serving alcohol approached. I told Gina I was going to get my last glasses of wine for the evening. By my count, (and hers, she told me later) I had finished 8 glasses and was going to get numbers 9 & 10. I know this sounds like a lot, but let’s keep in mind this was over almost 4 hours - and they were 5 oz wine glasses. Definitely enough to get me intoxicated, but not enough to cause what happened next.

I went down a flight to get my wine, and found any empty bar with just one guy standing at the edge. I ordered my wine, then chatted with him. Now comes the stupidest thing I have ever done - I asked him to watch my drinks while I went to the bathroom. I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but I was feeling happy and buzzed and everyone was my friend.

Apparently not.

When I came back, I took my drinks, drank one of them, and that is the last thing I remember. Initially, my friends just thought I was incredibly drunk, as did pretty much everyone there. Only those who really knew me would realize that something was seriously wrong. I began vomiting uncontrollably and I vaguely remember being on a bathroom floor, unable to move. Completely unable. It was the scariest feeling I have ever felt. My mind wasn’t functioning properly, and my body was completely incapacitated. That is truly the only thing I remember after that last glass of wine - the feeling that I couldn’t move and was probably dying.

Thank God for Gina, who called my mom who called my brother to come and “rescue” me. I don’t remember anything about him being there, but according to Gina, he was wonderful. Of this, I have no doubt, because Bob has always been my hero. From what I was told, he managed to get me downstairs and into the car, and drove me back to his place to sleep. And my mother told me the next day that Bob kept checking on me all night to make sure I was ok. Apparently an ambulance had even been called, because I was that bad.

In the morning when I woke up, I felt fine. A little groggy, but not hungover. Definitely not wine-hungover, which I understand is the worst kind to have. What I did feel was dread and confusion. Bob filled me in on most of the evening, and together we figured out that I must have been drugged. Even he said that the last time he saw me drunk had been almost ten years ago at his 30th birthday party, and that I didn’t blackout like I had the night before. Additionally, he had spoken to me barely an hour before my mom had called him to help me. And how could I have remembered exactly how much I drank if I was so obliterated that I blacked out? There were too many things that just didn’t make sense. Gina had been my angel, and she even said she had never seen me like that - and that it was like one minute I was talking and the next a complete change came over me. I pretty much owe her my life - literally. It scares the hell out of me thinking about what could have happened.

But it was a lesson learned - and in a way it reminded me of who I never want to be. Despite the fact that what happened was not my fault, there were plenty of people who probably just saw me as a stupid drunk girl making a scene. And the fact is, I am a 40-something mother of a teenager to whom I am trying to teach the dangers of partying and leaving drinks unattended and drugs... I know it was stupid leaving my drink, and believe me it will never happen again. I quite enjoy being the girl who doesn’t drink much and may be silly at times but is never “plastered.” I hate not being in control and I hate the person who did this for taking my control away. I thank God for Gina and my brother for being my saviors, and I pray that my daughter never winds up in a situation like that.

It’s a scary crazy world out there - so watch your back.

RIP

So like everyone else in the world, I was totally shocked by the news of the death of Michael Jackson. Initially, it seemed surreal, that this pop icon who had been gone from our thoughts and our realities for so long was now also gone from this earth. And then came the barrage of media stories, of extended Michael Jackson playlists, of memories of the King of Pop. And although I was saddened by his death itself, it struck me that I was more melancholy about something else - his death, to me, represented the death of a part of my youth.

As a teenager of the 80's, Michael Jackson played a huge part of my life. The music, the fashion, Bubbles the chimp, the Jordan/Jackson video, watching "Friday Night Videos" waiting for the newest video from MJ... being appalled by the fact that we were expected to PAY to see the full-length "Thriller" video at the movie theaters. I had a friend who could mimic the moves on the "Billie Jean" video like a pro - and we all worshipped him. I myself practiced for hours in front of the tv, rewinding the "Thriller" video over and over again so I could practice the moves of the zombies at the end and be as cool as everyone else.

My vision of Michael Jackson wasn't of child molestation and shame, it was of a breathy-voiced man-child who built an amusement park in his backyard. Who had a petting zoo with llamas. Who hired actual gang members to dance in his "Beat It" video. And who, rumor had it, rehabilitated these gang-bangers, some of whom went on to become profession dancers or actors - or so they said.

