She Lives...For Better or Worse

Oh, for crying in a bucket. Even I'm tired of looking at this old post. Geez, Louise. You'd think I'd dropped off the face of the planet. If only I had an excuse that good.

So, here's what I've been up to since January 8th (my last post):

• I did indeed have Lasik surgery (see photo). I am now seeing clearly out of my very own eyes! Well, my right one anyway. The left one is coming along nicely, but it had more work done on it so it's taking longer to catch up. I highly recommend this procedure, surgery is really too strong a word for a 34 second encounter with a laser. Run don't walk to your nearest trusted Lasik center now, unless of course you're happy with your vision.
• I got a new job! I now work at the Best Place Ever! I'm the Transition Coordinator for an alternative school in NoPo. I work with high school seniors and help them figure out what comes next, 'cuz graduation is not an ending, it's really a new beginning. gack.
• Six weeks later I was asked to fill in for someone on maternity leave. So for the last 12 weeks of the school year I'm a Career and Academic Advisor in Career Services at the Best Place Ever!
• Six weeks later they gave my Transition Coordinator position to someone else during the restructuring process without even letting me apply for my own position like everyone else had, er, got to do. Umm...hey...I was uh, I was the Transition Coordinator. Didja not notice that? Well, they did notice that and they love me and so they're trying to scrape together enough money to come up with a full-time job for me starting in July. So everything could turn out perfectly with a full-time tailor-made job starting in July, when the pregnant lady comes back, OR I could be out of work and unable to pay rent. I'm holding out for Option A, but if you know of a good job for me, do let me know. I'm fabulous. Trust me.
• In March, at the one year mark of the day I left my husband and started the emotional rollercoaster that is an intentional separation, he called me a day before our agreed upon State of the Union Address and said, "Are you happier? Because you seem happier." I sheepishly replied that I was and he said, "Then I guess we don't really have anything to talk about." So he filed taxes and I said I would file for divorce, but I haven't yet. I don't like the word divorce as it relates to me. I haven't been able to start calling him "my ex" either. These terms have such negative connotations that don't really apply here. I'm proud of us for navigating these uncharted waters without breaking a single dish, bankrupting ourselves and keeping our friendship intact. I think it's pretty impressive. And now I shall utter the words of my father, words I shudder to utter (har har) (changed slightly to reflect the appropriate gender), "I love him, but I just can't live with him." Damn. I have become my father. Ack. Phift.
• I have become pretty good at drinking, but have discovered that I suck at singing karaoke, although that hasn't stopped me from trying and having tons of fun.
• I'm a horrendous bowler, although, thankfully, bowling does not require skill to be fun.
• I've reunited with a whole host of old high school friends through Facebook, duh, which has been more fun that it has a right to be. There's something powerful about hanging out with people who've known you since you were a kid. We're having a great time saying things like, "Oh, you were so hot in HS. I so should've done you back then." Followed by, "Really? You thought I was hot?" Followed by, "OMG, duh!" We get together every month now, except for David and Sol and Amy who NEVER SHOW UP! Whuck's up with that?!!! The only problem is, everyone is married and therefore presumably unavailable, which I lament because I would very much like to be having tons and tons of sex.
• I have perfected my Joey Tribiani, "How you doin'?" look. It is evidently so powerful that it caused a tall, shiny black Cubano in a bar to make out with me on the dance floor. And then another time it caused a nicely dressed black man on a passing train to get off at the next stop, wait for me and then hand me his phone number as soon as the door to my train opened. I must use the force wisely, so great is its power.
• I have begun to believe, for the second time ever, that I am beautiful and attractive and sexy and fun, nevermind my weight or age. I say very little about this, but it is the biggest, most monumental change I've encountered thus far. I must note that Mr. Karin always adored me, treated me like a princess, praised the virtues of my ample hips and thighs, seemed unphased by my sad little breasts and loved to kiss that spot between them. So, I cannot properly explain why self-appreciation of my figure is only happening now. Feel free to offer your theories in the comments.
• I am happy. Most of the time I am happy. When I do get in a funk, which happens, I notice that my funks are less funky and they subside quickly.

