Bridge: burned

I broke up with my therapist yesterday. It was one of the more difficult conversations I have had to have with someone in a while, not counting my attempts to update our address through the automated voice response systems at Comcast, Chase Bank and PG&E.

I had tried to break up with her last week and it didn't stick, so I found myself back there again this week to make it abundantly clear that this would be my last session.

She wanted to really understand my decision and what was driving it. This led to an exchange that was sort of like watching a hockey team warm up the goalie: shot after shot after shot, and me in the crease doing my best to deflect.

I made it clear that I didn't think I was "done" with therapy - I just didn't want to do anymore of it with her right now. Nonetheless, she saw ample reason to question the wisdom of my decision. And her inside knowledge of, you know, all my vulnerable spots, insecurities and weaknesses made her assault especially potent.

"In my experience pregnancy can bring up a lot of issues around your own relationship with your mother..."

"Do you really think it wise to discontinue our work together during this incredibly tumultuous and challenging time in your life?"

"Aren't you interested in exploring {insert major life issue} further?"

And my favorite: "You know, as I see it you're really just getting started."

At the end of the 50 minutes I left and will not go back. On my way out the door, her parting words were "My door's always open! Call any time!"

Unlikely.

Halfway to somewhere

As of Monday this week, Belvedere is officially half-baked. 20 weeks ago he began, and 20 weeks from now, give or take, he will be, well, fully cooked.*

As far as we know, he is developing well. The ultrasound pictures revealed all the right things in the right places and we are choosing to forget the creepy 3D ultrasound pictures that make him look like a very small old man.

I haven't gotten too much advice on my pregnancy so far but I have gotten a few tips from our friend Nelson, often on the potentially serious consequences of poor diet during pregnancy:

"If you eat too much high fructose corn syrup then will it turn out to be a Republican?"

"The only risk of drinking a glass of wine while you're pregnant is that the baby will turn out to be kind of French."


*It's a boy! I may not have mentioned that yet. Yay! Name suggestions are welcome.

The space heaters in the closet should have been a clue

We're getting settling into our new place and into a new cold hard reality: it's cold.*

I guess we shouldn't be surprised: it is much bigger, has higher ceilings, and was built in 1906.

It is, nonetheless, a brutal new world

We are adapting but it isn't pretty. I've taken to wearing several bulky layers and, when available, a hood. Eric wears a hat indoors all the time now. I think it might actually be colder in the apartment than it is outside.

But I fear the worst is yet to come. We may have to become "robe and slipper" people.

You know - slovenly, smelling of stale coffee and bad breath, and always scratching something.**

At least it isn't haunted. That we know of. Yet.


*When I told my brother "We love our new apartment, there's just one thing we're having a hard time with" his response was "It's haunted?"
**No offense to any robe and slipper people out there.

Further warning signs of adulthood

In what might be a sign of adulthood, or what might just be a sign of being really disorganized my whole life, I fulfilled a long-time dream this past weekend: I got a proper jewelry box.

Previous jewelry organization methods generally involved plastic baggies, small pouches, and a bunch of small colored boxes. Actually looking through my jewelry to see what might be a good choice that day was so challenging and time-consuming that I basically just started wearing the same two pairs of earrings, rotating from one to the other in the interest of variety.

In going through my "jewelry collection" to organize it into my new box, I unearthed all manner of items I had no idea I actually possessed including not one but two stopped Swatch watches, one of which was missing the face altogether, some plastic jewelry that was literally disintegrating and was sticky to the touch in a way that was impossible to get off of my fingers with soap, and one of what used to be a pair of earrings shaped like a tiny naked woman in "dancer's pose." Wonder why I stopped wearing those.

Having set up the new jewelry box feels like a major life upgrade. I am now ready to dazzle the world with my new, well, actually old, jewelry.

The Connecticut Show

This has been the first week that the Connecticut Show is on the air (or, more accurately, the first week that we are getting to watch it). For a start, it is much more family friendly than the Clementina Show.

The Connecticut Show mostly features the #22 bus. This is apparently one of the more regular buses and it runs every 7-8 minutes from 5am until 1am, and only slightly less frequently during those off hours.

It is an electric bus which gets power through cables above the street, to which it connects with these big pincer-looking things.

From our bedroom, buses slowing down to a stop sound a lot like when Obi Wan Kenobi* disables the Death Star's tractor beam. Buses pulling away sound like that but in reverse.

A few nights in, Eric had a dream in which he was looking at a wall with two numbers like big counters on it. The number on the left was 308, and this was the number of buses that had already gone by. On the right, the number was 3041 and this was the number of buses still remaining to go by that night. I sort of feel like that says it all.

Other than that, and the whistle from the Caltrain, all is quiet and we are not yet finding that boring.


*Yes, I had to look up how to spell that.

Farewell Clementina Show

As of November 1, The Clementina Show is no longer being broadcast on a channel that we receive. It isn't off the air, we just don't get to watch it anymore.

I wish there were a word that expressed the feeling of no longer experiencing something horrible that you don't really miss, exactly, but still feel an unexpected affection for. This is the word I would use to describe how I feel about moving off of Clementina St.

True to form, The Clementina Show season finale was impressive. The night before we moved out, on our way to dinner we walked past a woman wearing a tiara who was squatting and peeing through her pants onto the sidewalk.

For our farewell dinner we went to check out a new fancy sausage place called "Show Dogs" that had just opened up two blocks from our Clementina joint. While we were paying for our fancy dogs, urine-reeking tiara lady showed up to "trick or treat," but instead of grabbing a Starburst from the proffered bucket she reached over the bucket, into the tip jar and grabbed a wad of bills. When the woman behind the counter protested, the woman paused, smiled dementedly, put a single dollar back in and then ran out of the restaurant.*

The next morning, as we left to get the truck for our move, we noticed some fresh human poo and other goodies on our sidewalk. There were also some people doing some form of hard drugs in a car parked across the street.

We had no second thoughts about our move.


*When we left, Eric dropped a few bucks in the tip jar, saying "Don't let the trick-or-treaters get it!"

This year we even roasted the seeds!

Like last year, this past week Eric pressured me into using Spookmaster "trace & carve" designs to carve pumpkins this year. I went along with it and have to admit, once again the results are pretty impressive.

Here's our pumpkins! Eric did the skull, I did the witch*. Happy Halloween!





*Buaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha!