Temptation?

I'll get to the photo eventually. You'll have to hang in there with me while I get to it though.

After Friday's verbal diarrhea, I've had loads of time to think. The overriding thought has been how I censor myself -- sometimes here, overwhelmingly so in everyday life.

I grew up in a household in which certain things just weren't discussed. As a result, sometimes reality seemed like a dream. I didn't know how to ask the questions as a kid and so I chalked things up to an over-active imagination. It's always kind of surprising to find out that those supposed imaginings were in fact real. (And there's the stuff that's buried so deep that I will never have a memory of it.) And then you're told to not discuss these things with others. These things along with the other memories about which you have no doubt.

And I think that this is the very core of what we like to call dysfunction. The incessant lies. I suppose the good thing that comes out of this is that you can spot someone else's bullshit a mile a way. Because if you're really good at the whole thing, others may suspect that at times you're full of it but they can never really prove it.

Me? I'm really good at putting on the happy face when I need to. And of saying what I think others want to hear. If it's all a lie? Well, it was all for a purpose. (We won't even get into how I have learned how to read people pretty well over the years and so can manipulate them pretty well when I so desire. It's all about survival but more about that later.) When things started to fall apart for me in undergrad, no one around me really had a clue how bad it was until it was almost too late. (Don't worry. I vowed years ago that I would never go back to that place again and I know in my heart that it's true. And when my mother tries to tell me about all the horrible things that people do to one another, I remind her, "No one can do anything worse to me than I have already done to myself. And I survived that." Because my mother likes to remind me that we are both survivors. And if we're ever put in a situation that means our survival or the other person's? Well, we know who will walk away from the situation.) Hell. I started in high school. I could tell classmates fantastic tales about my life and they would look at me saying, "I know that you're lying to me but you're so convincing that I want to believe you." I explained to them that the first part of telling a convincing lie is first convincing yourself that the words that are about to pass your lips are the absolute truth. Because isn't that what good acting is about? Finding that part of yourself that can relate to the story you're about to tell? But back to the matter at hand. I've found that holidays -- the ones that most people spend with family -- tend to bring out the worst in me emotionally. The times when the acting is a little more difficult to pull off convincingly. The times when I am most likely to drop my guard and to say what I really think. Like what I did on Friday night. Because I write those kind of posts all the time. They just never see the light of day.

At these times, I fall into the comfortable -- obsessing about my weight. I know that when I look in the mirror, the person who I see is far from what others would consider fat. This is fine for the very logical part of my brain -- the part of me that makes me good at my job. But then there's the emotional me. The me who felt hurt and abandoned when my parents divorced all those years ago. This person doesn't understand logic in the least.

Food has always played a big role in my family. My father's mother's wonderful cooking. Well, my mother's mother is a wonderful cook as well. But unlike my other grandmother, she has always been obese. My mother's older sister as well. No. My aunt wasn't always obese. That was something that came later in her life. And my mother and one of her younger sisters have always dieted and exercised so that they too will not become obese. And somehow I can look at my mother who wears size 10/12 and think that she looks perfectly normal. And it probably has something to do with the fact that she is completely comfortable being that size. Even though, when I was growing up she was a 6/8. And the majority of the women in my family think that I could stand to gain some weight. Even now. And for a brief moment I thought of culture but then thought that I don't feel like going down that road right now. Well, not completely. Let me leave you with this one question. Is the quest for thinness a part of the assimilation process?

As I thought of all of this, I thought about how much of a woman's identity is tied up in her appearance. My mother tried to raise me to not think about my appearance -- well, as much as a Southern woman can. To my mother, one should never worry about being pretty but one should look presentable at all times. And me? Sometimes I don't look presentable. Because I will go to the grocery store with my hair pulled back in a scrunchy, no make-up, and wearing a ratty t-shirt and jeans with flip-flops. And every now and then -- well now that I'm an adult -- my mother will say to me, "You really don't notice, do you? How people stop to look at you? And you know if you paid more attention to your appearance..." Oh, and when my mother says this, she means "positive" attention. As in some guy
breaking his neck" to see me. And then I explain to her that because of how she raised me, I just don't notice because that's not really important. But that's a lie.