Lasik Surgery--Yes or No?

I have an appointment today to see if I'm a good candidate for Lasik surgery, that is, corrective eye surgery so I can finally be free of these damn glasses, which I've been wearing for 35 years. Well, not this pair the whole time, but you know what I mean.

Please note the photographic history of my glasses and that I've left out that vain year in high school where I refused to wear them, preferring to squint instead.

From everything I've read and heard, qualified professionals using state-of-the-art technology aside, the greatest factors influencing success involve the patient's expectations going into the procedure. If one is expecting to have perfect vision immediately without any "touch ups" and to never wear glasses for any reason ever again, then one might be dissappointed with the results. However, if one is happy to have their vision improved to extent that they no longer need corrective lenses 16 hours a day, though may require reading or driving glasses now or in the future, then one might be thoroughly delighted.

People report joy in being able to read the clock first thing in the morning, having clear, unobstructed peripheral vision for the first time or being able to swim or scuba dive with greater ease and safety. All these things sound good to me, too. I'm also looking forward to walking in the rain without needing windshield wipers, coming in from the cold without waiting for the requisite defrogging pause, being able to actually see myself when I put on makeup, being able to see anything when performing on stage and last, but certainly not least for I am still vain, showing off my eyes, the one feature I don't hate about my body.

I have personally known three people who've had this procedure done. Two say they think it's the best investment they ever made and they only wish they'd done it sooner. One regrets it completely, complaining daily about dry eyes and having to wear reading glasses.

I'm 99% sure I'll move forward with the surgery, if I'm a good candidate, but I'm interested to hear your thoughts on the matter. I've overcome any fear I may have had about the safety of the procedure and the sheer gross-out factor, mainly because I've seen it done and it only lasts a few minutes et voila, clear vision. Magic! Cost was prohibitive before, but I'm now I'm in a position to consider it.

So, what do you think? Lasik surgery--yes or no?

And Then There's Me

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
My dad’s favorite cousin, who I met for the first time in 2001.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Yesterday. I cry a lot.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Usually. I especially like my teacher whiteboard writing. Impressively neat.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
I used to really, really like a French dip sandwich with horseradish, but I
don’t eat meat anymore (you know, the whole dead cow thing) and there
just isn’t a suitable replacement.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No, thank God.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Yeah, I like me.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Me? No, never.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yep.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Not unless I was forced at gunpoint or was paid an obscene amount of
money.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Raisin anything.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
I don’t have any shoes that tie, but when I do I always untie them, which makes me a good person.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Oh, yes. Physically? No, I can’t even open a jar of peanut butter. However, I think of myself as resilient.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Soy Delicious Chocolate Peanut Butter and Coconut Bliss Chocolate
Fudge. Heaven.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Teeth (if they’re smiling, if not, then hair).

15. RED OR PINK?
Red!

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I keep holding on to a good 50 extra pounds even though I know how to
lose them. The good news is I’ve been holding steady for years and not
gaining, which was my custom in my twenties.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
That’s easy---my mom, greatest woman who ever lived.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO DO THIS?
That’s really not necessary.

19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Black fuzzy slippers, but only because my feet are cold. If I had my druthers, I’d never wear shoes again, much as I love them as a fashion statement.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
A small piece of chocolate and an apple, in the car on the way home. (Why do I still drive? This is ridiculous. I should be taking the bus for crying out loud.)

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
That obscenely loud kitchen exhaust fan from the restaurant down below.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Burnt Umber.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Cigarette smoke in my non-smoking building. I love it. (I think I forgot to take my happy pill today.)

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
Mr. Karin

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
I do. Rebel Rocks!

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Gymnastics, figure skating, almost any Olympic event.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Well, blonde, but only because I color it.

28. EYE COLOR?
Hazel: green brown, with flecks of gold

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
I wish, but can’t, try as I might. What I’d really like is corrective surgery!

