I am about to make my first actual foray into “therapy”. I am nervous about it, nervous mostly because I don’t like the idea of anyone asking me why I am doing it. In the same way that I don’t like being asked why I am a vegetarian. You never have one vegetarian asking it of another. You always have an omnivore placing the question, always with a hint of disdain, or at the very least, with the need to have something proved to them. Regardless of the answer I give, the person always says “yeah, I don’t eat much red meat” or “I tried it and got really fat and unhealthy” or “blah blah blah blah blah” which is what it really sounds like to me. Because really, I care not in the least about what other people eat. I never say to an omnivore, “Why do you eat meat? What made you decide to eat meat? Yeah, I ate meat once, when I was thirteen, but blah blah blah.” Yes, I would love to live in a world where slaughterhouses didn’t exist, but as long as they do, I will have my quiet rebellion and give the finger to the next person who asks me why.

I don’t know why I feel as defensive about seeing an analyst. I don’t want my search for knowledge to be judged in a similar fashion. I just… I don’t mind talking about any of it, I just find it wasteful when people ask me why. And annoying. So don’t ask me why. All twelve of you who have ever read this blog.

I made a grand return to my yoga practice today, after falling out of shoulder stand and ripping something terrible inside my wrist two weeks ago. It was not easy. I am weak, and my wrist will not let me do all of the poses. But it was terrific to be back. I saw both of the owners of the studio, a lovely couple of ladies, and just seeing them made my day notably better. Also, I am on the tail end of three days off, so I am rested, and, believe it or no, contented.

A note to my upstairs neighbor: I don’t like you much. You play bad music loudly, you sing along loudly, you *actually* played “Stairway” on your loud electric guitar the other night, and I don’t think you were kidding. You had band practice, such as it was, until 2 AM Monday morning, and you played bad music. Maybe I would like you if I met you, but first you must play something other than Soundgarden.

A note to the world: I need to fall madly in love in the next few months, madly enough that I think I could actually share an apartment with the person, because in August, the garden apartment in my building is going to be available. It’s a one bedroom, so really only big enough for me, but the garden is lovely. Zooey (my fat cat) needs some outside space in his last years, and god knows I do too.

This is the letter I received in the mail today:

Woman’s Day

Dear Writer,

Thank you for sending Woman’ s Day your recent article or idea submission.

After careful consideration, we have decided that your material is not suited to our current needs. This decision is not necessarily a reflection of blah blah blah… we received hundreds of blah blah blah, so we cannot blah blah blah… we appreciate blah blah blah and wish you success in placing your material elsewhere.

Very truly yours,

The Editors

I have to say of all the rejection letters I’ve gotten, this was, although form, one of the nicest. A) they called me a writer and b) wished me luck. Those are two things I’ve not yet seen. However, rejection is rejection, and rejection does not pay my rent. What it does mean is that I rewrite it, make it X number of words long, depending what other magazines want, and resubmit it. It is a terrific article, I know it is, and, well, eventually, someone will buy it. Darnit.

I spent the day in my ‘hood again, wishing that my fellow hooders Ian and Tessa were in town, but having a good day nonetheless. I spent almost three hours at a spa on 7th Ave, getting a pedicure and a leg wax. If anyone ever tells you that waxing doesn’t hurt, they are telling you a bald-faced lie. I got my eyebrows done too, and cried so much during it that the Russian woman waxing me started stroking my head, saying, “Don’t cry, don’t cry”. These things, these “beauty” things are appealing to me only on the most surface of levels… I have no need for them, but when I’m in civilization I figure I might as well do them. I have a hard time with the upkeep, though, and forget to shave for weeks at a time. There’s just so many other more important things to do. And I hate shaving. This summer, on my trek (americanfrontiers.net), I liberated myself from makeup, shaving, and beauty products. Now, well, it feels strange not to do them. But it still find them boring.

I’m trying to decide what I’m going to do this summer, where I might go. I don’t know why Africa is so much on my mind… or, hey, maybe Greece. Somewhere far. That’s all I know right now.

It is noon on Wednesday, and I’ve just finally finished my morning coffee. I worked six shifts in half as many days and I’m a little worn out. Thankful, though, that I have a good job and a beautiful apartment in times like these. Even the most popular restaurant in New York is slow these days, but we still make enough money to survive.

On that note, I got some sad news yesterday- the GM of my restaurant is leaving us to create a new position as the Human Resources Director. His office won’t even be in our building anymore. This is particularly vexing to me because he is the lifeblood of the restaurant, and one of my favorite people alive. He makes me want to be as good a person as he thinks I am. I don’t know if there would be a position for me in the HR department, but yesterday I left a note in his box: “Wherever you shall go, there I would like to go also”. I can’t imagine being there without working with him. Every Christmas party he writes new lyrics to some silly pop song. This year, I think it was to “I Can’t Drive 55” and the lyrics were replaced with “Let’s Take Back Number 1!” (Grammercy Tavern took our #1 status in Zagat this year.) The year before it was a song to his wife- it was their 20th anniversary. Or some important number like that.

Every day I go to weather.com and pray to see a temperature near just 40 degrees. It hasn’t happened. Just for it to not be miserable. I’ve entirely forgotten what it must be like to be warm- to walk outside in a sundress, to hope for a cool breeze. Week-old snowdrifts still guard the sidewalks from the streets. My new bike sits in my kitchen, the odometer blank, the mileage still reading “7” from last week’s ride. I sit at my window, dreaming of sunshine and guys walking their dogs in shorts. Of sitting on the front steps of my building, drinking a beer and meeting the neighbors.

Dreaming also of a world without George Dubya at the helm.

Back in New York, where the snow drifts are higher than the cars, than me. It’s 43 degrees, which means you need an umbrella to avoid the snow melting off of every building. Under the scaffolding, it actually looks like it’s pouring down rain

I picked up my bike from Emey’s, who insisted on giving me two more vintage jerseys while I was there. I raced to the subway, in hopes of getting home soon enough to take my bike around Prospect Park, but I missed all of the daylight. Tomorrow promises to be 45 degrees, so my new bike- I can’t tel yet if it’s a him or a her- and I have a hot date with the Park. My bike belongs to the race of dark Elves.

I was up until 3 AM last night, still on California time, and had to get up by 9 for work. I’m hoping to get some sleep tonight, but I’m going to see an friend from my EMT class (http://slate.msn.com/id/2062978/entry/2063154/) that I haven’t seen in months. I think it is necessary and good to keep company other than servers and actors.

You know what I really wish, though? That citibank and the others would quit sending me letters about transferring my balance to one of their cards. I mean, really. All they are doing is making me mad and killing trees.

It’s my last day in California. I’m sad because my dad is sick, and because I have to return to freezing weather. Today was stunning. Sunny, warm, filled with Spring. I don’t feel entirely ready to get home, although I am dying to get back to lay eyes on my new bike.

My new bike. The three best words of the new year. My friend Christopher, who is an avid road biker, took me shopping. We started at a store on 33rd, where there were two huge and beautiful mutt dogs lying between the jerseys and the frames. I learned rather quickly that Christopher is terrifed of dogs. I need to ask him why. We were helped by a really great guy named Patrick, who steered us toward the perfect bike- sort of an entry-level steel road bike with good components. But… with tax and shoes it would have cost $1500, and I struggled with going over my $1200 to $1300 ceiling.

Next we went to Emey’s Bike shop on 17th, just a block or two off of Union Square. Emey’s is, I think, entirely used, and Christopher had bought bikes there before. We walked in the door and were hailed by a big guy with chain grease on his shirt, who I immediately liked. He asked what we wanted, and Christopher said that we were shopping for me. Emey looked at me and said, “What do you want to spend?” and I said, “Under $1500”. He giggled and said, “It’s you lucky day. I wanted $1500, but that’s too close to your ceiling. How about $1300?” He lifted a sleek black bike from one of his racks and Christopher immediately said, “Buy this bike”. It was a black Casati, a seven-year-old handmade Italian bike. He pointed out several features that were remarkable, although not to my untrained eye, and miraculously, the bike fit me perfectly. Emey (or at least, I think it was Emey) then brought out a brand-new pair of road shoes, that came with the bike, and he said, “There are worth about $250 but if they fit you, I’ll throw them in. They fit. I was still not entirely sure, trying not to make an impulsive decision when Christopher said, “Roll up your pants and take it around the block.” It was freezing, and I was wearing a long wool coat, but I did it anyway. I carried it outside, climbed on, and started to fly. I’d never felt anything like it. I could feel the road but feel my wings all at the same time. It stopped on a dime, sailed around corners, and when I got back to the shop, I told Emey that I would go take every penny out of my bank account if only he would hold it for me.

When I got back to the store, after a chilly trip to the bank, Emey took what little money I had and then said, “Do you have a second? I have a present for you and your friend!” He went to the back of his shop and rummaged around in stacks of what looked like pressed shirts. He came over to me, bearing vintage Italian handmade jerseys, still in their plastic wrappings. “Pick one for you and your friend!” he said. He then told me that he would keep the bike, clean it up, take off the clip pedals and put on regular ones with foot baskets. He warned me that I needed to get used to a bike like this before I started riding with clips.