My entire adolescence was played out with Michael's songs as the background music. From skating at the roller rink to "PYT" feeling like hot shit, to jamming to the the beat of "Smooth Criminal," there was something about his songs that always made you feel good. And the videos - there will never be anything like them. Ever. Almost every one told a story, in a sense, and always sucked you in with the amazing dance moves and irresistible beat. The morphing faces on "Black and White" showed us that were actually all the same person. And do I even need to get into "We Are the World?" Probably the most amazing song AND video of that era. Who back then didn't have fun trying to figure out who was singing what line, and then laughing with glee when you saw the video and found out you were right?

When I think about Michael Jackson, I think of those days, of my teenage years. I weep not so much for the passing of a talented, yet sick and lonely man, but for the loss of my youth. Because the memories that flood back in my mind are so bittersweet, of a time when I thought I knew everything but now realize I knew nothing. A time when my biggest concern was trying to figure out how to get my curfew extended. Or how to afford the designer jeans I wanted. Or whether or not the cute guy at the roller rink would ask me to skate couples only on Friday night.

I guess it's kind of ironic that the memories I have when I hear of Michael are so innocent, when he turned out to be anything but. It broke my heart to hear all the accusations, but I always knew deep down that they were true. I have no doubt that he did what he was accused of, but the sad part is, I also have no doubt that he truly did not feel it was wrong. Michael Jackson was a very sick person, one whose psyche was so damaged beyond repair that he chose to remain in his own world, where he had no way to differentiate between improper sexual contact and love. I never thought of him as gay, more as asexual - someone who truly had no concept of physical love between a man and a woman. He felt safe with children, he was more or less a child himself, so he saw nothing wrong with what he did.

Unfortunately for him, society did. And I did. And even though the world did too, he got acquitted. Which probably didn't help him so much as harm him, by allowing him to flee the country and the spotlight and never get the help he needed. I heard it said that Michael Jackson seemed to be a Benjamin Button-esque type person, having to be an adult and responsible at such a young age while in the "Jackson Five," then slowly regressing to regain a lost youth as he aged physically. He started as a man, and ended as a child. A lost, chemically dependent child who only wanted to help people and make people love him. He hated the paparazzi, but loved to be adored. And in his death, he is getting the adoration and love he craved so much in life.

His story is a sad and tragic one, and I am sure we are only beginning to hear all the details surrounding his sudden death and the last months of his life. He will always be remembered as an icon, the King of Pop, but there will also always be the stigma of what he eventually became in the later years.

To me, he will always be remembered as the soundtrack of my youth.

TWO IN THREE DAYS!!

Wow - can this really be happening? TWO posts in three days?? Hasn't happened in like, forever, no? But there it is. I think it may have something to do with sue, a new reader who made me feel really good - but pretty guilty for neglecting "TBOTE." Not that the rest of you haven't of course. But the rest of you are like family, practically, who (no offense) I can kind of shrug off and tell "yeah, yeah, it's coming along" and I know you'll deal with it. But if there are new people out there... Oh, the pressure!!

And I also want to say how happy I am to see my old pals commenting still. Alice - I'm going out on a limb and saying yes, you will probably meet sullen teen this summer. Although you may wish you hadn't. (Just kidding, of course - she really is a great kid - just a typical teenager!) And Ranger Tom and Network Geek - so good to see you both!

Anyway, sue pointed out to me that it has been over a year since I have posted a chapter. And I am actually aware of that. And I know I have been promising and promising... I do have the best intentions - in all honesty, I can't really say why I am so stuck. I mean, hell, I lived it, right? It's not like I don't know what is going to happen next. In fact, I've always known exactly where this book would end - and how it would leave you hanging just enough to want to read the sequel. I know, I know - pretty arrogant to discuss a sequel when I can't even get through the first one, but that has always been my plan. Only one sequel, though, my life got pretty boring pretty quick after I had my daughter. But in a good way - trust me!

I've been really trying to figure out what has been keeping me from not just TBOTE, but from the blog in general. I mean, I used to LOVE to write. When I began this blog, I had to post every day. And I enjoyed it. A lot. I always managed to find the time while working for Satan. However, things have changed. At home, the computer has been hijacked by a tall blonde who says she's my daughter. I am lucky to sneak in for two minutes to check e-mail while she walks the dog. In fact, even now, I am only able to write freely since it is 9 am Saturday morning and she is still sleeping. So if I am struck with an idea, or feel the urge to write at home, I generally have to try to hold onto it until the computer is free. And inevitably, by the time it is, I have either forgotten or lost the impulse.

