Tats, Melville, Beer, and Life. And B.D. Wong. Always B.D. Wong.

A fellow English major friend and I were catching up one day, sitting in the gorgeous California sun and stretching our cramped-from-living-in-a-sitting-position-for-all-time legs, and she made a comment that sort of caught me off guard.

"I wish I could be more like you." She said wistfully. "I mean, have you even seen the inside of the library here? You don't really care about your grades...and I wish I could be like that."

HOLD UP.

Ok, let's be real. It is no secret that I love a good party and don't shape my life around my school schedule. I am almost 30 years old. I understand at this point that pounding 4 red bulls and pacing around a library reciting Poe the night before a final is not going to help anything, and it is certainly not a measure of your intelligence. Yes, I party. Yes, I always have beer and a wheel of cheese in my fridge in case someone happens to stop by or I need a good breakfast. (Joking. I only do that around finals.) But, I read too. I study. I avoid libraries for a reason. I am a total, unapologetic, helpless people watcher and there is no better location ON EARTH to people watch than a college library. (Well, the Oakland DMV has a wealth of material, but I try to reserve that for a special treat.) I can spend a good 7 hours in a library and I will only have a paragraph of work written...and it is usually garbled nonsense because I can't tear my eyes away from the man in the corner methodically eating the pages of a book as he watches 'Rainbow Bright' on Netflix.

That all being said, her comment still bothered me. And made me question if I was a true student.

And then I took my last English final EVER today.

The night before the final we were required to write a lengthy self assessment that was meant to illustrate how we felt we had grown as readers and writers over the course. Normally, I find this sort of thing mundane and unnecessary. Can't you see how I have grown, Mr. Professor man? I write stuff and you read it and I don't fail! I sit in the front of class! I'm hardly ever on facebook during the lecture! I'm only on there when you turn around. A+, thank you, good-bye. However, this time the assessment felt a little more...holy. It was my last one ever. Before my last English final ever. I started school 6 years ago (no judgements,) as a wide-eyed and terrified beginner. And now I am leaving it with slightly squinted eyes and still...(aren't we all?) a beginner.

As I started typing, one thing kept threading its way through my mind. Our professor always told us to be "open to the nature of our own experience." When he first said that, his back was to me so I was on facebook, but when he said it again...it stuck. I didn't really know what it meant for me, but I relished the way it rolled around on my tongue like a delicious tab of ecstasy. (Just kidding Mom. I have no idea 1. what ecstasy truly is, or 2. if it even comes in tab form. I just like the shock value of knowing you will read this.)

Anyway-

As I wrote my last assessment I realized I had grown over the semester. Maybe my papers didn't get to publish-this-next-great-American-novel type of quality, maybe I only went into the library to use the (cleanest) bathroom on campus, and maybe my GPA was in the 3 range and not the 4. But, it was my experience. It was completely and utterly my own experience and I lived every single second of it, no matter how many times I stumbled along the way.

As this year comes to a close, I can't help but think about the experience as a whole, and as a journey. I took my last final at 11:30 am today. I sat in the sun, and tipped my head back to let Berkeley sink it's last rays of light into my body. And when I opened my eyes, a friend was standing there ready to chat about the final, laugh over how Melville is such a downer and show me proudly his B.D Wong from SVU tattoo. (He literally got a tat of B.D Wong on his arm. Like, the guy. His face. From SVU.)

When I asked him about it, he looked down and smiled. "Every time I look at it, I'll remember college." He said. "Because I spent a lot of time drinking in my apartment and watching SVU."

Now, this guy is brilliant. Truly, earth movingly, brilliant. As a peer, he challenges me and makes me proud to be a fellow student at Berkeley. So, when he showed me the tattoo of an Asian man emblazoned on his bicep, by initial reaction was to be horrified.

And then I stopped.

That was his experience. Or, part of it , anyway. (I really have to watch that show.) WHAT MATTERS MOST is that he was open to the nature of his own experience. So open, in fact, it stays with him forever.

But my experience will stay with me forever too. And I am proud of the student I was, and the student of life I will be.

Put that in your tattoo gun and smoke it.

