This summer.

All of this nice weather started so fast-I feel like I can't enjoy it. Time is just this wave crashing over me- in and out, water pushing against my lungs, I rise up to the surface and take a breath, and back under. Each day-each moment.

Lately I've been thinking about having a blog, and what it even means. How much of yourself do you write about-how much do you disclose. Is it better to just have a journal-or do you need an audience (waiting) for you to unfurl yourself to? Audience. Yeah. right.

I saw my uncle the other day and he said, "Sara. You're just an open book, totally open-everything is there for people to see."

And I went to a psychic-and she told me, "When I tried to look into you and get some information-you started to show me around your LITERAL house-you redirected me from who you really are-trying to put on a good show. You'll be really good at what you do with how well you compartmentalize."

Maybe I am putting on a show-carefully crafting words. Waiting for them to hit you the right way-hoping that you will feel affected. See me. SEE me.

Why do I want you to look when I don't even know what's there?

Procrastinating.

I really know there's a lot to do when I'm tempted to "blog". Is blogging becoming outdated now-going the way of Myspace and whatever else used to be cool, but now isn't. It's not cool to just have an amorphous blog that's not related to some topic or theme. I should totally have a legal theme or young lawyers theme or graduating with a shitload of debt and chronicling my poor ass life theme. I'm just too lazy and I always get too distracted with surfing the Internet for celebrity gossip or free feminist porn (which is really hard to find-I guess if you want to feel morally justified in looking at porn you're going to have to pay for it).

As I've started to move into my summer, I've noticed my OCD really flaring up. Since I now have time to read I've spent hours on the Hennepin County library website searching through books I've heard of and wanted to read or just searching for books that sound appealing-and I can't even judge them by their cover since I only have the titles to go by. That's how I end up with books like, "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Changing Old Habits for Good" and "The Advocate's Devil" I left the library yesterday afternoon with a pile of 30 books, embarrassed by my library greed, as I stood behind a small child with curly hair and sticky fingers standing on a step stool, waiting to check myself out. The little girl was painstakingly checking out each book, not understanding that she had to put the bar code under the damn red laser thingy, before that satisfying beep would sound and the book would be hers for a few weeks. I was fumbling with my huge pile of books trying to shove "DON'T PANIC: How to Stop Anxiety Attacks for Good" to the bottom, so I didn't look more like the anxious skeezed out crazy lady that I have obviously become.

I get home and sorted my books into piles that don't really make sense. General books about food and cooking in one pile, self-help/reference in another (ranging from a memoir of a women who disparages all forms of self-help advice spending a year taking self-help classes, to eating for my metabolism) It's like I don't even read the books I just spend hours picking them out and meticulously organizing them into piles by the bed. My husband, in the middle of making dinner last night, came into the bedroom while I was doing this. Small stacks of books on the floor by my side of the bed, next to the "Total Yoga Kit" and Yoga ball I never use, and the laundry baskets full of clothes-some of them folded others balled up after I threw them on top of the folded piles. He just stared at me and said, "You're so messy. With all of your piles. Are you a hoarder?" I looked around the house and realized I do have little piles everywhere. I get so interested and obsessed with things. I looked up at him slightly shocked. Like he saw me for the first time doing something I've been doing all of my life. All of my private moments and rituals are coming unbound to the point that he is able to witness them.

I sit and think about all the places I want to go. San Francisco and wine country-touring through vineyards on an antique train car. Prince Edward Island in Canada to fulfill my childhood dream of visiting the place where Anne of Green Gables lived (I've always wondered if it was my huge, unruly hair, tendency towards chubbiness, and my overbite that led to a life of utter nerdiness or if my early tastes in literature destined me to a life of unhipness) A vacation on the east coast exploring the haunts of our founding fathers. Taking my husband to Spain where I lived what were some of the most glorious months of my life-drinking Sangria with him in the Plaza Mayor on a warm summer evening. I will take out every book on yogic practices and lifestyles and meditation practices and nutrition and just constantly want to absorb, absorb, absorb. My mind is moving so fast that the only way I can seem to slow it down is through alcohol or sex. Wow. How novel. I must be the only person on earth that uses those two vices to achieve some sense of being in the present.

All of this, all of my piles-literal and figurative-push this fear I have of not having enough time. And this fear keeps me stuck and I don't do anything. It's not money, it's not being busy with other things. I have to accept that there is not enough time. Not enough time to do everything that I think would be fulfilling and exciting. But all this thinking about it and planning for a future I don't even know if I can finance prevents me from experiencing the things I am able to. Right now.

My little-teeny house in Robbinsdale. I have to tear myself away from the paint peeling around the window sills and the stains on the roof. Here I am. My own little piece of home. I can keep it clean and beautiful-it's not opulent and never will be. But it's my own.

Reading about yoga, meditation, being present is wonderful-but it's not the practice. When I don't slow down and sit with my fears and my breath and feel all of my weight-instead of judging it- that is when the anxiety comes rushing up out of my abdomen and comes crushing down on my chest. All the planning and thinking in the world will not take away from the sacred and eternal/internal reality that is my breath flowing in and out of my body-a breath that will someday cease-but a breath that moves through me now.