Needless to say, I love this man and his shop, and I cannot wait until my first flight with my new bike.

But now, it’s my last night in California, and I have to deal with idea of returning to frigid climes, to work, to stress, to the life I have yet to realize. I’m going to go see if my dad and I can pop a bottle of Brunello and chat about “lyfe in genrul”.

Today started with a drive from Napa, down to Caneros, through Sonoma Valley to the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco. It rained on the way, but the city was warm and sunny. Sailboats on the Marina, folks out in flocks on the streets. Of course, today was the anti-war rally, and I was so filled with longing that I couldn’t even bear to see the gathered crowds. Instead, my stepmom and I did some shopping, picked up my step brother and headed to my dad’s concert at the Bohemian Club.

The club itself, at least, their San Francisco building, is elegant beyond description. I’m too looped on the German Riesling to describe the building or the club but I’ll do it as soon as sobriety permits. Suffice to say that I got to witness some great music sandwiched between a half brother and a step brother, neither of whom need such qualifications. Followed by an amazing dinner and lovely words with said brothers. Now, off to bed for another twelve hours sleep. Things could be worse.

I tried to post a blog earlier today and Mr. Dell here in Napa wouldn’t let me do it. But so far, that was the only downer of the day.

It is gorgeous here, even though it is currently pouring down rain. Hovering around sixty degrees… light sweater weather… the sun peeking out occasionally and the breeze sweet and soft. Lovely. I spent last night with my dad and Carole and one of their neighbors, an unlikely foursome on Valentine’s Eve. The only place we could get in was Brix, here in the valley, and even then we “had” to sit and have martinis during the hour before our meal Wetalked politics, but my stomach didn’t turn, and I hardly gave a thought to the heartbreak I suffered two years ago on that day.

Today dawned cloudy and warm, well, comparatively warm to frigid New York, and we spent the day running errands and shopping. I spent the day thinking. It’s really important to get away from home every now and then. Important to release yourself from your life so you have time and perspective to think about what you need to do. Oh, and to sleep. I slept thirteen hours last night. If only I could ruminate on my problems for a full thirteen hours. Alas, I might toss myself off the Golden Gate if I did that, so… maybe only an hour or two. Today I sat on my dad and Carole’s porch, overlooking the Rutherford Bench, and watched two hawks circle the underpaid immigrant workers pruning the vines below. Still, it was peaceful, and the only two things I figured out in that hour of staring and drooling was that 1) I need to get out of credit card debt and B) I need a laptop computer. Neither of these were revelations, and nor are they in the order of importance, but really now. Not having a laptop means not being able to write 75% of the time that I need/want to. It’s just foolish and detrimental to my life. Credit card debt, well, that is a fact of life, and mine is only $5000, but it ties me to home, ties me to subsistence job, hangs over my head every time I think of running off to Africa for a couple of months to EMT some people back to health.

So that’s the only clarity so far. My dad bought me a kitchen apron. The night before I left, I found a hat my mom had gotten for me- a blue one with ears, exactly what I’d asked for during the first deep freeze. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am loved by my entire family. I know they are good people. I know that I am talented, and that I try to be good myself. You would think that just with this knowledge, I’d feel at least partially actualized.

I will free myself from the traps I have created. I will raze the walls that I have raised. I will do exactly what I want to do, create the life I need. I just haven’t figured out the first step.

My brother Ian has a blog (xtcian.net) which he has been writing for a few years now, and in it he updates how Celexa is affecting his life. Beyond that, it is brillantly written. Ian’s writing reminds me of Beethoven. Both knock me over- surprise me, take my breath, break my heart. And every now and then, I have to wonder if I, too, should be medicated, like several of my brothers. But I really don’t think so. I really think my feelings of unhappiness are situational, not chemical. I know when I’ve been happy, what it takes, what I need to do. That seems to be the problem now- I am fiercely devoted to the idea of having four careers, and yet, right now, I have none of them.

I think what I really need is a nap, and a trip to California.

My life is not what I want it to be.

