New Life

I feel like I've moved miles ahead in the game of life recently, and when I do that, a minor meltdown seems like a catastrophe. I know that it's not. But it sure feels like it.

Move along. There's nothing to see here today.

Did I mention that The Pilot flies hot air balloons? Um. He does. Via a comment on Captain Crab's blog, he offered to take me up on Saturday morning. Early. Like as in "I'll pick you up at 6:30 a.m." So I got up at 5 in order to ingest enough coffee to be pleasant. And I was. I was totally pleasant. If not giddy. I mean, this is something I've never done before. And I was excited. Because I'm not an early riser, I don't often get to breathe in what is the crisp and beautiful morning air in March. In fact, I liked it so much, I might make a new habit of it - this getting up business. This is actually Sunday morning because we went up BOTH days. Yes. Twice. As in, I'm a seasoned balloon rider/helper/chaser now. Hahaha! Not really, but I am a good helper, when I'm not taking pictures.

You get shoes today. Not socks. My co-worker said, "I'd never wear them, but they're cute on you." I love those kind of compliments. Some would call them backhanded, but for me? It means that I've got my own sense of style that is no one else's. Which includes things like this.
Yep. Socks with fluffy flip flops. See? When you're in northern Minnesota, it's cold in the morning, so you want socks, but by mid-morning, you don't. I make my family proud. At least they still sit with me on the beach...

I hope there's dancing in my weekend. For sure, I get three lovely little girls to watch over this afternoon. The three year old has called me twice to inform me that her daddy is dropping her off at my house "where the kitties are." I can't wait!

I had a hard night tonight. It did not go as I expected. Not at all. Some of it did, and it was incredible, but the last part? I not like it. I went to a recovery meeting like I always do on Wednesdays. It was a great meeting. J and I went to the women's sober house to lead another meeting for the women that live there and on my way home? The call I've been alternately dreading and anticipating. We are somewhat trained on the fly to respond to such things. It is expected of us.

"Where you at?"
Almost home. Why?
"I need someone to come get my wife. She told me to call you."
Damnit.
"She's really bad."
Does she want to go?
"I don't know, but she isn't staying here. I told her I'd call the cops. That's when she told me to call you."
It won't do any good if she doesn't want to go.
"Well, get over here and make her!"

The struggle in my mind is furious and quick. I don't WANT to go. I'm SCARED to go. I don't know how to do this. Not one bit. But I do know that when I was ready, I called my recovery mom at 2 in the morning and she came. She told me to go to bed and she'd come tomorrow, but I responded that if she didn't come get me right now, I'd lie about it in the morning and pretend it didn't happen. And she came. And drove my ass to treatment in the middle of the night. Because it was time. The time when I was finally beaten down enough to follow directions and let someone else call the shots for once. The point of surrender.

So I went. They crying, the yelling, the pleading. Was almost too much to bear. You can't reason with a drunk. There is no reasoning. The trick is to get them to trust you just long enough to get them in the car. How many times I said, "Just get in the car. We'll figure it out tomorrow." I can't even count. I felt helpless and amazed at the chaos all at once. It was like taming a tornado to do your will. Which is impossible. But we try anyway. County detox is at the jail. The place where I went to visit the dead guy many, many times. To bail him out. If I had only known that NOT bailing him out might have helped...

So I'm exhausted, and I've cried off and on from the frustration and helplessness of it all, but tomorrow it will look better. Right? I have to be right in that, or I wouldn't be here today. So many nights, I went to sleep, hoping against hope that I wouldn't wake up. That I'd just die there and have it over with. But no. I'm still here. I have no expectations that this woman will make it long term, but I did what I had to do. For me. Because I'm selfish like that.

I've stated many, many times on my blog that I am not well versed in the ways of male/female relationships. Most of the time, I just hope for the best and forge ahead with what I know. Learning - always - along the way. Making for knowing more for the next time I give it a try. There are however, a few things that I've discovered on my own. Through recovery? Through putting my past relationships in proper perspective? I don't know. But this I DO know:

If I do not live a full life on my own - as a single woman - I don't think I have alot to offer a man in a relationship. If I am looking to "complete" some puzzle with the piece of a committed partner, then I am doing a disservice to myself and any potential partner I come across. I'm not putting every woman in this category by any means. Just myself. Because my past has been about making someone else responsible for my happiness and ordering my life for me. If he loves me "enough," then I'll be happy. If he calls me five times a day to tell me he's thinking about me, then I'll be happy. If he remembers how I like my coffee, then I'll be happy. And as it turned out, those things meant that I was asking him to prove that he loved me by making me happy. No one can make another person happy. I truly believe that. Enhancing another's life? Absolutely. Supporting their thoughts and ideas? Awesome. But to expect another PERSON to make you happy is insane in my book.

I was always the one waiting for life to begin when I met "him." I'm 36 and I met one him who is no longer around. So my life stopped again. But it's not stopped anymore. Because when I look back on it - my life was still stopped when he WAS around. Because I wasn't living, I was just waiting for things to be perfect in my little corner of the universe. THEN, I could start to be happy.

If I can't be content with myself, I'll always be looking for someone to fill the voids. And there ARE voids. There ARE times when nothing seems to satisfy but connecting with another person. But to expect that person to be right where you need them at that moment in time and then blaming them for not reading your mind? It's insanity. And I've been insane off and on for quite some time. And I don't want to be anymore.

I love my life today. Sure, I want someone to share it with. I've always wanted that. And I don't think I'll stop wanting that. But to have to have that person in order to feel like I'm living life to the fullest? Not so much anymore. I don't want to put that condition on my happiness.

People? I'm getting closer to graduating to every other week therapy. Progress has been made. Because I do things like "make good choices" and "appear to be fairly confident in my decision making skills" and I've had "growth in the areas of setting boundaries and making my wants and needs known." In other words, I'm not insane anymore. I no longer rant and rave that the whole world is wrong and mean and scary. I'm also no longer demanding that other people make all my decisions for me because I'm not capable, leading me to then blame everyone and his dog for the decisions they made for me because I'm not happy with how things turned out. I no longer have given my will and life over to the care of the professionals I pay to take care of me. And that? That is a splendid and wonderful thing.

So, I was thinking that in celebration, I might just make a whole bunch of bad decisions. No? Hrmph. I guess I'll just keep doing what I'm doing now. Because I'm pretty damn happy and content anymore. And the dead guy can just go be dead because I'm living the life I've always wanted today. And if he were alive, I don't think he would fit into my picture of health and joy.

So there.

Hello, lovers.

My weekend? Ranks about first as the best since I got sober. I danced. And then danced some more. Friday night was two step, rumba, tango - whatever The Pilot threw my way, I gave it my all. And I loved every minute of it. Saturday, I even learned a bit of west coast swing, which I think has got to be my favorite so far. Then I got hooked on watching youtube videos late at night when I got home so I could keep doing it in my head.

I got sweaty, I got tired, my whole body aches and I love it. I love that I love it. I've always been the awkward one. She's the tall, geeky girl who doesn't fit in her body. The one who never knows how big she really is until she runs into doorframes and bounces bumper car-ish between refrigerators and tables - constantly crashing into things. The one who runs smack into the automatic doors at Walmart because she walks too fast for them to open and doesn't seem to notice until she's faceplanted in the glass. She's the one that keeps getting bruises even AFTER she quits drinking. Most people fall down drunk. She just falls down.

I don't FEEL that way when I'm dancing. Not one bit. I feel smooth and sexy and competent. Even when I don't know what the heck I'm doing. It's simply liberating. I DO fit in my body. And for some reason, this dancing thing just works for me. I think it's the thing I've been the most excited about since I stopped hiding in my closet with bottles. And I'm going to keep doing it. Come hell (Which I've already been to, we've proven I can walk through it.) and high water (Floods? Not a problem. Lived through enough of them.)

Oh, and I shot a gun, too. Like a big one. And got 2 out of my very first 25 clay pigeons. Not something I think I'll make a habit of, but I'm not terrified to be around someone with a gun anymore. I'm starting to cross so many things off my list of 100 things to do before I die, I better start planning my funeral.

I jest.

Sort of.

Now that it's not twenty below and I don't have to wear wool socks and parkas and hats and scarves and mittens with five layers of clothing, I have so many more shoes to pick from. I'm afraid I'm going to show you way too many of them. Choices, choices. Always choices. Someone should just package my clothing up in bags so I can pull out a whole outfit and just put it on in the morning with no argument. These are of second hand store fame. There were black ones just like it that I passed on. And then kicked myself for. I love these. They're a little high, but I don't care. I tower over people anyway. They can suffer just a little bit more for my vanity.