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Linguine with sautéed veggies and parmesan cheese. I live on that.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Suspense, but not horror. I just rented the remake of Amityville Horror even though it traumatized me when I watched the first one at a far too young age when it first came out. As my brother ran out the door on a date, my mom yelled, “Take your sister with you!” So he and his girlfriend watched 10 with Bo Derek and I was thrown into Amityville Horror. Scarred me for life. Amityville is a town not far from where I lived at the time. But I rented it this time just to see Ryan Reynolds sportin’ a seriously cut 6-pack. O.M.G!

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Amityville Horror, a waste of a talented cast; however...Ryan Reynold's seriously cut 6-pack!

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Karin is wearing a multi-colored halter in jewel tones of fuchsia, orange and umber.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer, please.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
No A-frame hugs, but full on hug-me-like-you-mean-it hugs. My brother’s are the best.

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Cheesecake (there are even some outstanding vegan ones out there!)

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
No idea.38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Well, half my fan base has already done it. (That is, Rebel has.)

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Hungry Planet: What the World Eats. Fascinating!

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
No mouse pad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
I heart Chuck and Dexter.

42. FAVORITE SOUND?
My mom saying, “Hey, Sugar.”

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Oh, the Beatles!

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
8,000 miles away in Dakar, Senegal, West Africa. Woot!

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Oh, I sing and act and play with color. I want to be in a show with Liev Schreiber someday; he’s brilliant. Not likely to happen as I don’t live in LA or NY and don’t audition, but eh, these are mere details.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Catskill, NY and 2 months early.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
I always like to know more about M5K.

Sitting Here in Limbo: where Karin finally says what she's been thinking these many silent months

You may know that I moved in March into a brand new building with the magical dish washing machine, thereby launching the beginning of my brand new life. Right, well, I promptly fell flat on my face with grief at the lost of what had been a 10 year marriage. Mind you, this was all my idea, moving out, making this change, so you can imagine how shocked I was to discover that my brand new life sucked.

That's not true, lots of things about it agree with me. My place is decorated and arranged exactly the way I like. There is rarely a mess, as I'm a controlling neat-freak, which doesn't bother me in the least when I live alone. I realize this trait can be, let's say, abrasive to a husband, lover, full time housemate who doesn't yet know that it's my way or the highway. I like to have a place for everything and everything in its place, which really only works if everyone in the house likes this, too. So, I'm really enjoying the fact that the soymilk is always in the same place in the refrigerator when I reach for it in the morning when I'm not yet awake, because cereal with vegetable broth is just not the same. I like it that all my canned goods are arranged categorically with the labels facing out, partly because it just makes sense and partly because I hate bar codes. I like that my bed is always made. I think I like it inordinately so. A made bed with tucked sheets is easily one of my favorite things in life. And, because I’m devoting less time to my relationship with Mr. K, I'm hanging out with my friends a lot more. I'm glad about that.

Those are just the little things and there are so many more, but there are big things, too. When I get hungry, angry, lonely or tired, it doesn't really matter because there's no one around to piss off, offend or annoy. Hungry, angry, lonely or tired = HALT. This was an excellent piece of advice given to us once--never have a serious conversation if either or both of us are hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Whatever it is can wait. I can't say it saved our marriage, but I can say it was enormously helpful. We also added sad, as in grieving, in a funk or depressed because no one's thinking clearly when they're in a funk. So, HALTS. I notice that I have to HALT less often now, because the sandpaper of me is not scraping up against anyone.

Except for my ridiculously noisy neighborhood, which now includes a sports bar/restaurant/night club in my building that's open until 2am and has an unbearably loud kitchen exhaust fan, my place is quiet when I want it to be. Nobody talks to me in the morning. Let me say that again. Nobody talks to me in the morning. I enjoy this even more than a made bed with tucked sheets. You have no idea. Talking to me in the morning is dangerous. I'm not kidding. My good brother-like friend from Senegal (that's in Africa, people, get a globe) had the misfortune of calling me at 4:30 in the morning some months back. All I said was, "It's 4:30 in the MORNing!" And hung up. Later I remembered my rudeness, but have been too embarrassed to call him back. In college, my roommates, who were only slightly less grouchy than me in the morning, learned to just acknowledge my presence in the morning. “Karin,” they’d quietly say with a nod of the head. Then they’d return to doing their hair, putting on their face, what have you, as I shuffled around in a stupor. My husband learned early on to keep is distance from me in the morning, but because he’s such a morning person—singing, chatting, doing taxes—he’d forget and start talking to me. My head would spin, my eyes would shoot flames and I’d shriek, “What are you new?”

I really only have two role models for how post-marriage life works. One, my dad, who had a long series of dead end relationships with, how shall I say this, women who were less than desirable mother figures, finally settling on a woman who'd been married four times before him. Or two, my mother and aunt G, both of whom basically became sexless spinsters filling their evenings with Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice (a card game). Over sexed and undersexed, are these my only options? Mind you, there's nothing wrong with a diet of Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice, if it makes you happy. I just don't think it would make me happy.

Oh, crap, now I've done it. Now I have to ask myself what would make me happy. My first thought is, "I have no idea." Then it occurs to me that if I don't know, then know one knows. I must know. Okay, I'd like to live in Marseilles, a beautiful Mediterranean town about the size of Portland with a significant north and west African population. That sounds like fun. And it's only a four hour plane ride to Dakar and eight hours to New York, places where some of my very favorite people live. Why not. I also want to finally get my Master's degree in intercultural relations. The plan had always been that I'd put him through school, then he'd put me through school, but just before he graduated I left. Key-rap, I've really screwed myself on that one, haven't I?

I'm not looking for anyone else. Not really. Ironically, since I left my husband, my guaranteed safe sex partner, I've had the most amazing sex drive ever. No sex, mind you, but a desire for it, which is new and exciting. So that's fun except there are two problems. One, with whom will I have this great sex I'm so desiring? I'd have it with Mr. Karin, actually, since we're still trying to work things out, but he's the girl in this relationship right now and doesn't want to have sex until he feels safe and it's making love. Totally understandable. Whereas now I'm the guy sitting through dinner hoping he'll put out. Damn. The other problem is that I'm too afraid to have sex with anyone else. What if I catch something and bring it back to Mr. Karin? What if, a sometimes even greater concern, I'm too fat? What if Mr. Karin is the only person on the planet who could ever find me attractive enough to have sex with and be willing to overlook my many physical flaws? I mean, I'm no spring chicken and I'm overweight. When people fall in love in their 20s, the slow pull of gravity and the added pounds and wrinkles accumulate so slowly as to be almost unnoticeable by the one who loves you. It is precisely because they love you that they are willing to overlook your flaws, my flaws. How does this work at my age and weight?

Yet, I can't imagine spending my life with anyone but Mr. Karin. He's been in my life for twelve years. That's a big deal. That's a huge chunk of my history. It's significant to have someone close to you who knows your stuff and loves you anyway, who's seen you through your darkest days. It's a big deal to move throughout your life knowing that someone, at least one someone, has your back no matter what. There's a deep sense of security in that. Usually that felt cloying and claustrophobic to me, but somehow I'd like it back. I'd like it back, just different. Please don't ask me how. If I knew, I suppose I'd have it already.

So, I wanted this change, this new life. I made this change. I like this change. Yet, I still want the security of that deep love, that history. I want it all back, but only the good parts.

Crazy Elevator Lady

While waiting for the elevator in my building, I heard Crazy Elevator Lady coming down the hall. She was saying over and over again, "What is it? What is it?" I thought she was asking the voices in her head what they wanted now. As she rounded the corner and saw me she said, "Oh! It's a woman. Okay, I can get in the elevator with a woman."

Happy Death Day?

November 10th, November 10th.

The date was nagging at me, but I couldn't remember exactly why. Was it the birthday of my first real high school boyfriend who later died in a freak newsprint factory accident? No, that's in October. Was it the birthday of one of my college roommates who used to organize her sock drawer because it pleased her to do so? No, that was last week. Was it the day before Veteran's day? Yes, but that wasn't it.

Then it dawned on me. It's my father's death day.