There is a theory of thought that if you try your hardest to accomplish something, that if you put all of your energy into it, the universe will respond by helping you reach your goal. I sat on the subway tonight, leaving yet another birthday party for yet another beloved, and cried. I cried because my life is not what I want it to be. I feel I do not belong in this city, at this job, in this life. I feel pathetic, useless, filling my time with nothingness. Again choosing a man who does not want to choose me. For the first time in my life, I wondered if I really wanted to be an actor. I’ve not auditioned well in quite some time. If this is the ultimate, what I really want, why aren’t I trying my hardest? Why isn’t all of my energy there? Am I absolutely full of shit? I’m not scared of success, I’m not really scared of anything. I don’t want to spend whole days waiting in the cold for two minutes of a bored man’s time. And that is what it takes. So do I not have what it takes? Does it really matter if you are an actor unless you are an actor in New York? On the subway tonight, as tears hit my book, I wondered if I should go to school to be a nurse or physician’s assitant. Doctors Without Borders has no use for EMT’s or paramedics, but they take nurses and PA’s. But neither of those are emergency medicine.

I want to plan a trip away. I have no idea what I want, or where to go from here. I suppose that is the problem. I am treading water, barely keeping afloat, and can’t decide which way to swim.

A few nights ago, I left work and walked to the subway. It is bitter again in New York, and the streets and sidewalks are sheets of ice. I turned into the Union Square kiosk and three people were bounding down the stairs before me. Just as I got a sick feeling in my stomach, watching the last guy’s feet on the ice, he fell, and fell hard. He didn’t slide all the way down, but hit his head and his back and his legs all at once. A few people asked him if he was okay as I gingerly worked my way down. When I reached the bottom, I found him leaning against the wall, holding his face, saying, “Oh, shit, oh… shit”. I said, “Are you okay?” and he mumbled behind his hands that I should go away. I put my hand on his arm, looking at his filthy fingernails, and thought that he was either homeless or just really dirty. I said, “Did you hit your head? I’m an EMT, I can help you.” He drew his hands away and looked at me, and said, “I’m fine. Thankyou. Really, I’m fine.”

He was obviously embarassed, and people have to give permission to be helped, so I walked away. As I went down the steps for the Brooklyn Q, he called out thanks one more time from across the subway station.

And this just makes me think… it was such a small event, took three minutes of my life… but it reminds me that I could actually be DOING SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE. Take five minutes and go to the Doctors Without Borders website. Click on the “Top Ten Most Underreported Humanitarian Stories of 2002” (http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/publications/reports/2002/top10_2002.html) and you will see what there is to be done. In many of those stories there are accounts of aid people being shot and murdered. Which frightens me. But I feel like if I stay here, live this life, go to work, serve people steaks which I would probably not eat under gunpoint… I feel like my only alternative is to go mad.

I’ve been urged to write more, but my life is not what it was a year ago. My life was interesting enough to write about every day, and now, unless all I want to be is one of the most successful servers in New York, my life is common. It is exactly what I feared it would be, when I was dragging my heels at coming back and returning to my old job. I’ve voiced my need for adventure to a few friends at work, and they look at me agape: “You’ve been home for four months!” Yes, home, in a apartment that I love but which makes me work extra shifts every week, just to pay for my roof. Last year, this time, I was training to be an EMT, working for the Red Cross, anything but the self-absorbed boob I am right now.

So what can I do about it? Well. First and foremost, I hope to be chosen to volunteer for the Central Park EMS. The EMS in the Park is its own beast, entirely volunteer, and appealing because I would get to help everyone from homeless people to top athletes. There is an orientation meeting later this month, and all I can do is hope that they want a girl with limited experience but endless enthusiasm.

What else can I do? Ride my bike from Chesapeake Bay to Manhattan to raise money for AIDS research and services. I am a former AIDSRider. I rode from New York to Boston last year for the Northeast AIDSRide, but Palotta Teamworks, the sponsor, has since folded. The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center, or The Center, has taken over, putting together their own AIDSRide. They had to, because government funding and private donations do not cover the AIDS services they provide. And, as you can imagine, New York is a hub for this disease and these services are essential. They have also always been free. So even though I have to raise $3500, almost double of what I had to raise last year, I signed up at the very first orientation meeting.

But what do I do today? Yesterday we had a beautiful snowstorm, and the streets and sidewalks are still layered in white. I’m planning on hitting Ozzie’s for a cup of joe, and then walking over to the Farmer’s Market at Grand Army Plaza. And daydreaming about my new bike, the one I can’t quite afford, but the one that will sail me up and down the hundred hills between Chesapeake Bay and home. Last year I rode my old Trek hybrid, which was lovely (and heavy) when my mom helped me buy it in 1995, but which decided to stop changing gears on particularly steep hills on my century ride (100 miles) during the AIDSRide.

I intend for my new bike to have wings.