Oh Berkeley...you have my heart. And most of my life savings.

I'm sitting here in my dining room (or, living room/ bedroom/ kitchen/ rumpus room,) I'm wearing someone else's shirt, (that happens far too often, and it is a girl's shirt, so calm down Mom,) drinking a glass of writing juice, (coffee. JUST KIDDING. WINE.) and realizing:

Holy crap. I'm almost graduating.

The time is almost here. I almost have that diploma I have been steadily working for the last 5 years of my life. I walk in May, officially graduate the first week of August...

and then I'm done.

This all is done.

And I won't be in Berkeley anymore.

I started this process closing myself up in this tiny apartment when Brett left, feeling completely lost and confused and so, so scared of being on my own. If you have been with me on this whole journey through the blog, you remember that 2 hours after Brett pulled away I was: 1. Bleeding, 2. Drunk, and 3. Had broken 4 things in my apartment. One was a glass door that almost crushed my mother-in-law. Now, that would have been awkward.

And here I am. In someone else's clothes, yes, but still me- and yet...a really different "me" that I am pretty jazzed about.

Looking back on previous posts I can trace my growth, (and, ok, increased partying,) post by post. At times I was laughing over my own words. And then extremely embarrassed that I was laughing at my own stuff. There were times I cringed, times I read between the lines and knew what I had omitted, and times I read and thought I probably should have just gone to bed and not blasted my sloppy ill-formed opinions all over the internets.

And there were so many other times where I realized that Berkeley started out as the enemy...and quickly became a close friend.

I live in a city where I have seen, one more than one occasion, a man defecating on the sidewalk. I've also seen more naked people than I would care to admit, and ALL DURING NORMAL BUSINESS HOURS IN PUBLIC. There is a man that sits at the front of campus and has called me both a "Dirty Native American Whore," and a "Filthy Nazi." I always smile at him and say things like, "Hey now...I'm only 1/3 Native American," and I think I'm growing on him.

Or maybe not, because he tried to throw a soda cup full of pee at me last week.

However, that all being said, Berkeley is a place where I fell back in love with theater, made countless friends, and had countless wine and cheese gatherings. I met people that could sit with me on my tiny balcony and drink scotch until 4am while discussing Emily Dickinson's sex life. I sat in Berkeley's gorgeous libraries and luxuriated in the feel of smooth, worn bookcases holding a world of information under my fingertips. I picnicked in the grass, overlooking sweeping views of the bay. I fell in love with this place.

And I think it fell in love with me, because I acquired a real, live stalker- but that is another story.

I have to admit I am going to miss this place. It is, essentially, the place that I grew up. And not in a "I'm-an-adult-now-and-I-only-eat-food-that-has-color-and-I-watch-PBS-way" but in a "hey-I'm-kind-of-a-good-person-and-I-like-hanging-out-in-my-own-skin-but-not-in-a-creepy-Silence of the Lambs-kind-of-way."

Which is progress.

So, hey Berkeley...you sexy, sometimes shockingly inappropriate lady: Thank you. Thanks for not always being gentle on me, for pulling me out of my shell forcefully with those elegant and tan California fingers...and for showing me that I'm not so bad after all. And that I am capable. And I am going to be alright.

And by the way: I love you.

But you need to be a little cleaner. People poop on you.

Fish Mommy

(image from www.babychatter.com)

Everyone in my life is pregnant right now.

I'm not joking. Everyone. In my life. Is pregnant. If you send me a message saying, "Oh hey Melissa. I'm in your life! I'm your mom- remember me? I'm not pregnant!" I will ignore you.

So just go with the fact that EVERYONE IN MY LIFE IS PREGNANT.

This has had an alarming affect on me. I waffle between deep despair as I realize Brett and I are nowhere near procreation and ridiculous, incredible relief that I am still "free." Wine tasting on a Tuesday? YES. I have no baby! Plans to try out every local restaurant's calamari appetizer and then compare them? Weird, but YES. I'M GAME. NOTHING LIVES IN MY STOMACH OR IN MY HOME.

Which is not true. I have a fish.

Let's get to him.