So, when you wake up at four a.m. and can't get back to sleep, what do you do?

1) Lie there, listening to the grandfather clock chime every fifteen minutes.

2) Get frustrated listening to the chimes and waiting for sleep to come.

3) Get up and turn the fucking chimes OFF because it's not helping.

4) Drink some water, go to the bathroom and try to lay down again.

5) Put on some soft music and lie down again.

6) Think about all of my friends with babies whose children wake up screaming and they get to be rocked back to sleep at four in the morning and get jealous. Of the babies. Not the parents.

7) Get up and remake the twisted sheets and blankets back into something sleep-able. Lie down again.

8) Run through a list of great topics for blog posts. Realize this is not helping and start counting sheep. Not really. I say phone numbers over and over in my head. I never said I wasn't neurotic.

9) Get another drink of water.

10) Get up. I mean seriously. It's over.

But that does mean I get to take an extra long shower and shave my legs ALL THE WAY UP. And use all the hot water and make Gay Boyfriend suffer with cold water. Like he does to me every morning. It really is all about me, you know.

I took my first "real" ballroom dance lesson last night with The Pilot. (I've decided to call him The Pilot. It's so much more romantic than Mr. Airplane. I have no idea if this deal is romantic or not, but a touch of the drama appeals to me here.) And let me tell you. I'm good at it. Like really good at it.

So good, that during the lesson, you'd never believe the things going through my head. "Don't knee him in the goods. Totally don't knee him in the goods." and "Oh my God. I'm sweating. I don't sweat. I hate to sweat. This is SO not good. I'm sweating." and something like this. "I'm dancing. I'm totally dancing!" and "If I practice enough, I'll be a professional and I can quit my day job and wear fancy shoes ALL THE TIME!" and "I really like this." The last thought being the best one. I DO like it. And I AM good at it. And as long as I keep my knees from his nether regions, I don't care if I step on his toes. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't either.

AND, we're going dancing on Friday night!

Mr. Airplane and I went on a bike ride last night. The first of the season! It was a gorgeous night and people were out walking their dogs, riding bikes, strollers - the whole gamut - even a few wheelchairs and some gas powered scootered hudlums along the way. Some of you post what you hear on the subway or train, I'm going to post what we heard on the Sioux Falls Bike Trail. Because of course we don't have things like mass transit out here. This is the wild west, people. Get a truck already.

A little boy - about three years old - was running ahead of his mom, coming toward us. He stopped and looked back and decided to wait for her on a bench. And just as we were passing her she says to him, "How does your pelvis feel?"

I was really hoping to get a little farther along before I burst out laughing, but I couldn't help it. And when I finally caught up to Mr. Airplane, he was laughing as well. What three year old knows what his pelvis is? So, every time we went over a bump for the rest of the night, "How does your pelvis feel?" Work THAT into a conversation with your coworkers!

There's a book that I read every morning during Kate and The Universe Time. I was taught to do this in treatment - as a way to center my thoughts before I started the day. My favorite reading is from the day of my birthday. I turned 33 in treatment. And I got chocolate cake. Cake notwithstanding, when I have lost track of my head and my thoughts start to scatter and nothing makes sense, I go back to my birthday reading. I'm going to paraphrase it here for you.


But that presupposes that it's been built, so sometimes I just get the slab. And sometimes, it's a beautiful house with bright sunshine streaming in the windows and fresh flowers on the table. Today, I'm feeling a little rickety. I wonder what I'll get tomorrow.

I learned to jitterbug tonight! It was so much fun! Tiny (as in not so Tiny) told me to just hang on and let him do the work and he did and I didn't even have to think about it and I WAS DOING IT! Wearing the skank ho bitch boots and everything. It was liberating. Because usually I'm a total clutz.

And I'm TOTALLY going to have to start staying up later.

I smell spring in the air today. But not so much spring that I can't wear my beautiful socks. Flip flops are coming, people! They are SO coming. And you better hope I have regular pedicures. Maybe I should start taking donations.