What do you call a day like that? The fifth anniversary of my father's death? Yeah, I guess so, but it's so cumbersome--the fifth anniversary of my father's death. That's just too many words. It's my father's death day. Well, it is. That's what it is. Five years ago today my father was driving down a straight stretch of highway in good weather in the middle of his shift with no other cars or stray animals around when suddenly his vehicle went completely out of control, rolling and flipping, throwing him out of the vehicle and crushing him.

He wasn't wearing his seat belt. This is a man who'd been a professional driver since the 1960s and wore his seat belt at all times, even before the law required it. He was the safest driver I knew. He was the only person my mother felt safe with in a car, besides herself, I would suppose. Trying to make sense of things, people wondered if maybe he had unclasped his seat belt to pick something up off the floor. While that's possible, it's highly unlikely. I'm sure he'd dropped things on the floor while driving and retrieved them many times in three decades without causing a fatal accident. His wife did remember that he'd almost called in sick, which he would only do for scheduled surgery or if he nearly lost an eye because the dolly crank on his Peterbilt cracked him a good one, which means he must have felt really really bad that day. The only scenario that satisfies my brother and I is that he was having a medical emergency, a heart attack perhaps, and took off his seat belt in a panic to relieve the pressure on his chest. Maybe he slumped over the steering wheel, thus causing the sudden veering on a straight road in good weather involving no other vehicles or stray animals. We will never know.

The hard part, aside from, you know, losing my dad, is knowing that he died alone. Same thing with my mom. She was getting ready for work one Monday morning and just keeled over from a heart attack. I hate that. I mean, I guess I'm glad I didn't have to watch them grow old and lose their minds and bladder control. They didn't die painful lingering deaths in a hospital racking up exorbitant bills that would require us to claim bankruptcy. But, damn if it wouldn't have been nice to, oh, I don't know, say goodbye properly.

I realize that my tone may sound a bit too flippant, cold and unfeeling for the subject matter. I apologize. I've cried so hard and for so long that it has just become a part of me, this loss. As much as I am Karin because I am my parents' daughter, I am Karin because I have lost my parents. If only I could remember where I put them.

We don't talk about death in this country very much. We don't know how. We don't allow loud processions of wailing. We no longer wear black for a year to signify grieving. We don't gather with our family members to have a party on the headstones of those we've lost. We spend one day, one day to memorialize and bury them or scatter their ashes. Work might give you three days, if they're feeling generous and compliant with the law. The airlines give a discount on airfare, but it's so miniscule it isn't even worth the call that requires you to tell them someone you love has suddenly died. No, we're just expected to go right back to work, because work will save you or at least distract you and because you have to pay the bills. Don't they know, in those early months and years, that we cannot be distracted, that all the minutiae of life is a distraction? Someone has died. We have to deal with it at some point. We have to cry, to scream, to sob into our journals, to make art to save ourselves from dying. If we don't, and maybe even if we do, we'll end up with headaches, obesity, drinking problems, whatever. Pain like this doesn't just go away; it has to manifest somehow.

In the beginning, after my mother died, I dreaded the monthly anniversaries of her death. The first year or two were the hardest. I was surprised and dismayed the first time the anniversary of her death rolled around and I didn't remember until it was upon me. Was I somehow a bad kid? No, it was just that the pain was sometimes subsiding just enough for me to finally focus on the minutiae of my life. Thinking big was still a ways out, but being present to my life again was new and it was

enough. Eventually the intense pain was mostly gone and reared its ugly head less and less, making it possible to think beyond getting dressed, brushing teeth, eating toast. At some point, dreaming and planning became possible again.

So, here I am at the fifth anniversary of my father's death. His death day. He had a birthday and then, 63 years later he had a death day. It goes the same way for all of us. No way around it. I'm just saying it like it is.



I love you, Dad. I miss you.

Ah, Friends!

Some friends came up from California and we partied like it was 1999. I drank more last week than I had in my whole life put together (don't get too excited, that ain't saying much). Woot!

Moon Over Morrison: A Story in Collage