And I think of how my mother feels. When we go out to eat, my mother points out how waiters are always quick to respond to my requests but virtually ignore her. When I go out in public with her, she comments on the attention I get -- whether it be here or in Mexico. And now as I age, I understand what my mother is feeling. It is our love of youth. And my mother has never been one to buy-in to Miss Clairol so her white hair gives away her age. A few years ago, I took her to a salsa club in San Francisco. My mom can salsa with the best of them. I was merely her driver (My mom almost never drives into San Francisco, partially because she gets lost.) and so had no intention of dancing. Yes, I can salsa but it really isn't my thing. So there was her horror of sitting there and discovering that most of the guys didn't want to dance with her because she was "too old." Well, at least that was our take on the situation. Instead, guys would come to ask me to dance and I would suggest that they dance with my mom instead. And yes, my mother and I have had a strange relationship over the years. When I was in high school, many family friends commented that I acted more like the mother while my mother was the child.

Where was I before I was sidetracked? Oh yeah. One of the lessons I learned in college is that a woman's appearance does matter. And when people think you're pretty? Well, you can get away with a whole lot of stuff. Especially if you have brains and wit to back it up. Like you can get guys to do things for you. One of my college roommate's told me that the reason why I was so successful with my demands was that I always put them in a tone of voice that could be taken as a joke.

Once you have tasted power, it's hard to let it go. And one of the lessons that my mother taught me is that as a woman ages in our society, she is often thought to be less attractive. That's why my mother always stressed the brains thing. A girl has to have something upon which to fall back. And I'm not the botox or plastic surgery type. But I do love my Miss Clairol. And staying thin.

So today I headed up to my mom's house because it had been at least two weeks since I last checked on it. And there was the one item there that I have never owned -- a scale. I've never had much use for scales in the past. But today I was full of myself. I knew that over the last couple of weeks, I had dropped at least five pounds. Imagine my shock when I stepped on the scale to discover that I weighed what I had previously thought was my all-time high in weight. That means that I had been weighing much more previously. And I reminded myself that this was still less than what the "ideal weight calculator" I had found online this past week said I should weigh. But then I thought of my closet. And originally I had thought that I only needed to drop another five pounds or so but now I had to up it to five to ten pounds.

OK. I know that ten pounds sounds like a lot but that's where I was about five years ago. Back when my mother didn't ask me when to expect her grandchild. In my twisted control freak mind (because the logical part of me knows that this is the origin of it all), it's one extreme or the other. And it's a lot easier for me to lose weight than to gain it. Or at least that was the case in the past.

After stopping at my mother's house, I bit the bullet and went grocery shopping -- something I really haven't done in weeks. Because I know that I'm better off eating stuff that I've prepared instead of buying takeout. Well, except for that fabulous salad I had from Specialty's this past week. And then I cleaned out the lab experiments from the fridge.

Lab experiments? Well, they must leave the house immediately once they have left the fridge. And so while at the dumpster, I ran into my neighbor. Who works for a chocolate company. Thus the photo. Because he had been promising me chocolate for some time.

It's a good thing that I don't like chocolate that much. And almonds? Hate them. So that bar on top will be going into work with me tomorrow. The others as well. But maybe I'll taste a little bit first.

Bottom line. Just what a chick who is feeling a little obsessive with weight needs... (And that was said with a smile in case you were wondering.)

Various stuff on a Friday evening

After a hard week at work, I headed out to get my 'do done. I have found that Fridays after work are the best time. Less disruptive to my schedule. In the past I went in on Saturdays. But that doesn't leave me free to go to Sacramento for the weekend, if necessary. And yeah, next weekend I'm heading up there. Hopefully to hit the nail salon with my stepmother. Because she's blind now -- I mean really blind according to the doctors at the UC Davis Medical Center where she went earlier this week for a full day of testing on her eyes -- and keeps fucking up her nails when she runs into stuff. Yet she keeps telling my dad that she doesn't need someone at the house with her 24/7. And she's telling her friends that my dad is spending too much money. This coming from the woman who loves shopping at the dollar store. Oh, and when she first married my dad, she was still buying Velveeta. EWWWWW! Bottom line is that she has always been rather cheap. But yeah, she's blind and has lost at least 40% of her hearing and people are supposed to leave her at home alone during the day while my dad is at work. Sure.