At work, it is a lot harder to find the time. I mean, I work for the government now, people. You can't slack off when your boss is the President of the United States. Ok, so there may be a number of people who can, but I am not one of them. I really do enjoy my job - collecting money owed to victims of federal crimes from criminal debtors. There is nothing more satisfying than finding a criminal who hasn't paid his restitution in YEARS and garnishing his wages. Or seizing his bank account. And finally giving back to the victim. Awesome stuff. Plus, since my position is within the office of the United States Attorney's office, it has some pretty cool perks - like getting to attend the sentencing hearings of Chicago mobsters James Marcello, Joseph Lombardo, and most recently (and notoriously) Nicholas Calabrese. I love my job. Never thought I'd say it, but I really do. And as such, I am usually too busy making sure to get things done to slack off and write on my blog.

Plus, and maybe I am being paranoid here, there is something else. Logically, it seems ridiculous, since it is still a free country and all... and really, it is probably just some random stranger and not big brother or anything, but still - this kind of freaks me out. I probably shouldn't even write about this in case they are reading this too, but I'm going to anyway. See, I've had statcounter for quite some time now on my blog. To see who's been visiting, what the numbers are - you know. And ever since I started the interview process for my job at the USAO right up to today, someone from Washington, DC has been checking my blog every single day. EVERY DAY. Weird, no? But I mean, really - if they were going to use this against me to get rid of me or anything, I would think there is already plenty of ammo that I've posted. Of course, I have never said anything about the government itself, or my job in detail, or about Obama - but really, I probably wouldn't anyway. I just can't help but wonder what would happen if I did. Would men with dark sunglasses suddenly appear at my desk and escort me into a little room and demand I disable my blog? Would I ever be seen again?? Scary stuff, I tell ya!

Finally, and I've said this before, I got kind of smacked in the face by a roadblock of my own doing regarding more chapters when I decided to contact Kevin. Yes, I haven't written him since I explained to his sister that I was glad he was doing well (despite being in the Illinois Dept of Corrections) but I realized that my curiosity about him was satisfied, and I really didn't think it would be healthy for me to continue communicating with him. Of course, he replied with a pretty nasty letter saying I couldn't just decide to stop writing, that I was just being a big baby and I should suck it up and give him a chance, and that when he got out in August (yes, THIS August) he was going to come find me and prove to me he had changed. Yikes! I asked my friend if I could borrow her husband (who is a big bear of a man) for the day when that happens. I mean, if that happens. Lord know if there's one thing Kevin has always been, it's inconsistent. Consistently inconsistent. Kind of funny, actually. But bringing your past back to the present in a way other than writing about it has a strange affect on a person.

I really think the only way I will get back to the story is if I sit down, re-read the whole thing myself again, and try to really force myself to churn it out. It's ridiculous, really, this shouldn't be such a chore. But it has become one, and I really don't like that feeling. It used to be a catharsis, and I really used to enjoy knowing that other people liked my writing. And it also made me really feel that my dream of being a published author was a possibility - not just a fantasy. I'm not going to sit here and make more promises, you all know me well enough by now to know that although I really mean every word of them, I just don't want to lead you all on. You know the reasons and what I want to do, just know that someday it will be done.

Oh, and? After my last post I had a nice chat with my cousin for an hour, the wine helped me sleep, and although I still do have those feelings, I felt MUCH better in the morning. A bit tired, perhaps, but emotionally better. In case you cared. About a drunken dasi, I mean. Ok, best get going so my darling has the computer warmed up and ready for her when she wakes up. Until later, then!

Fuzzy Observations

Wow - it's been a long time since I posted something while somewhat - er- "under the influence." And the funny thing is, it was only to watch the finale of "ER" and unwind. But somehow I found myself bawling like a baby at practically every scene -including the "pre-show" interview special.

But in my defense, there was really valid reason for my reactions. ER always has very moving storylines that hit home. Tonight was no exception. They had one that involved a 17-year old with alcohol poisoning. Who was playing "I Never." And won. First of all, I used to play "I Never." I usually didn't win, because by the time I would be able to drink at every statement, I was too old to really play the game anymore. But this girl won. And nearly died. I couldn't help but look at Lexie and say "PLEASE promise me..." to which she sneered, "MOM - I wouldn't!" Of course, if I were to go by her MySpace posts, I would know that she has already at least TRIED alcohol. Which scares the hell out of me because I always thought I would be the cool mom who knew everything, who my daughter would always talk to. And she isn't. Instead, I find things out by sneaking onto her MySpace web page. And I don't want her to wind up like me. I don't want her to drink to be cool, to do drugs because her boyfriend does, to escape because she is uncomfortable in her own skin. I always thought I would be the cool mom, the one who she told EVERYTHING to - but alas, it seems I was way off.

