My apartment is the pit of despair, my bank account is in shambles, my cat is sicker than ever and my career as a writer is nonexistent. And yet, I’m happy.

I slept until 2 PM today. Which means I slept through my French class. But as soon as I woke, I had lunch with my brother Steve, and then fixed (yet another) flat on my bike. Which allowed me to ride in this not-even-quite-80-degree weather into the city to my yoga center. And there, I went to a rooftop yoga class in which my practice, oft ignored this last month, went deeper than ever.

My teacher, the venerable Dana Flynn, was talking to us near the end of class as our sweat seeped through the wick in our clothes and our minds filtered her words and the New York night. She said many things, she said silly things, and she reminded us that our lives are now. She also said something that made tears burst from my eyes. She said that living well today takes care of the past. That good choices today make previous bad choices okay. I spend too much of my life beating myself up. These last couple of days I’ve spent berating myself up for freaking out during my last night in New Orleans.

The reason for my freak was because I could not find my shoes. Neither pair. They were lost, although they were only in the next room, and I in turn, lost it. But I did not lose it because I could not find my shoes; I lost it because I was filled with alcohol and lacking sleep and most importanly, because I was so sad the weekend was ending. And for about ten minutes, I was so upset I was crying. And I’ve been ashamed of that these last two days, ready to apologize to my brothers.

But when was the last time they apologized to me for their behavior? Long ago. And not because they have been perfect, but because both Sean and Ian are able to accept themselves, and see minor freak-outs as part of life. And this weekend is a testament to them both, particularly Ian, who brought such incredible people together, and who held onto them for years.

So screw apologizing for my behavior. I’ve always found apologies empty anyway. What matters is what you do next, not the words you find after the event. And by living better, none of us need to apologize. Ian has some of the coolest people I know for friends, a veritable posse of them, most of whom could not even make it to New Orleans. But those that showed were so funny and terrific to remind me that Ian isn’t just my brother. He is a friend that has inspired enough allegiance and love that I’m dizzy in the company of his friends. The best choice I’ve made in months was to buy that ticket to New Orleans, and I hope to keep making those good choices. I may have years of bad choices to haunt me, but I have the rest of my life to do something about it.

I would like to explain my absence of late. No, I was not having yet another hard week. Nor was I working so much that I was too exhausted to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. No. I was in New Orleans at my brother Ian’s bachelor party.

I think I will refrain from describing most of it, since there is no way to do justice in the retelling. I remember most of it, which is a miracle since I think we almost drank that town dry, but I think I’ll keep my hazy memories to myself. However, I will say that at one point, at something like 5 AM in a casino, I told everyone there- about ten men- that if I ever get married, I want to celebrate my bachlorette party with them. No women, just me and my brothers’ friends, back in New Orleans.

I’ve rarely felt so free of responsibility, so able to go along with the flow, so happy to be in company. And while my bank account and brain cells may never recover, I’m beyond happy that I went, and that I have the kind of brothers who wanted me there.

You know how I was pretty certain that I’d be able to drop of my Fedex to the Peace Corps and not think about my health for a while? Well, it didn’t exactly turn out that way. Cruel, cruel world, there is much left to do. While I was thrilled, but not terrilbly suprised, to find that I am HIV-negative, I was unsettled by my PAP results. They were abnormal, quite clearly so, and said that I had squamous intraepithelial lesions, which in layman’s terms means abnormal cells that have a very slim chance of developing into cervical cancer. They are a manifestation of HVP, which is a sexually transmitted virus. Here’s the crazy thing about HVP: 80% of sexually active adults will test positive for this virus in their lifetime. It’s that common. And it can take ten to twelve years to manifest, or may never, which means there is no knowing where or when you contracted it. You will have it your whole life and it may not require any care; on the other hand, the lesions could require surgery to remove them, and it can also lead to cancer. I told a few friends about this and all three said that not only did they test positive for this virus, two of them had had surgery, and said it was no huge deal.

The next step for me is a colposcopy, which is a pelvic exam with cameras. If nothing is detected, than I am fine, but need to get a pelvic again in six months. If lesions are detected, I might have to have surgery. I was really worried at first, but really, I’d rather have that than HIV, and it is something I can watch and take care of for the rest of my life. If I have to get pelvics twice a year forever, fine. This is something I can manage, and it may never bother me again. Unfortunately, my doctor could not schedule my colposcopy until the middle of August, so I have to wait until then to find out what exactly is happening on my insides.

But then there is the Peace Corps. I called the Washington office today, and found the name of my placement officer and health screener. Both of them were wonderful, and assuaged my fears of losing my nomination since my health exams were taking so long. But my health screener said that I should Fedex everything I have right away, and that I can fax my PAP results (and colposcopy results) as soon as I get them. I can be nominated without them having every shred of paper, as long as I prove that I am fully cleared before I go. So tomorrow, everything I have to this date will finally fly towards Washington, and I start the waiting game for both my invitation and my colposcopy. My placement officer said she would start sending invitations in a couple weeks, so the waiting game may not be as long as I once thought.

I get home rather late most nights, but it is always strangely assuring that my brother Ian is not yet asleep. How do I know this? Because every night I get home and check his blog, and every night it is the blog I read earlier that morning. When I get up at 8, the new blog is always there, but it has never appeared before 3 AM. So I know that there is at least one writer out there burning the midnight oil long after I’ve retreated to la-la land.

It is raining here in the city, raining out everyone’s weekday beach plans, possibly even raining out my ride to French class tomorrow. I’ve yet to take the subway to class or work since, well, since it stopped snowing, but the rain might get me down. Not because I’d get wet- I’ve got more wicking and rainproof gear than any single woman ought, and besides, I love riding in the rain- but I’m a little hesitant about my daily battle with the cars on Flatbush. When you add a bunch of rain and slick streets, well, it seems to exponentially raise the danger level.

Tomorrow is possibly my last trip to the doctor for the Peace Corps exams. I learn my PAP and HIV results, and hopefully will get the last of the paperwork I need to Fedex everything to Washington, D.C. I just want to get that done, drop it off at the Fedex center, and then sleep for an entire day. These tests and exams have been rigorous and, at times, painful, and while I think it’s great to make sure I’m healthy, I’m more concerned about finishing the last phase of my Peace Corps application. I’ve also just worked six shifts in four days and I’m not thinking clearly. I will be glad to know my results tomorrow, and gladder still to visit Fedex.

I have to be at French class in eight hours. Ugh.

Tonight at work, a woman sitting at the bar with three of her friends said, “Do you also work on the floor?” I said yes, that I worked both the bar and the floor. She said, ” You waited on us. Over two years ago. We’ve been back since a few times but not seen you. You were so wonderful- I had the tuna and my husband….” She went on, but the point was, she remembered me. Yes, she is a stranger, but for two years I’ve stayed in her mind, close enough to call upon the minute she saw me.

Say what you will, you black-wearing, black-feeling, black haired naysaying motherfuckers. There will always be you trying to make me hate me. You were more plentiful in Los Angeles, but you are everywhere I will ever live. Belive what you will- believe that I am full of shit, believe that I’m half a person, believe that I believe that the world owes me something. Believe that my self worth lies in the eyes of others, particularly men. Believe that I should “slow down”, stop “doing so much in my life”. Belive that I am an okay scratching post for your fears, your jealousy, your self-hate, your lost dreams. Believe also that you have the right to tell me exactly how you feel about me.

But know this: my life is richer, harder, darker, and more wonderful than your happiest moment. I don’t waste my blackness on the void that is you. My blackness, my truly knowing myself, allows me to leave the dark side at home rather than share it with the negative, pathetic, self-loathing likes of you. My life is a hundred times harder than yours and it is because of that that I can look you in the face, feel your black mindless hate, and laugh and ask you how your day is, how you are feeling, what’s going on. And smile and move on when you grunt because you can not bear my presence.

There will always be you. But better yet, there will always be me. Think what you will, breathe your poisonous dreams at night, suffer because you can’t hate me enough. But… suffer more, because you WILL NOT GET ME DOWN.

Not for good, anyway.

True to form, I have once again not written when perhaps I really should have. The gaps in my journals, written since April 21st, 1979, always indicate a particularly difficult time. Perhaps it is because I do more talking than writing during times like this, but I also fear that not committing to paper keeps me from helping myself. Actually, I have no idea why, I just know that it is a habit to shy away from the written word when things get hairy.

I am in the middle of the battery of health tests required for the Peace Corps. I have now seen two doctors, one dentist and four nurses, in two different states, over the course of a month. And I’m far from done. I am still waiting for the results of my PAP and HIV test, and I have to get another urinalysis done since my test last week showed a presence of blood. They are thinking it was left over from my period, and I am certainly hoping the same. It is the only anomaly so far in all of my tests, and every inch of my body has been prodded. In one day, I had a hearing test, a vision test, a hemoglobin finger-stick, a TB test shot, urinalysis, and blood drawn for HIV, blood type, and RH-factor testing. The visit before I had a full physical and pelvic exam. In a week I get all of the results, the last tests, and I just might be finished. Two months of paperwork will go into my pre-addressed FedEx form, and then the real waiting game begins. I may not hear anything for months, my program, country, continent, and leave date could all change, and all I can do is be flexible and patient.

And I have to decide what I really want to do. Once I’ve sent the FedEx, I’m going to try my best to not even worry about it until I get my invitation, and in that week, make a choice to affect the next two plus years of my life. I don’t want to live the next few months as if I will be leaving shortly; I want to live as though nothing is fixed and take it from there.

I have to send out great thanks to my family and friends, even those who do not even know that I write this blog, who rallied around me this last week when I was attacked by the dark side. Someone tried to break me, tried to make me feel worthless and foolish and as though I was totally full of shit. This person sat me down and detailed what she believed to be a list, a long one, of my faults, and in the meantime, also insulted the very way I live my life. I actually believed her for almost a whole day, until I finally started talking to some of my friends and family who were furious. And I finally realized that although, as Ian said, maybe 15% of what she said was true, the other 85% was horseshit and she isn’t even worth a reply. Simply put, she is sick, and cruel, and insane with jealousy and anger, and she is not a person I want in my life.

And I am jealous of the millions of people in France right now who get a glimpse of Lance Armstrong and the rest as they fly by at 45 miles an hour. And jealous of those who have a TV, when I can only listen to the Tour on my computer. Turns out more people watch the Tour de France than any other sporting event, including the Super Bowl. If you’ve never watched these men in action, gentle reader, I encourage you to check it out. And I need to figure out why there are no women in the Tour de France. Hmmm.

The events of the past week almost defy description. It has been, well, at best, totally wierd.

Let’s start with the Saturday double I worked just four days ago. I worked the floor during the day, and then the bar at night. I got done at about 2 AM, and then headed to my friend Hayley’s house to spend the night. I had arranged to do this since I had to be back to work at 10 AM Sunday morning. I got to Hayley’s at about 3AM, and when I opened the door to her guest room I knew I was in trouble. There was no fan, no air conditioner, and certainly no breeze. So I stripped in hopes of surviving the night. 4 AM found me staring at the ceiling, lying in a pool of my own sweat, nauseous from the heat. I gave up at about 4:30 and left the apartment. At this point I was delirious with heat and exhaustion, and I sat on her front porch and started crying. I was afraid to go all the way home, since I knew I would never make it back to work. I ended up calling my mom and riding all over the area trying to find a hotel where I could sleep for a few precious hours. At 5:30 I gave up once again and headed to my restaurant. I wheeled my bike past the porters who cleaned the restaurant at night and curled up on a banquet in the back dining room. I dozed on and off, at the mercy of the workers who were banging the wine ice buckets and vacumming the stairs. At 9:30 I dragged myself to the bathroom and cleaned up, and started work at 10.

Obviously it was a difficult shift, but the light at the end of the tunnel was the 6:30 PM appointment I had that night to get my air conditioner installed. I rushed home, only to find a message from the guy who was supposed to meet me, saying that he had already been there, he was now back in the city, and he would not come back that night. My phone call to him consisted of us going around and around with me saying, “But my appointment hasn’t even started yet!” to him saying, “I know, but I was already there!” “But it’s not even 6:30 yet!!!” “I know, but I was already there!”

I resigned myself to another sleepless, sweaty night, and woke up at 8 AM when beautifully, deliciously, my air conditioner arrived. But I was off for another double. I was back at work at 10 AM, and got home and to sleep at about 3 AM. And then… this morning was my French class, so I was up at 8:30 and out the door at 9. At approximately 9:11, I swerved to avoid a van that stopped rather quickly at an intersection. I was riding down a hill, so I was rolling along fast, and I hit the ground so hard and so quickly that I could barely remember what happened. Suddenly I was lying on my side, on the hot pavement, my bike tangled between my legs.

Luckily I was wearing my helmet. I cannot imagine how bad it could’ve been had I not. I knew I was banged up, but I didn’t know how bad, and I started crawling out from under my bike. About four men had dashed over, from both the surrounding cars and sidewalk, and a cop happened to be right behind me as well. One guy picked me up from under my armpits and settled me on the ground, and I was crying and saying I was okay. For a second I didn’t know what to do, but then I remembered I had to get to class and I swung my leg over my bike, still bawling, and continued pedalling down Flatbush.

I rode for almost half an hour without assessing my wounds, but when I happened upon an ambulance somewhere on 3rd Ave in the 20’s, I knocked on the window and begged for first aid. The EMT pulled over and gave me a bandage and some tape, but said she didn’t have anything to clean it with, and promptly drove away. I was even more aware of the pain at this point, and when I found a guy watering the roses at a deli, I borrowed the hose and let the water run through my scrapes. I had literally opened my elbow, a long, deep abrasion and a good gash at the end, but not anything that would benefit from stiches. I had also gotten both knees and the top of my left thigh, were a pretty impressive raised shiner is currently keeping me from crossing my legs.

I made it to French Class, where I was immediately sent to the office. A nice French woman handed me a bottle of peroxide and a couple bandages.