Brett is home for the week, and after he landed he eagerly asked to see our "pet,"- our 3 year old goldfish Caper. Caper is about 7,000 pounds and lives in a TANK by himself. Not a bowl. A tank. With a freakin' filter system. By himself. Needless to say, Caper can sometimes be a handful. His tank gets extremely dirty really easily. He eats 2 times a day- on a schedule. I can go maybe 12 hours without feeding him, but he will act out if that happens by hurling his hefty frame repeatedly against the glass the second he sees me come home. He is most likely brain damaged, because this has happened several times. He also has taken to "Free Willy"-esque suicide leapings from the water, and every single time I see him do it I wonder how much longer until he just hurls himself to the floor for dramatic effect. He is my baby, though. The one sole thing I can attach whatever motherly feelings I have to. So, when Brett saw Caper for the first time in 3 months and commented on his dirty tank and fat body, I bristled.

"Are you trying to say I am a bad fish mommy?" I asked him through clenched teeth. Brett, to his credit, recognizes a war zone when he sees one, so blessedly tried to back-pedal.

"No. All I am saying is that I think, but I could be wrong, but I think...that you are maybe over-feeding him? And you need to be more diligent about cleaning the tank?"

"I can't BELIEVE YOU ARE SAYING THAT!" I exploded. "You have NO IDEA how hard it is for me to take care of him ALL BY MYSELF! I have to do this ALL BY MYSELF! How dare you question anything?!"

"Melissa. We are talking about a fish."

"How do I know you don't think I'm not ready to be a mother?! You think I am going to be a bad mother!"

(Yeah. We got there. I don't know how. OH, WAIT YES I DO. Because I am insane.)

The rest of the day was spent with Brett trying to soothe my hurt feelings even though he was completely bewildered himself. In retrospect, I wasn't exactly proud of the way I handled that non-situation, but I redeemed myself by allowing Brett to clean the tank without attending a support group or anything. I guess the whole thing just touched on a deep fear that I have that maybe I am one of those people that wouldn't be a good mother. Let's face it- I know my way around a karaoke bar, I won't say no to a glass of wine in the afternoon, and I can't ever support my baby nephew's head properly. He ends up flopped and folded over my arms like some crumpled version of discount-store baby doll. It's something I really, really want to have in my life, and something I am really, really afraid I won't ever be able to do.

The friend that passed away was my beautiful cousin Sara. She was 30, gorgeous, funny, kind, and totally way more fun than I ever was. We would spend hours drinking champagne in the kitchen during family events, having drunken and hilarious conversations about how we would never have children. At one of these events, the tone was more somber. My doctor had just found some growths on my cervix, I was facing surgery, and suddenly the realization that I actually could face not having children was uncomfortably real. Sara led me to the garage for privacy, champagne clutched in her hand, and made a big announcement. "I decided," she said grandly, "to carry a baby for you. I will even stop drinking wine for 9 months." She did a little bow then, and I will never forget how I felt standing in that garage- just gifted with something that felt even more beautiful than a new human life. It was an ultimate gift of love- of incredible, selfless love- and it moved me more than words can say.

Sara is gone now, and I have a (blessedly) healthy cervix, and I have the ability to have a family someday...something that was taken away from her far too soon. So, it doesn't matter that I can barely take care of a goldfish. It doesn't matter that my mothering skills are flawed and often robotic and not fully formed. It doesn't matter that maybe I won't be "the perfect" mom. I will embarrass my kids. I will sing too loudly, I will probably feed them too many sweets, I will let them stay home from school once and awhile to help me paint a mural in our living room on a whim.

And hopefully my husband will come home, see his little family covered in paint and cookie crumbs, his flawed but (hopefully beautiful) wife laughing and living and not exactly worried about how dirty the fish tank is.

I think that sounds like a good mom.

Maybe I'm (almost) ready after all.

Let's try this again...

(And life. Life rules.)

2 months later and here I am.

I BET YOU ARE EXCITED.