But back to me. I headed into San Leandro after work. And while I was at the shop, my hairdresser was also doing her niece's hair. They shared some dark news with me. Apparently, Neldam's Danish Bakery will be closing this year. NOOOO! Growing up, all of my birthday cakes (Strawberry Rum Cake, in case you wanted to know.) came from this place. As did my cousin's wedding cake. They are the bar to achieve in baking, as far as I am concerned. And they have been around so long that you start to take the place for granted. I know that I will start going there frequently in the coming months. Hell. I love the place so much, I might just have to stage a protest.

And then I had to give the niece a ride home from her aunt's shop as the niece too lives in Berkeley. She's in her senior year at Berkeley High. I felt obliged to chat with her during the drive. And talking to her, I was reminded of why I used to love teaching so much. She wants to go into cosmetology, like her aunt. And she wants to one day own a chain of shops that are multi-ethnic/multi-cultural. She pointed out how most salons are still so segregated and that there must be an end to this. We discussed racism in our society. And then I dropped her off near the Whole Foods -- which she swore was her favorite place of all.

And then I continued along Shattuck. And my heart skipped a beat. The old Eddie Bauer store had lights blazing. Since Eddie Bauer left, the only activity in that spot has been in October when the place has become a Halloween store. So I slowed down to take a peek. It's now a new branch of Cody's Books. I wanted to scream -- in delight. I have been heartbroken since the original location on Telegraph closed almost two years ago. And now to have it within walking distance? Be still my heart.

Except for the family health issues, I am starting to think that 2008 is going to be a very good year.

Test drive

I don't know about y'all but my possessions? Sometimes they speak to me. Like if I get a really pretty dress. Suddenly I'll hear a little voice saying, "You know what? We should go out somewhere."

OPH definitely has a voice. Let me explain some stuff first, though. My love of OPH started with getting my hair braided. (Oh, and OPH belongs on your head, not on your clothes. That's just way too dark for me. Like Holocaust kind of dark. And that's never cool in my book.) That first time, I thought, "Well hell. If I'm going to spend all this time (8 hours) and money, I may as well get some length as well." And then I discovered ponytails. I have always kept them in two lengths -- Everyday and Party Hair.

Everyday has been pretty happy recently. The same cannot be said about Party Hair. Party Hair has spent months sitting in a mesh bag. At first it was a gentle whisper. "Hey! You know what would be cool? If we went out for a night on the town." I ignored that whisper. And then Party Hair turned downright ugly. Screaming at me like a banshee. "Beyotch! I know you heard me! You're taking me out. Now!" It got so that not only did I worry that the cats would kill me in my sleep, but that Party Hair would do the same.

Then Mommy Zombie came up with an idea. A girls' night before she brings C2 home next weekend.

Saturday night we met up at Cesar -- and we both took our OPH out for an evening. There were food, drinks, and conversation. (Oh. And one of the points of conversation was a realization that she had made. Those food photos I post? I rarely eat all of that. At least not at one sitting. Hell. Because I like to taste and sample while I cook, I often plate stuff for the sake of a photo and then wrap it up in the fridge for later consumption. Mommy Zombie calls this one of the secrets of the skinny girls.) And the OPH basked in the whole thing.

Leaving Cesar, I walked with Mommy Zombie to the taxi stand in downtown. (Yes, there is one. Right next to the BART station.) On the way there, she asked how far my fave bar was. I told her a few blocks past the taxi stand. And then that other voice in my head spoke up -- my inner Holly. Well, she said, "Of course we can pop down there for a bit."