Being alive is a scary thing. Especially when you step away from your piles of stuff and begin living it.

Remember the Time.

I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry? If anyone is still checking.

I've been busy with finals, working full-time, and figuring out if I still want to be an attorney.

Lately there have been a whirlwind of things going on around me. My best friend since we were twelve is having twin boys!! I was already excited to become the drunken auntie-now I'll be the drunken auntie x 2. Just remembering how little we were-growing up together-and now she's going to me a mama. Life-speeds along doesn't it?

Speaking of life-and two that have passed-I can't believe that both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died on the same day. I grew up with Michael Jackson's music. I remember when I was little my mom used to put on a Michael Jackson record to calm my sister down-it was the only thing that would get her to stop crying at times.

I know that through the years Michael Jackson became "Wacko Jacko" and had a totally fucked up life. I want to remember him as he was-a really talented musician and singer who I think (and forgive me) really did want to heal the world and make it a better place. Here he is-in all of his early glory.



I don't want to write about life and how it's over so fast and blah, blah, blah. It's always on my mind anyway. We get just a glimpse. I want to spend it in the arms and presence of the people I love, listening to good music, and feeling thankful for every second of awareness I have.

God speed.

31 Again.

Today is my husband's 31st.  Into his 30's they say.  It will go by in a flash. Much faster than his 20's.  

Birthdays.  They surround our relationship.  I met my husband when I was 20 and fresh back from Spain-wearing these hip red "trainers" and totally 20 pounds skinnier than I am now.  He was dating my friend Leah.  

Ah, the good old days. 

My husband came to my 21st birthday.  Of course I didn't know he was my husband at the time.  Although it seems like such a short time ago-in that moment-a life of domesticity seemed way off-it went by in a flash!  

We started dating, and by that I mean "dating" right after his 26th birthday.  I was still 21.  Oh, but so stupid.  I am still stupid.  But maybe the kind of stupid I was then was helpful to our relationship.  Because I kept seeing him.  

Even at 21 I felt like-this weird awkwardness-that I still feel with him-but also THIS I want to take you home and keep you forever. 

Other people have told me this about him-Oh, he's so comfortable-he's so easy to talk to- and I see how you could feel that-I did. 

But it was more-Hello you-here we are-and WHOA-we bought a house together and got married. 

I loved my husband before he was my husband.  And I loved him more after.  

carrying on-he is 31 today.  5 years after we met.  

Why do I worship my relationship so?  

Because.  Life is messy.  Professional relationships are built on a certain amount of misrepresentation.  Family relationships are operating out of years of dysfunction.  Friendships-although invaluable-end at the door and good-bye.  Friendships are extremely necessary-and often help you live longer-but that person at the end of the line-when it's all good. 

They are who you COME home to.   Because they are home. 

That's why I totally glorify relationships that last a lifetime and the partners die within hours/months/weeks of each other.  

You operate as a unit-but this cool family/sleeping with each other-unit.  I don't know. 

I'm just spewing smashed words. 

I so believe in monogamy and marriage.  Everyone should be allowed to get married and everyone should. 

Because when this whole fucking world is against you-having someone stand up and hang their hat with yours-in front of whatever community is important to you-it's pretty strong. 

It at least gives you someone to hold onto while you're waiting to die.  

Sometimes morbid thoughts make you very sentimental for great romance.  

I'm just beginning to accept that I'm awesome.

My high-school boyfriend, who I was totally in love with and lost my virginity to on FUCKING prom night ( I know-What the fuck) was like a total douche in a lot of ways, but I was young and you know-stupid.

But he was a good guy on some levels and super sexy to me for some reason (DAMN you oxytocin) so I could never really get him out of my system. Finally, a few years ago (read: after I got married) we became "friendly" like as friends that speak every couple of months, but also went through a period of life together where they were like licking out each others assholes.

Anyway, he's got like the HUGEST ego That only a Leo narcissist could, but most of the time I find it fairly amusing-although when I was obsessed with his every move I found it incredibly destructive-to say the least. But he's always had this thing where he thought he was better and smarter than everyone around him. Even his elders.

Now, I don't know if it's a gender thing, or a me questioning myself thing, but I never got him being all on his high horse. Well, I guess I got it to the extent I rationalized it as a result of him being mentally ill/raised my a mother who constantly praised him while she regaled us with stories of her acid dropping hippy days (Seriously, this dude used to mutter in his sleep from all the Lorazapam he ingested-she loved to feed her kids pharmaceuticals) I mean really. I was like-why do you think you're all that? You seem like a pretty huge nerd, weirdo to me.

Back to the present-we were talking the other day. Yadda, Yadda, Yadda. How are you? , What are you up to? And he's like, "I'm just beginning to accept I'm awesome. I mean I always knew I was good. But I mean, I'm really awesome. At my job, life, etc."

Me? I'm like barf, gag me, you're so full of yourself, good thing you have a picture perfect dick to back up that huge ego-you know. Just like-REALLY this guy is deluded.