This blog was something I took on with the idea that I would continue to document this very-weird-often-messy-always-chaotic-sometimes-lovely time in my life. I told myself I wouldn't tuck away when things got hard or when the real world loomed too large. I would valiantly continue to write through every misstep, every difficult moment, every awkward night where I ate an entire box of macaroni and cheese alone while watching "Hoarders".

And then I didn't.

A close friend of my family died tragically and suddenly, and then it seemed like writing in the dark about my marriage and boo-hooing over not getting to see him every day was incredibly selfish and pointless. I entered a writing rut that bled into the actual writing I had to do for school. When I turned in a paper that had the following statement: "Helen Keller was blind. And that was bad. Being blind is hard." I knew I needed an intervention.

As life moved on, however haltingly, I started hearing from friends about this project I had tossed aside. Encouragements about blogging again poured in, but I felt like I simply couldn't. Nights were spent sitting with family in the weeks after our friend's death, drinking scotch until the early hours and leaning on each other for support. We would laugh once and awhile, but nothing was funny. My world pulled tightly around the loved ones in my life and my focus shifted inward. Was I really making use of the gift of my existence? It wasn't about if I was spending this year growing and learning and laughing my way through the stumbles. I needed to spend my life doing that.

It then became incredibly clear that the blog was not selfish, it was important. It was an intrinsic part of my world because it reminded me that I had to live. My situation may not be ideal, but I am alive. I had to learn how to laugh again. I had to learn how to embrace my bumps along the road and try and find the humor in them. Maybe blogging every day about being depressed, being happy, feeling insane, feeling sexy, feeling like I need to stop eating things covered in cheese dust was frivolous- but it is my experience on this planet that is not going to be wasted.

After this blog post, I will go back to the normal stuff. The funny bits, if you will. This week you will get a blog post from me that is probably awkward, mostly obnoxious, and hopefully a reminder that we are all lucky and loved and pulsing with life.

So, I'm back.

And hopefully better than ever.

Brownie Bath

"If ONLY this sink was a bubble bath...of vodka."

image courtesy of thegooddrswife

My Mom called me this afternoon on my walk home from school- a walk that was done in a literal and figurative black cloud.

"How was your day Melly?" she asked sweetly.

"Well. I peed on my scarf."

"Oh. So, bad then? One time I peed all over my underwear by accident and had to rip them off my body!" She then chirped: "You can even put that on your blog, if you'd like."

My day got marginally better after that.

The day, in truth, wasn't spectacular but it wasn't especially difficult either. I could not pinpoint the lingering feeling of listlessness that nestled in my gut like really bad deli food. (But I'll keep coming back EZ deli. I love you.) I tried to shake it, but couldn't. It was unfamiliar and haunting and I'd like to thank its bony fingers for steering me home toward brownies and not, as originally planned, to the gym. One hour after my pee conversation with my mother I sat in the bath, brownie and New Yorker in hand, and stewed.

Not figuratively.

I think people are afraid to make friends with their different moods and entertain them in a bubble bath. I mean, seriously. Think about the last time you were sad, or angry, or felt hopeless...you tried to shake it off, right? (like I had done earlier, but no pee jokes could pry me from this stranger's clutches.) We are trained to Pollyanna-ize our lives. (I made up that word! I'm a genius! And if you don't get the pop culture reference...I'm old!) We are taught it is bad to entertain feelings that are anything shy of complete rapture. Don't worry, be happy! Smile! Don't have a pity party!

Well, I had a pity party. I even invited it. I would have made monogrammed invitations to it if I could:

"Miserable afternoon musings. Please bring bubble bath clothes, chocolate, and OBVIOUSLY wine. RSVP now."

I entertained this bad mood and sat with it until my toes began to wrinkle and my brownie crumbled in the water and I had read the entire New Yorker....'s cartoon section.

I tried to get comfortable with my feelings instead of shoving them down deep inside. I'm tired of doing that. It's not being gentle to me, and by extension it is not being gentle to the people in my life. This was me putting on my big girl pants and dealing with whatever my hormones and my life were throwing my way. Except I wasn't wearing pants. I told you I was in the bath.