My daughter will ALWAYS think of me as the enemy, the "old" person, the one who "doesn't know anything." And GOD, I wish she knew. I wish she knew all the hell I went through in high school, the suicide attempt in college, the ridiculous number of guys I slept with in college and beyond to prove I was WORTH something.... the hopelessness I felt while using, the shame and fear I felt after being raped, the inadequacy I STILL feel on a daily basis, no matter how succcessful or mature or old I become.

I am TERRIFIED that no matter what I do, my daughter will wind up going down the same path I did - and all I will be able to do is watch helplessly. I have nightmares that my little girl will suffer and hurt and cry as much as I did for so many years - and that she will cut herself off from me and isolate herself as I did. I know she is only 13, I know I didn't get into anything until my 20's - but what if I did it?? What if I gave her the gene to make her like I was? What if it kicks in early? What then????

I am scared, and alone, and all I do is work my ass off and make money and be strict with my daughter and watch tv and sleep... I have no time for me, or for fun, or for a significant other... and you know what? It really sucks. I HATE being 40 and and alone and so damn tired. I hate that every waking minute I am either working or bitching at my daughter. I hate bitching at my daughter - but all that is, really, is a manifestation of my fear. My fear that I am not a good enough mother, that I am not there enough, that I am not involved enough to make a real difference in my daughter's life. That I will let her down, like I let down my father, and mother, and brother, and hell - everyone who has ever been close to me.

And then there was the backstory on ER about the couple who had been together for 72 years - and the wife was dying. One word - Poppops. I think I pretty much manage to convince myself that he's still around... it's only when I really think about it that it hits me - he's gone. Oh, shit, this sucks. Now I remember why I don't drink. Because it brings to light everything about my life that I try to ignore when I am sober.

Like that fact that I am a loser. And I do a pathetic job of pretending I am still young and hot and cool (see that? Is "cool" even an acceptable term nowadays?). And although I am desperately lonely - I would rather leave people guessing as to my sexualuty due to my lack of relationships that make any kind of effort to find the man of my dreams (yes, man, that part of my life is not in question). I don't know. I really don't. I wish I did - it would make thing so much easier.

All I do know is that I am probably one of the better actresses in this country - only I waste my talent working for the US Attorney's office. Because I have everyone convinced I am this amazing, strong woman who has this awesome life. Yeah. That's me.

How about we go out for a drink? After a few, you may take off those rose-colored glasses.

The Good Old Days

Remember when I used to write about my daughter...? Cute little anecdotes about a kid full of spunk and fun? Things that made you chuckle or smile? Remember the pictures of a sweet little girl with super blonde hair and an angelic smile? So do I. Which is why I am struggling to figure out -

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED???

Where did my little darling go? Who is this sullen, attitude-filled punk who is now living in my house? Who is this tall, lanky teenager who spends hours - no, DAYS - at a time on the internet or cell phone, texting and IM'ing and living in a virtual world while ignoring the real one??

What happened to the sixth grader who got straight A's? Did this creature who consistently gets C's & D's because of late and/or missing assignments (but "don't WORRY about it, Mom!) take over her body?? Where did the child who used to listen to me and cry if I reprimanded her go? I really don't like this young woman who sneers and ignores me, and laughs when I threaten her.

Can it be possible that THIS is my daughter? This dishwater blonde creature with braces and eyeliner who "forgets" to do her chores, leaves pop cans and dishes all over the house, drops her clothes in the hallway, ignores the dog she begged for until the poor thing pees on the rug...?

No way. I raised MY daughter better than this. MY daughter has respect for her mother. MY daughter cares about school. And her dog. And her chores. MY daughter ENJOYS spending time with her mother.

Doesn't she??

You know, every once in a while I see a little glimpse of that blonde angel I used to know... during a talk in the car, or while watching tv... not often, but SOMETIMES. So I know there is still hope.

So I guess I'll just hang out here and wait for her to come back.