The safety net

Years before my dad died, he quit smoking. Yet when I was cleaning out his bedroom closet last summer, a dust-covered carton of Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes was among his things. Having it there must have helped him feel at ease—if at any time he changed him mind and needed a cigarette, it was only a few steps away. His safety net.

My safety net is a bottle of Ativan with a lone pill in it. The prescription was written mid-2008, not long after writing about how much I hated my kids (fortunately, it was a fleeting feeling) and not long before getting divorced. The orange plastic cylinder lives in a shoebox among unfinished bottles of Zoloft and a box of antibiotics that I convinced my doctor to give me before I visited remote villages in Brazil a few years ago. That lone anti-anxiety pill provides me with some peace of mind.

My safety net

Now let’s rewind to my Monday night dance class.

As my limbs stretched along cold hardwood, the teacher’s words flowed over me. She said, “Imagine a light, but don’t think of it as a light. Just experience the light without labeling it.” I tried to feel it, but my writer brain not only saw the light, it created a special stage for the light to shine from. I also began mentally typing a list of descriptors: yellow, warm, bright. So I thought to myself, “Shit, stop describing it. Can’t you just feel it? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you just be okay not knowing every detail?”

As her words continued, she read a quote. It was about being at peace in the present. Instead of fearing the unknown, find freedom in the unknown. Together, I guess the idea was to just feel life and not label it or fear it. Life without all the baggage of the cerebral cortex gives us freedom and ultimately more joy...or something like that.

That is a noble, yet unrealistic concept--for me--and I find the concept somewhat accusatory. It places fault on me for the anxiety and the worry that I drag around. For the last seven years, I’ve lived with low-level panic wondering when my son’s next heart operation will be scheduled. Of course worrying and allowing the stress to be part of my anatomy doesn’t actually change when it will take place. Yet, I cannot be free of it. There is no freedom, aside from when I’m lost in the music on the dance floor. There is no freedom, aside from when I’m asleep. Low-level panic is present like my fingernails.

“Snap out of it! Mind over matter!” I have told myself. But as it turns out, there is nothing wrong with me, per say. Words are how I perceive the world and low-level panic is on my keyboard next to the shift key. Sure I need practice experiencing the world differently. I suspect that’s what meditation is all about. And that's why I go to dance. It's a moving meditation where I feel the floor, hear the music, and allow my body to respond accordingly. There are few thoughts aside from “Keep your eyes open" or "Don’t crash into anyone.” And I suspect that’s what the lesson was about. It was another tool to help us live in the moment.

That's what I've been trying to do. Yes, I fell apart and got divorced, but I kept going. I went to graduate school, pulled the lever a few times on the dating slot machine, fell in love, got married, some step-kids, a dog and five chickens. Those are all wonderful things that help offset the other stuff.

And many, many times along the way, I have been comforted by that lone pill encased in plastic in a shoebox.

A little leg

It was Monday night and it was hot. Really hot. As I rummaged through my closet getting ready for dance class, none of my regular outfits seemed appropriate. My linen pants were too heavy. My flowing ones would keep the heat in. The exercise ones would stick to my legs. Just touching the material made me grimace. I knew that it wasn’t going to get cooler as the night progressed. Body heat contained in our class would only push the temperature up, even if the outside temperature dropped a degree or two during the evening.

So I did something I haven’t done in perhaps 10 or 20 years—I wore a skirt that showed my knees and a half of my thighs. Gasp! I know it sounds silly, even as I tap out the tale here, but fear or shyness or some other ridiculous emotion has prevented me from displaying my legs (and wearing the right clothes on hot days). Whenever I have worn a short skirt, boots were a constant companion. Or tights. Or both. Sure, I’ve worn a bathing suit (water is just as good as a sarong), but not without the accompanying anxiety-driven perspiration as I moved to and from my towel.