Now I'll admit that I was a bit nervous. The last time I was in the place was right before Christmas. And I don't have much memory of that evening. All I know is that I didn't have any cash and I had left my debit card at another bar. As far as I knew, I still owed money and they were pissed off at me. But they weren't. I ran into the former hostess with her boyfriend. After a hug, she said that she had just been asking where I've been. No one knew. Then my bartender came over and greeted me with a hug. I knew then that all was safe. The bad part was that he no longer could remember if I liked regular or diet Coke with my Myers. But at least he remembered that I like lots of lime. My inner Holly did not take this as a good sign.

So Mommy Zombie and I drank. And she taught me a really cool game -- "Live or Die." As folks walk past you say whether they should live or die based upon their look. One woman had been slated for death until I overheard her in the bathroom. She was speaking Portuguese. We could not hold her to American fashion ideals and so decided that this time she could live. But her outfit was still hideous.

You should have seen the bartender's shock when I closed out my tab after the second round. I explained that it had been a long day -- and it had. So Mommy Zombie and I headed back down the street. We didn't even have to go all the way to the cab stand when a cab driver called out his window to ask if we needed a cab.

And the photo? This used to be the boutique on my walk home. You know. The place with the cute dresses of which I would take photos on my way home. I guess I should be more surprised that they lasted this long. The clothes were cute but a bit overpriced in my opinion. The curse of having spent years working in fabric stores and of knowing how to sew.

But now I'm hearing new voices. The voices of all that other fantastic OPH I saw at the beauty supply store. They want me to liberate them. *sigh* What's a girl to do?

Happiness

Last night I got to experience one of the happiest things in life -- looking at OPH. There were so many fabulous choices. Yes, I will be returning to the store some more. And what made it all so much more fun? Going there with Mommy Zombie who willingly tried on wig after wig. Oh, and the guy who yelled in the door of the store as we were standing at the register, "You ladies don't need to be in there." (I'll let her tell you about her foray into the corner store for some milk. I'm still cracking up over that.) I just hope that Mommy Zombie will be able to keep the Commander's hands off her hair.

Randomness

These are the other thoughts that eluded me yesterday...

1. My cousin pissed the fuck out of me on Thursday night. She told me that I couldn't bitchslap anyone; they were grieving in their own way. (OK. So I accepted this but not the next.) When I told her about my dad dosing my stepmother with the experimental drug, she was cool with this. Yesterday I talked with my cousin who is a psychologist and she agreed that this is a huge boundary issue. (I also shared some other stuff with her that I may or may not share here but that has added to my stress level.)

2. My uncle pissed the fuck out of me on Friday afternoon. While driving up to Sacto on Friday, I decided that I needed some "company" on the road. I realized later that I had broken one of my cardinal rules -- never call the man after noon his time. What the hell am I saying? Never call after 10 a.m. his time. Because he will be probably be lit. And spewing nonsense that he swears his truth. (Why you looking like that? Like you don't have at least one person in your family like that...) So first he was telling me how I couldn't get overly emotional when I saw my dad. Like I don't know how the fuck to act in a situation like this. But the real clincher? That I must never say the word "hospice." I asked him if he really understood what this meant. Every time I tried to start a sentence at this point, the mutha fucka was cutting me off. Finally I told him that I had done the research and if he was not willing to listen to me, then perhaps he should do the research himself. Until then? Shut the fuck up. Especially when the other person is driving. Drunk ass lazy mother fucker who tries to act like he's shit because he has a masters degree and all but hasn't worked steady in who knows how long because he thinks it's the responsibility of others to take care of his drunk broke ass. When he converted to Islam, he learned the talk but not the walk. Unlike my other uncle whom I should have called since he's sane and all. But that uncle would have been at work at that point in the day. Like a lot of folks I know.