SO, the big reveal once I sat with my weird self for an hour or so was that I am completely lonely. I'm sad, I'm in the valley of this "wife experiment", I'm hearing so much noise from so many different people about 'how I should be handling this separation," and it caused me to bend a little bit today. Not break, bend.

And I made friends with that loneliness. And we sat there, split a brownie, (or I ate the whole thing very quickly,) and we got to know one another. And once he felt like I could come to terms with him, and even embrace him momentarily...he left.

And hope and happiness took his place.

So, it was a good day. Yes, I peed on my scarf, but now it seems funny and not so disgustingly tragic. (How does one pee on a scarf? That is around one's neck? I wish I could tell you, but I just...don't know.) What I do know is that, once and awhile, it is okay to settle in to your feelings and honor them for what they are, at that moment, for a little while. (Unless you are feeling homicidal...and if you are, you should maybe read a different blog.)

We should present this life with our very best side, but how can we ever know and embrace that side fully without making friends with all of the other parts of us? In order for me to love me completely, I have to love all aspects. The serious side. The angry side. The beer-drinking-through-a-straw-contest-winner-in-Mexico side. They are all there. They are all me.

And I'm happy with me, again.

Who can't be happy after a brownie bath?

I'm blind...but...Pretty? No. Just blind.

image from lifeatthebecks.blogspot.com

Today I ate lunch in a courtyard at school. It was a healthy lunch- all organic, lots of fruits and veggies, all 4 food groups recognized equally. I nibbled on it while drinking a 5 dollar coffee and wearing a really expensive designer wool coat to keep out the 66 degree chill of the day. While doing this I was also feeling very, very sorry for myself.

I had gotten an unsettling email that morning from a family member and I was letting it seep its poison into every action of my existence. Maybe this explains why I maintained this foul mood while eating my lunch as a homeless man rummaged for left over food next to me. I hate to admit that I was so wrapped up in my own agenda that I didn't even notice him.

And then the blind girl walked by.

She made me notice everything, mainly because she didn't notice anything. I watched her for, (I'm cringing admitting this,) about 20 minutes as she obviously searched for something. I thought about stepping up and asking if she needed help, but I don't know the rules about this sort of thing. Are you supposed to? She had a seeing eye dog. I smelled like ham. Should I go up and ask if she needed help? I smelled like ham. I just ate ham. Don't dogs love ham? Maybe I shouldn't say anything. Her stick swung close to me as she traversed this uncharted path and I actually shrank back.

Yeah. I'm ashamed of myself too.

Luckily, a good Samaritan, (A.K.A. anyone but me) stepped in and asked if they could help her find something.

Her answer? A trash can. THIS POOR GIRL WAS LOOKING FOR A TRASH CAN FOR 20 MINUTES WHILE I SAT THERE WORRYING ABOUT THE ROSEMARY HAM I JUST ATE FOR LUNCH.

Let's just say my next meal was humble pie.

I'd like to think that this lesson was absorbed and carried throughout my day. I'd like to tell you that I went home and paid particular attention to those less fortunate and put the kibosh on my pity party.

Let me tell you what happened instead.

I went home and continued to pout, blind girl gone from my inner vision. (No pun intended. Ok, maybe. But only because it works.) I went home to my beautiful, warm apartment and opened up my nice computer and found an e-mail from a friend who is actually going through kidney failure.

As I was writing him a reply I got a text from my personal trainer, (a.k.a Satan. Or Venus Williams,) who asked if I ever intended on showing up for my (paid! because I am very lucky to afford it!) training session. And I groaned. And then I actually whined aloud to myself: "God. My life sucks."

HOLD UP SISTER.

Granted, my trainer is a sadistic psycho and makes me do inhumane things to keep my body in the impeccable shape it is in, (that was sarcasm folks,) and granted, my husband lives 374982374984 miles away and I make out more with my toothbrush than him...but who...exactly...do I think I am?

A blind girl searched for a trash can with a smile on her face the entire time I sat near her munching ham and worrying about what my family thought of me. I was able to go to the gym and work out while my friend has bigger things to worry about...like his KIDNEY for Christ sake. How do I eat an expensive lunch in the presence of a man who is digging through garbage?