This weekend, I'm going to this huge recovery conference. Last year there were a little over a thousand people here in our fair city. Speakers from all over the United States, dances, bingo, potential motorcycle rides, and a luncheon at my house on Saturday. I'm making my famous shredded beef and that weird chinese ramen noodle cabbage salad that looks so pretty and tastes so good. Everyone else is bringing the rest. And then? I'm taking a nap. Because being around that many people and having to be "on" for three days in a row exhausts me. Don't get me wrong. I love it. But I gain my energy and peace of mind by being alone. Gay Boyfriend? He gains his energy by being around people. He's going to be high all next week from this one event. It's like his own personal crack. And it's already started. I went out on the porch for my coffee and meditation time this morning (i.e. quiet Kate and the universe time, you hear me on this one?) and he comes barreling in with his iPod and I get to hear Touch Me In the Morning and some Cadillac pimpin' song before I told him if he didn't turn it down, I'd throw my hot coffee in his crotch.

Did I mention I'm not pleasant in the morning?

People have been talking about their houses on their blogs lately. Most notably - rude cactus and the crissys. The cactus family got new windows installed a couple weeks ago, and the crissys are still working on their windows because they have to be all specially and stuff for their hysterical historical house. I think I live in a pretty historical house - it was built in the forever agos - a time when you had to have an actual coal chute.

The coal chute at our house goes directly into the dungeon room in the basement, which is where we throw all our crap do craft and construction projects. It starts in the garage - which was added onto the house after it was built. Now, I thought the coal chute would be a fun addition to play with. I mean seriously - groceries? Throw them down there! You want to pipe music into the backyard? String some speakers through there and attach it to my sound system. You see the possibilities, right?

No. I don't get these things. Why? Because Gay Boyfriend is terrified of spiders. Terrified. He can't clean the dungeon room by himself - I have to stand there with a broom and raid - ready to spray and spank anything that wiggles when he's moving boxes. I think I should get a discount on rent for this, actually. Anyways. Last summer, he decided to block all the invaders by closing off the coal chute. (This would be a really appropriate time to throw in a gay joke, so go ahead.) He got this foam spray that expands and then hardens. He sprayed bottle after bottle after bottle in there and sure enough - it expanded and puffed and then got really, really hard and sealed it with a kiss. I was very disappointed. There goes my plan for not having to carry the groceries in. And I think it takes some of the charm away from the whole house. I mean, who has coal chutes anymore? I thought it was awesome that we had one. And now we don't. And we don't have storm windows either, but more about that tomorrow.

I had one of THOSE mornings. You know what I'm talking about. I went upstairs and Gay Boyfriend announced that my morning hair looked "extra special" and snapped a picture. You see how pretty I am in the morning? Just in case there was any question about my inherent beauty. I think my hair looks not that bad. The bags under my eyes? Yeah. Bad.

The best part of the morning was my hot, hot shower. Lovely. And while I'm in the shower, I usually plan what I'm going to put on my body. Brown tights, long brown skirt, white turtleneck sweater and brown boots. I've got the brown stuff on but the sweater? There's a hole in it. So, I'm half dressed and digging around in the dungeon room (unheated) for my sewing box, my hair is dripping wet and I can't find it. Plan B. Black tights, short grey skirt and black turtleneck sweater. Okay. Fine. Off with the brown, on with the black.

And then the toilet decides to overrun. I have no water pressure down there, so it happens sometimes, but this morning? I did not need that this morning. Kiki is crying like she does every morning because she thinks that I should pet her non-stop for about a half hour when she gets up. I try to put her eye drops in and she jumps completely over my shoulder and scratches my collarbone. I give up on the drops.

I go to take my medicine? And drop it in the sink. It was my last one. This is NOT good. And of course, it's like 20 below and my car was cold.

But my hair looks fabulous. And that is the balm to my soul this morning.

Guess what? I'm running out of things to talk about in therapy. Who would have thought I'd finally get a grip?

You know how much I complain on some of your blogs about there not being enough bloggers in South Dakota for these "meet up" thingies? Well. Strike that. I met a South Dakota blogger today! On the spur of the moment. AND, I was so intrigued, that I intentionally left my house after 8 p.m. at night to do so. And everyone who knows me, knows that I NEVER do that unless it's an emergency - like running out of cigarettes. That and tampons. Tampons are always an emergency around here. You'd think I would have caught on by now.