3. In dealing with family over this past weekend, I was able to make a huge decision. My peeps are having a reunion this summer in Nashville. If I was going to venture to the South, it would be to Virginia to see my mama's family. I haven't seen them in three years and my grandmother, my last living grandparent, is getting on in years. Besides, my mother's people have always been real. I have never felt the need to stifle myself in any way around them. And right now, I desperately feel the need to be real. So I'm going to skip the reunion this year. I may feel guilty but in my heart I know it's not the healthiest choice for me. If I had unlimited funds and time, I'd show up. But by then, I know that there will be a profound sense of needing to take care of me. And spending time around my dad's side of the family has never been anything about taking care of me. This was a hard choice to make. My father will be greatly disappointed. Then again, he's the one who recently reminded me that I have to make myself happy.

4. No matter what a sycophant I have thought my stepmother to be over the years, I know that she is a strong and resilient woman. She survived divorcing her first husband when he was cheating on her. And raised two sons. And received a masters degree. No, her behavior otherwise served a purpose. She did what needed to be done. And her "friends"? They have always said how lucky she was to end up with my father. So I'm keeping an eye on those heifers. Because my mom keeps warning me that they are trying to get in position to be my new stepmother.

5. One of the women who dropped off food was perfectly innocent. She is the wife of my dad's dentist. I know the husband went to college with my dad's younger sister who lives in Oakland. My dad really wanted me to meet them. Upon seeing one another, the wife and I instantly realized that we had met at some social occasion previously. This frequently happens with our folks. But her daughter? Well looking at her, I suddenly felt like a fat pig. And I'll let those of you who have met me in person ponder that one. Because I quickly dismissed all of those images in my mind. Well except for the perfectly flat stomach that I had up until about five years ago. And there's a little part of my brain that says that if I puke at least a couple of times per week, then I can get there. Because now I remember that back in the days of the flat stomach, I used to puke at least once a week -- sometimes more. And now at this point, I know a few of you have puzzled looks. Cookiecrumb is taking back her comment yesterday about my being grounded and sane.

6. I have a secret. Well not really because I shared it with my cousin the psychologist yesterday. Saturday my dad returned from the center and received a call from his wife's niece -- the daughter of her sister. She told my dad that she had been visiting with my stepmother earlier in the day and that my stepmother had told her that she was giving up and was ready to die. My dad's reaction was, "Now she'll go telling her mother this and her mother will tell everyone she knows." There was also, "I don't need to hear this right now." And then I walked into the garage when he wasn't expecting me. He barely had time to put the vodka bottle back in its hiding place. But they have tons of alcohol throughout the house. So the hiding? Makes me suspicious. Kind of like when I found the bottle of port at his office a couple of years ago. But we all know our roles. And I'm the enabler -- the one who denies things as vehemently as he does, who lies for him, who turns a blind eye. And all I can think is that it's not just my stepmother who is dying. My family is dying. And I know that hospice care would be the best thing for all of us -- to stop this dying -- but I don't know how to speak up.

7. There's a lot I'd like to rant about but, as I said previously, there are more pressing things in my life. (Yeah, I knew back then how things were going to end; I just didn't think it would be so soon.) Now I don't feel so bad. Thanks to a post that Sizzle shared, I have found my way to The Angry Black Woman. They cover the topics upon which I feel to rant more than sufficiently.

8. After all that cooking this weekend, I realized that I didn't have anything for myself at home. Nor did I have the energy to cook. So friggin' tired. I thought of going to Berkeley Bowl but just couldn't. More on that later though. Poulet came to the rescue once more. Sorry Nat. No carrot cake this time. But there was apple-rhubarb crisp.

9. That said, Buzzgirl sent me a link to this blog yesterday. I'm still wiping away the tears from laughter. There are several funny posts there but this is why I just couldn't go to Berkeley Bowl yesterday. Going to Berkeley Bowl is like going to Whole Foods. Except the prices are lower.

10. I'm starting to see some of Marin's concerns. One of her warnings about this whole mess is how other folks, especially one's boss, don't really understand about being an only child. When things start going wrong with your parents, there often isn't anyone else to help out. These thoughts started to fill my head yesterday when I called Thrive!. There's this one group that meets at 10 or 10:30 in the morning. In the past this group met in the evenings. I can't really see my boss going for my being gone once a week for this. Maybe I should just have a meltdown in the office.