I finished class, lunched with Jordi, went to my restaurant for a mandatory wine tasting, and finally trudged home. I feel as though I’ve been hit by a truck. I will admit that I’m having a particularly rough week, and that I’m a little lost as to what to do about it. No, that’s a lie. I’m completely fucking lost and don’t even know where to begin.

Today’s the 4th of July

Another June has gone by

and as they light up our town

I just think

What a waste of gunpowder and sky

A little homage, if you will, to the great Aimee Mann, and I will admit to hearing her song as the longest fireworks show ever hurtled across the Manhattan sky. It was almost too long. I almost got bored. And I wondered how many millions the display cost, and then wondered again how else that money could’ve been funneled into our struggling economy. Perhaps to save a firehouse? Perhaps to a soup kitchen? Perhaps into a bank account so I can save my apartment?

Ugh. I’ve become one of those leftists who see evil in everything but broccolli. And you bet your pants it better be organic.

I’m off to work a triple… There is little in the world worse than a Saturday double into Sunday morning. What is worse is an empty bank account. Somehow, though, I feel slightly euphoric. I can’t explain it. I had a lovely night with a bunch of friends and it has left me tired and content.

I think I’ve figured it out. Umbridge is Bush. It’s suddenly so clear to me why I had to finish the book, beyond just not being able to put it down.

If you haven’t read the latest Harry Potter, you won’t know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t finished it, do not read the fourth paragraph of this blog. It’s not a big spoiler, but it mentions something that happens near the end of the book.

Umbridge is the quintessential bad authority figure. She never leads by example, she punishes those she dislikes and rewards her favorites. And- get this- every time an existing policy thwarts her plans, she immediately signs a new one into law, a.k.a. Animal Farm or, on a more pressing note, our administration. Strange what the Senate and House allowed Bush to pass right after 9/11… laws and powers that a more rational and thinking group of people would never have considered.

Anyway, back to Professor Umbridge. She knows less than her students, punishes the kids who point it out even if inadvertently. She is mean and conniving, and sees the possibility of her own advancement as the supreme goal of her every day. I’ve never hated a character in a book more, and now I realize why. J.K. Rowling is hitting a little close to home. At the end, when Umbridge is chased away from the school with one of the ghosts spanking her with a broom, well. ‘Tis a lovely fantasy, one that may not be played out until 2008. But… someday.

Happy Dippy 4th of July, cyber-world. I hope today you will think of the over 200 Americans who have been killed in Iraq for a war based on lies. Geeze. I know I’m probably preaching to the choir on this blog, but it makes me feel better to write it.

It is possible that the blog I write tonight will not be much different from the journal entries I wrote when I was 14 years old. A great deal of me has changed, but the change is largely to do with what I feel is important. It has gone from an obsession with the various men in my life to an obsession of what is wrong on a more global scale. This is certainly improvement, but really, the basic issues of my life have remained unchanged. When I was 14, my family was both with me and not really with me at all, I was involved with a group of friends with whom I always felt an outsider, and there was never one person in my life who was a constant. I latched onto various people for a month or two, they became and Insta-Best Friend and then soon they or I would disappoint and I would look back and marvel at the close time spent.

Today? Well, I’m left to wonder why I don’t have any close friends. My best friend Hayley is certainly close, and was my constant for some time, but I rebelled against it when it felt too suffocating and now she has her own constant, her boyfriend who lives with her. Once again, I have many friends at work, but none who I see often outside of work, and two friends who I considered very close not only didn’t show up as promised to my birthday party, they seem to have utterly forgotten that it, or me, every happened.

I know I am to blame for this. I, more often than not, hedge at invitations because I’m afraid of committing my time. I don’t really know why. But it alienates people, and then the 4th of July rolls around and I wonder why my phone isn’t ringing with people who want to see me. I am 31 years old and have never built the community that my brothers did when they were much younger. Not only do I not have any friends from college, I have no friends from high school or junior high or even from the three years I spent in Los Angeles just before I moved to New York. It seems that I felt like not bringing anyone along, although sometimes I think of those people fondly.

What this comes down to, all of it, is the same thing I’ve been whining about since the dawn of this blog: my life is not what I want. I keep thinking that baring these honest, hurtful, and really, embarassing truths will inspire me to create change, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I work too much, make too little money to live, cannot even afford my AEA and SAG dues so I can’t go to auditions, I alienate people, I constantly choose solitude, I have no time to write other than my blog ramblings, I somehow refuse to create a community that would support me through these issues, and sometimes I don’t even know how to take a first step in a different direction.

I do not want to join the Peace Corps if all it is is running away from the life I have that I do not want. It will not solve anything; it will only perpetuate me having to make a change here, in New York, in my American life. When I first applied, all I wanted to do was work in relief. Now I must be sure that I’m not just trying to run away.