When did I feel so entitled and so self centered?

When did I lose sight of what really matters in life?

A friend came over later for cheese. (Cheese was literally the main course.) And we talked about our lives, our frustrations, our loves, our dreams. And I remembered to savor every second of it because I was freshly showered, healthy, alive, well, with a beating, (albeit selfish,) heart.

Yes. Brett lives far away. YES, I devoted a whole blog to how I feel about it. I am often selfish, I often lose sight of what really matters and how lucky I am.

The next time someone appears a little bit lost around me, I'm going to offer my limited view to help. Because God knows I am lost so much myself.

And it would be lovely to have someone look up from their ham...and help a blind girl (like me,) out.

We only get this go around once, folks. Let's make it beautiful.

And not just for ourselves.

WE ARE ALL SO AMAZING.

image courtesy of flippflopp.nu

"You're a really good writer." My mom said to me on the phone today. I paused from the weight of that compliment and smiled into the phone.

"Thanks, mom...that means so much to me."

"It's true." She said emphatically. "I mean, you could write those fortunes in those Chinese cookies."

.................

Tonight I was thinking about compliments. And about the fact that now that I live husband-less, I'm not exactly raking them in on a daily basis. I've turned into that girl that is so entranced when a compliment slips her way that she tries to cling on to it like a slippery anchovy. And anchovies are small, so picture that. While clinging to my anchovy compliment, I am also, at the same time, repulsed by it. It's an anchovy after all. Gross. So, when a compliment comes my way this is how I usually react:

A real live conversation with a friend today over lunch.

Sweet friend: "Melissa! I've never noticed that you have freckles on your face! They are so cute!"

Me, weirdly hopeful. My anchovy has slipped my way!: "Really? That is so nice of you to say!"

Sweet friend: "Really! I would die for freckles!"

Me, now being weird and acting like a total anchovy-fearing maniac: "Oh God. I forgot I'm not wearing make-up! Gross. Don't look at me."

I am, in short, troubled.

I'm not trying to say that we all need constant verbal validation, but I am trying to say we live in a society where compliments are looked down on and doling them out (or wanting them,) is considered gauche. The other day I complimented a friend and she turned to me with wide eyes and told me that I was the only friend she had that actually complimented her. THAT IS INSANE TO ME BECAUSE SHE HAS LONG ANGEL HAIR AND PEOPLE SHOULD BE TALKING ABOUT IT ALL OF THE TIME. But she's also smart. A businesswoman. (she does this: www.lightsplash.com) And she fences. I mean, c'mon people.

Compliments should take on other forms as well. I love when Brett tells me that I make a good point, or that I was right about putting stuffing into sandwiches, or the book I recommended was the best book in all of the land. These verbal affirmations are treasured. They make me feel proud and happy and softer towards everyone around me. Compliments catch on. My cashier today told he liked my choice in pasta, (and then he also hit on me, but that is beside the point,) and then I later found myself smiling creepily at the crossing guard, telling her that she was doing a great job. Not that she cared. OR MAYBE SHE DID.

I once babysat for this little girl and before my first shift the mother pulled me aside and told me that they didn't "do" compliments in their house. "We find it will encourage her to only find worth based on verbal cues. So, if anything, tell her that she is good at math."

I'm not joking.

Later that evening the little girl toddled over to me in a princess costume and fur snow boots wearing rubber kitchen gloves. She shyly twirled for me, and I exclaimed: "You look so...good at math." It killed me. I wanted to tell her she was clever, and very good at putting a look together, and unique, and yes, adorable. To me, there was nothing wrong with that affirmation. There was nothing wrong with reminding a little girl that she was beautiful inside and out.

We don't have to run around and tell each other how gorgeous we all are all of the time, but we should slip in little verbal love notes whenever we can. I miss Brett remarking about my amazing "faerie hair" when I first wake up. I miss telling him that I love the way he does a food dance whenever he is eating something he really likes. These are the little pieces of life, little moments only for me that I will carry around for the rest of my days.

And one day I hope to look at my daughter and applaud her for her individuality and amazing fashion sense. And her incredible skill at math.

Obviously.