11. Today started off well. As I was parking the car, the radio station was playing "Square Biz." Teena Marie always makes me feel better. And this radio station actually played the full song. This other station plays the song near daily but they have a version that does not include the rap. What's up with that?

12. Yeah, sue me for re-posting but I suddenly remembered what I had previously forgotten. One of my fave parts of American Hustle was when Katt was discussing going to war with China. He said that black folks were not going to have any part of it. He pointed out that black women love their Yaki hair too much. And I've gotta say that he's right. Part of what has helped me to maintain my sanity over the last couple of weeks is OPH -- that's other people's hair, if you are not familiar with the term. And they do make some quality because some folks actually think it's mine. Well, it is because I paid for it. Like my aunt said, "Your hair has really grown and it looks so nice." Ummm. I had a bob at Christmas and now have a ponytail that hangs past my shoulders. I don't think they have invented a drug yet that makes your hair grow that fast. So if you're feeling kind of down, go out and get some hair. I plan to get some more in the coming weeks.

Getting out

I tried to call my mother yesterday. I realized that she is going to see her family tomorrow and might actually still need a ride to the airport. I also planned to apologize for cursing at her.

Back in eighth grade, I was almost suspended for a letter that I wrote to the school librarian. I called her a racist in the letter. But that's not what almost got me suspended. I included a line that said something about that she should watch how she treats people. The folks at my junior high took it as a threat. I tried to explain to them that I was not saying that I was going to do anything to her. Instead, I was merely pointing out that others, in the future, may not choose to use the same method for expressing themselves. My favorite part of the whole ordeal was when they asked me who helped me to write the letter. Huh? Apparently my mother explained to them, after she showed up, that I was too intelligent to sign my name to a letter alone if someone else had helped to write it. And why was my mother there? Well, when I first showed up in the counselor's office, the counselor kept asking who else had been with me in the library that day. I felt that it was immaterial and refused to answer, firmly stating that I had written the letter alone. She finally said that if I didn't give her the names that she would call my mother so I did. And then she picked up the phone and called my mother. Bitch! When my mother arrived, the counselor was busy so I was able to give her my side of it all. I found out later that my mother ripped the counselor a new one for how she had treated me. They also decided that I needed to apologize to the counselor. After discussing it all with my mother, she told me that I had to apologize to the woman for making her upset but that I didn't need to apologize for what I said since I sincerely believed it.

Yep, there's that stream of consciousness at work. Because what I now realize is that I am not sorry for what I said to my mother but I am sorry for the words I chose to use to express my displeasure. Most folks who have not known me since childhood do not realize that I have a short fuse. Over the years, I have learned to bite my tongue and to take a breath. The problem with my mother is that I bite my tongue but then never get around to expressing how I really feel. So with her I end up being a walking time bomb. What came out last Monday was months, possibly years, of pent up anger. I have learned how to tell most other folks in a rational way that I am angry and why I am but somehow telling my mother these things is something that I still cannot do.

Enough about that though. I actually got out of the house yesterday. To a hair appointment. Originally I had planned to cancel the appointment because cash is kind of tight right now. But then I got paid more for the dog-sitting gig than I had expected to. About the same amount that my hair appointment would cost. I took it as a sign.

Back in April when my regular stylist was laid up with a broken foot, I went to my mother's stylist for a trim. She cut my hair. As in inches. My hair was no longer shoulder length and was now more like a bob. So I've been trying to let it grow back out but it's been completely frustrating. Summer has been hell because there is nothing worse than being a black woman with non-chemically straightened hair that is too short to pin up when the temperature rises. My solution in the past has been to slick it back and to clip on a ponytail. The only problem is that my current hair color no longer matches the ponytails I own. So after leaving the salon, I headed to the beauty supply. I used to be a plain old #4. (That's a hair color.) The lady in the shop and I decided that the best match for me now is a blend of three colors -- 4, 27, and 30. We thought about the 33 but then decided that it was too dark. And she had ponytails in two different lengths in the colors I needed. And since they were half the price of what I have previously spent on ponytails, I bought both. One is what I like to think of as an everyday look -- just past the shoulders. The other is the length I like to call "party hair." This is the one that hits about mid-back. As soon as I got home, I tried on the everyday length one. (Especially since I now have to adjust to the drawstring versus the clip.) It looked great. Nothing like new hair to make a girl feel good.

And now I have to get ready for my interview. I haven't heard anything from the "dream job." Their possible loss. Today's interview is a second interview. And tomorrow I have a meeting scheduled with someone from a recruiting firm. I'm hoping that I'll be employed within the next couple of weeks. When I shared this news with my dad, he said, "I wasn't that worried about you because you always make things happen." And I should probably thank my mother. Because my anger with her was probably a huge motivating factor. Because in the past whenever I've felt the need to make a job change, I first have to get really angry.

And for those of you who have stuck around this long, a treat.


Inspired by Zoomie. Chicken salad on English muffin topped with avocado and medium cheddar cheese. Delicious.

What now?

I had thought that this post would originally have been titled "A Visit to the Land of Denial" but events worked out differently.

Yesterday I headed up to Sacramento to visit with my dad and stepmother. Originally my dad and I had planned on catching K.C. and the Sunshine Band but agreed that given the events of this week that perhaps we weren't really up to it. Well, I know I wasn't. So instead we walked around the State Fair a bit and then headed home.

There was dinner and then TV viewing with my stepmother. Once my stepmother learned that I would be staying overnight, she asked if I wanted to join her for a manicure. I haven't polished my fingernails in years but did say that I could probably use a pedicure. This was my first pedicure ever. And I might just be hooked.


And as I pointed out to my stepmother, you may as well go all out. Notice the design on the big toe.

Oh, and did I mention the massage chair? Well, there was a massage chair involved.

My dad was thankful that I was there because otherwise my stepmother would have driven herself there. I had my doubts about her driving abilities and insisted upon driving. When we stopped at the ATM and I had to help her because she couldn't read the text on the screen, we both agreed that it was for the best that I drove.

After chilling at the house for a bit, I headed over to my father's office. This was the important part because I was a little short on next month's rent and would need funds from Bank of Dad.

Then it was time for the discussion. What first? That perhaps it was time to swallow my pride and to move back to my mother's house. He pointed out that she will soon be returning to Mexico. Ummm, that would be sometime in October. A lot of stuff can happen in that amount of time. I told him that it was not a matter of pride but of my own mental health. I explained the events that led me to move to my current apartment.

He and other people to whom I have spoken keep saying that I only have one mother and it is important to maintain a relationship with her. During my years of therapy, this topic did come up. The therapist stated that I should only maintain a relationship with her as long as it is relatively healthy for me.

My dad also gave me the "You're much more intelligent than she is and should therefore be the bigger person" speech. Sorry. Been doing that for years and right now I'm kind of burnt.

Then there was the whole job situation. He said that I needed to start being realistic. He also shared some other stuff that I'm hurting over right now but just do not want to share here at this time. All I will say is that has to do with some untrue perceptions of me. And the fact that there may be some out there sharing these perceptions that could make it difficult for me to find other work.

I explained to him the whole thing about the old job. That I was being told one thing and that was why I had not given up hope on that front. And that if I had known the full facts of what was going on there, I would have taken a completely different approach to the situation. But one can only make decisions based upon the information to which one has access.

On a happier note, while I was driving back to the Bay Area today, I received a phone call. I have a phone interview tomorrow for one of the other positions for which I applied during this past week. And the dream job? Haven't heard from them but I left a message today. Live and learn.

Bottom line is I don't know what's next in life. I can't put into words but I'll know it when I see it. Until then, I'm just living day-to-day. And this weekend? Hanging with Dumb and Dumber once more.

Today's fun

Nothing deep and insightful today. Nothing particularly witty either. Today is errand day.

First there's another visit to the optometrist. Apparently my last glaucoma test was a little questionable and they want to redo it. Ever have those days in which you wonder if you're falling apart?

Then it's off for a hair appointment. The last time I went, it only took an hour and a half. I know that I won't be as lucky this times as it is time to color once more.