All joking aside - I met Steve Wilson tonight for coffee. I wouldn't let him pick me up - because, let's face it - I've met too many weirdos on match.com to let some stranger pick me up, but I've already decided that he can pick me up next time because he's just a great guy AND he has a truck AND he's super tall, AND he sings and dances (Remember the singing and dancing? It follows me around. This was no exception.) AND he was very easy to talk to AND we're definitely getting together again.

So there you have it. South Dakota's most notable blogger meet up. And it was awesome.

If you've been coming for the socks, I'm sure you're disappointed. Two weeks in a row with no socks! I'm wearing my tennis shoes because I thought (emphasis on the thought) about walking to work today. Mostly, I feel like a horrible, no good citizen of the world because I drive my car all six blocks to work. Seriously. Six blocks. You can hate me now - that would be fine. But here's my excuse. More often than not, I'm headed somewhere else after work - usually to a meeting. And work is between my house and the club - so I'm headed on my way anyway and don't do any backtracking. THAT'S my excuse.

Now, you'd think what with my complaining about the state of my body and swimsuit season coming up, that I'd walk anyway and then walk back and then drive to the meeting. Or even *gasp* ride my bike or something. But I don't. Not in the spring anyway. Because for all I know - it will start blizzarding before the end of the work day.

It's supposed to get to 60 degrees today.

And then snow this weekend.

I LOVE spring!

Except the part where you have to contemplate putting on your swimsuit in three months.

Then, I just wish it was winter all year long.

The South Dakota Public Health Bulletin came on Monday! It's what I look for every month and the mail lady puts it right on top of the pile so she can hear me squeal with glee. And then I open it up to the last page and read the morbidity report to my co-worker. Here's the stats for this month.

Chlamydia is up by 12 percent already this year.
Gonorrhea is up 22 percent.
Syphillis is up 100 percent. 100% people!
Rabies is down by sixty five percent however, and that makes me feel much safer.

So, if you don't want the clap - give it a wrap. I made that up. It's not even on a safe sex commercial here in South Dakota. Why? Because we don't TALK about sex here in South Dakota because our kids aren't supposed to be having it unless they've been sanctified by the Holy Matrimony. So they aren't doing it. Right? Right. Especially during Lent.

I lost my cell phone yesterday. Or Sunday - I have no idea. I tore apart the car and the house looking for it and when I couldn't access my online account, I panicked. I knew I had to go to the store - and lucky for me - it was still open. But first (seriously) I had to change my clothes. This kind of thing throws me. Completely throws me - and yoga pants, fuzzy sweatshirts and tennis shoes make me happy. I figured if I was going to freak out, I might as well be comfortable doing it. The guy at the store was super nice - I got the phone I've been meaning to get for months anyway and I updated my plan so I could text. (I'd been ignoring the texting world.) And off I went. I have to call the main people today and figure out how to access my online account again, and it's all taken care of. They won't be able to tell until 72 hours whether or not someone used my phone, so I have to just take a deep breath and wait on that score. Done.

But. There's always a but. I hate that I panicked. I had that moment when I thought, "I have no contact with the world. I have no phone numbers. I have no way to get ahold of people. I'm going to die." It was THAT bad! I had no idea I was so attached to my phone. When I was in New York, I relished the fact that I had no service and that my sister only has dial up internet. It was an unplugged weekend and it felt fabulous. So fabulous that I had time to see that this would be a great photo and surprisingly? I think it's one of my best.
But when I needed or wanted contact with the world and I couldn't get it? My head closed in again. Maybe I need more of those unplugged weekends to teach me more calm and patience. And to enjoy my solitude. Oh - and if I had your phone number before? I don't anymore. Please send it to me.

We finally got the New York pictures off the camera. I went to go see my sister.Lots of people say we don't look alike. I think my brother is the deciding factor. He is tall like me and has red hair like her. We all have the same forehead, nose and chin. When you see us all together, you just know we all belong together. Two at a time, not so much. But look at how blue our eyes are. I love that. We all have the same blue eyes. And in case you're wondering - she's two years older than me. She looks younger. But that's because she never drank or smoked. Or got a second degree sunburn. Or got fat. She is a yoga instructor when she's not pushing drugs at the pharmacy. Hahaha!