But today-at my volunteership-I was listening to the volunteer lawyers talk to a group of women. I'm so used to being in this world full of people training to be lawyers-but we have no clients. OUR WHOLE GOAL of works-and I don't know how to talk to people. And the way this lawyer was explaining the law and the job to this group of women-it HIT me. BAM. SHAzam!

I'm not just paying for the smarts, for the intellect part of it (where I feel, frankly, pretty fucking weak). I'm paying for access to a community, where I know people, and network and act with integrity and build a reputation. It all depends on ME. Just me SISTAH. I gotta work the rope line, flatter, call shots, and do it with a shit load of class and just the right amount of aggression and little bit of brain power to round it all out. FUCK! No wonder the law isn't an easy job. And no wonder, for so long, it belonged to men. It's built for men. You have to be KING COCK in the law, strut your shit, talk the dude langauge, and leave no doubt in your mind or anyone elses just how fucking awesome you are.

I won't even go into how as a feminist things need to change and gender rolls and bullshit. But here's this. If I'm entering this legal world-which really was just opened up to women 150 years ago after 100's of years of monopoly by men-I'm going to have to learn how to play the game.
Which means I have to get all liberal feminist on this legal ass and gain full access before I can change it from the inside out. Or at least so I can make a ton of money.

Which means I need to play up my strengths. And get ready to shout from the fucking roof-tops, " You know, I'm beginning to accept that I'm awesome. I knew I was good. But I'm awesome."

Because, half the battle is walking into a room, and sending out that message and not giving them any other reason to think otherwise.

So thanks. Thanks high-school boyfriend. For teaching me this weird lesson. Sometimes taking life by the balls, and telling it you're better than most, even if it isn't true, really works in driving you towards success.

If the law won't work for me with how I think as a woman, I'm going to start to act like a man-and think I'm and the mother fucking shit regardless.

Whoa. It felt good to get that off my chest. And my balls.

Note to Self.

Don't write blog about having crush on someone and leave computer screen open to said blog so that husband will see (and read it).  

Idiot!

5 Things on My Mind-Sunday Night Edition

1. Swine Flu

This shit reminds me reading "The Plague" by Camus when I was in college and all going through this existentialist, everything is meaningless phase.  But reading about it in a book while chain-smoking in front of your dorm and watching kids in Mexico ride bikes around wearing surgical masks are two different things.  I really don't understand this virus thing-and I don't know what to believe from the news.  Are they telling us everything, are they going overboard to keep up with the crazy-ass news cycle we have going these day, who are "they" any way?  FUCK.  Well, if I get swine flu at least I won't have to go to class.  

2. Reality programming.

It seems that everywhere you turn, if you are me, there's reality t.v.  involving some sort of prize (love/money/infamy) waiting for the contestants at the end.  I just watched the movie "Grey Gardens" inspired by the documentary "Grey Gardens"  and it's like these two women were the original-and ultimate- reality t.v. show characters.  I wonder what would have happened to them had their lives been made into a serialized television program?  Reality shows put this thin layer of cheapened slime all over pop culture-has pop culture always been slightly cheapened though?  Maybe just not as slimy.  

I don't know.  With the Internet, facebook, blogs, reality t.v., 24 hour news cycles, and texting it just seems like my mind isn't getting out and stretching its mind legs.  I zip through websites, drinking in what I can in a few minutes or less, and communicating through 5 word sentence texts to friends-too lazy to even have an actual conversation.  I can't even drag my ass off the damn couch to take a shower on weekends.  I'm too busy spoon feeding myself dribble about celebrity relationships and pandemics that may or may not occur at any second.  

The ladies that lived in Grey Gardens, although they were off their rockers and lived in a condemnable home, spent their days singing, dancing, creating costumes and stories.  Living, crazily, but living taking full advantage of their imaginations and creativity.  The most creative thing I've done lately is create a sorority avatar on facebook.  And here I am bitching about it all on my blog.  While watching narcissistic people exploit themselves on camera for my viewing pleasure.  While I blog.  And receive texts.    

3. Break-ups.  

Yeah, not the kind-of break-ups that involved cutting it off with someone you're doing it with.  Like break-ups with someone your friends with.  It's seriously one of those things I don't know how to handle.  It's like I'm growing up-and those that I've been through a lot of fun times with-It's just that we're not flying in the same direction.  I want to have one of those, "It's not you, it's me" conversations.  Because really. It is.  But who am I kidding.  I'm not any good at ending relationships.  I'm always like, I'll either still fuck you or drink with you-It's something I have to get better at.  

4. Finals, money, summer school, weight-loss.  

These 4 thoughts stream through my mind at relentless pace, streaming through all my other daily concerns, until I have one big mind fuck at the end of the day-pushing them to the back burner-balancing not going into denial about my bills and studying, but also trying to stay focused on one thing at a time.  Welcome to being an adult bitch.  It only took me like through half my 20's to get here. 

5. Insomnia. 

I cannot sleep lately.  Maybe if I showered once in awhile my weekend stench wouldn't keep me awake on Sunday nights.