And I guess I should continue to look for a job. *sigh*

What's important

I spend a lot of time reading David's stuff each week. I sent a link to his blog to a friend in NOLA and she agreed that in many ways he is our lost brother -- even if he doesn't realize it yet.

I often find myself thinking about my friendship with Jade. If I had met her later in life, I'm not sure that we would still be friends. Jade was, is, and probably always will be, very superficial. But that was her upbringing. I know this because she has been my friend since I was seven. Her family lived two houses away and we were always in and out of each other's houses. I have heard the statements that her mother makes. Her mother is all about appearances. Well, mine is too but not to the same extent that Jade's mother is. Jade's mother is saditty. Nah, actually she's bougie. (And this is why Jade will probably never read this blog. Because the truth can be painful.) So Jade's mom often sat around with her nose in the air, looking down on us plebians, or so she imagined us, and told her daughter how pretty she was.

I had a twisted upbringing during which my mother never allowed people to compliment me on my physical appearance. Turns out that folks actually thought I was cute, but also a little intimidating. Because of my upbringing, I hit college thinking that I was not physically attractive. That was OK though because I learned to appreciate the people who liked me for me and not for what they saw. It gave me the insight to see past the outer shell in others as well. Through my 20s and 30s I have often found the need to explain my choices in whom I date to others. "But you're too cute to be going out with him." Yes, the physical package is nice and all but after a few dates, there has to be something more there.

This is probably why I was so intrigued by online dating in some ways. I usually refuse to post a picture. I want to be judged by what I say, not how I look. The one time I posted an ad with a photo, I got responses from guys who were just responding to the photo and not to anything I had written. I'm sorry but I can get that walking into a bar or club. Heck. I can get that walking down the street.

In recent years I have had conversations with my mother on this topic.

"You just don't notice, do you? That guy almost broke his neck trying to get another look at you."

"Yes, they do that. It's not important though."

Experience has taught me that those guys could care less about what I think, what I feel. And I point out to my mother that in the end, these are the things that really matter. Despite all of her faults, she has given me the strength to be happy with who I am and to not accept anyone who cannot see the beauty in that alone.

Back to Jade. When Jade and I graduated college, I had a conversation with my mom about the whole dynamic when we go out. Jade has always been outgoing. I am a natural introvert. It took me years to learn to be this outgoing. My mother said at that point, "But you have always been cuter than Jade. The difference is your personalities." Jade has always been about acquaintances while I wanted friends. Also Jade's parents were a lot better actors. Or perhaps she was better at not internalizing the stuff going on at home than I was. Either way, I ended up a lot more guarded and slower to make choices about people. I guess that's what I've always loved about Jade -- her ability to live in the moment, to not want to go too deep.

We complement each other. Jade, at heart, is the true partygirl and I was just along for the ride -- a pretender to the throne. No, I was the brains of the operation, always coming up with the plan of how we would get away with our latest hairbrain scheme. Our mothers thought that we were a bad influence on each other. As adults, we told them that we share the blame for everything equally.

David has a hard time imagining 40. I did too when I was his age. Mostly because I didn't imagine that I would ever live that long. I spent my teens and 20s being highly self-destructive -- "Die young and leave a beautiful corpse." My aunt who calls me "The Diva" -- we talk about those times. It wasn't aging that scared me; it was living because sometimes in life, things are not in your control. And no matter how old I get, I know that I will always be beautiful. Because only a beautiful person could look at some screaming homeless guy, like I did last Thursday night, and say, "I will not give you money but if you are hungry like you say you are, then we can go around the corner to the market at the gas station and I will pay for whatever food you want." It took a lot of convincing but as he went through the store, he was as happy as a kid picking out a new toy.

And so I like to think that I am beautiful in my actions and not how I look. (Heck. With the Clairol I can still pass for being in my 20s to most folks.) Beauty is making sure that a soldier has a comfy seat for the ride home. Every now and then true beauty is found in the pages of some magazine proclaiming who is dating whom or who has given birth. But often it's not. That's just entertainment.