I suspect all of us have that thing we don’t like about ourselves. Some people use cover up to hide their complexion, a hat to cover thinning hair, or avoid sandals to hide toes. We wear baggy clothes to hide our shape, and heels to give the impression that we’re taller. The list goes on… But for me, it’s been my legs. For years, I’ve worn long skirts, and pants, or capris. I could outline the boring details of what specifically I don’t like about my legs, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s in my head. I can intellectually say it’s ridiculous, but my emotions have won this battle over and over again.

But on that particular night, I wore the short skirt. As I walked toward the building, I’d wished I’d brought a safety pair of pants in my bag just in case I chickened out. Once inside, I felt as if I wore a gigantic sign above my head pointing to my legs and their flaws. I held my breath as I removed my shoes and self-consciously moved between other bodies as I waited for the music to lead me away from my critical thoughts.

It worked. The music grabbed me and I forgot to care that my bare legs were visible. The pink fabric swished across my skin as I moved. It made waves as I spun. It floated as I leaped. I was alive in a new way. Maybe I’m ready to outgrow caring what other people think—perhaps that’s one of the benefits of approaching 40. 

I love the way you dance...

I’ve been dancing occasionally with a guy that looks like my ex at my Monday night dance class—you know, similar height, similar body type, similar hairstyle. And I think it’s improved my relationship with my ex (which was already quite good) because every time I see him or interact with him, I remember how much fun it was seeing him let loose at dance class. Arms swinging, knees up, all with a serious expression, of course.

While it’s unlikely that he would ever indulge in an unstructured dance class, especially one with a slightly spiritual edge based in the realm of personal growth, it provides me with much humor to imagine him there embracing something completely out of character. It’s just a little harmless transference psychology. And it makes me chuckle. Another benefit of my Monday night class.

Surrender

There isn’t supposed to be any talking. Just bodies and the language of movement. But he bent down to whisper in my ear after our song ended, our bodies untangled. “You surrender so easily,” he said. I suspect he meant that I’m easy to dance with. That I’m good at knowing how to follow.

But I can’t seem to let it go. I’ve been thinking about what surrender means. Since I felt the warm breathe that planted those words in my ear, I’ve been searching my brain to identify other places where I surrender. Because I see the dance floor as a microcosm.

I watch and anticipate what comes next. I’m good at it--on the dance floor and elsewhere in life. I think it is part of being a parent. Anticipating what a child needs before they can speak. Anticipating others' needs is a worthy skill, up to a point anyway. Until anticipating my kids’ needs spiraled outward into other relationships and my identity was slowly scraped away like a heavily used piece of sidewalk chalk. Eventually all that was left of me was a drawing on the ground: you could see my outside, but on the inside, I was blank. I was completely defined by others. I had completely surrendered my own needs. I had to send myself to therapy last time that happened.

Things are better now. Being on my own for a year and a half has given me shape and substance. It forced me to figure out how to color inside that line, to define myself. I like dancing. I like taking pictures with my big camera. I like rollerskating in Golden Gate Park. I like indie music AND Top 40 dance music (and the latter doesn't make me a bad person). I pay my bills. I pack lunches and take my kids to school. I go to class and do my homework. I keep food in the fridge, toilet paper in the bathrooms, and gas in the car.

I sleep alone (most of the time).

I learned how to live on my own. I learned how to be by myself. I learned that it gets easier over time. I learned that it’s okay to cry a lot. I learned how to pick myself up and comfort myself. I learned that staying home is harder than going out. I learned that distracting myself doesn’t make a problem go away. I learned that going to the movies is a good thing to do by myself on a Friday night. I learned to forgive myself for being imperfect, for the mistakes I've made. I learned that I deserve to be happy. I learned that I’m pretty. I learned that I will not settle. I learned that whoever I end up with is a lucky man. I learned that sometimes I need to be selfish. I learned to love myself.

So if I’m all of those things, and I’ve grown so much, what does it mean that I surrender easily?

Even if his idea of surrender just applied to dance, it has prompted me to revisit the world I’ve created and the balance I believe I’m maintaining. As a result, I’m thinking about boundaries and the give and take in my relationships. It’s good to make sure I’m still taking care of myself and not drifting towards old, familiar habits. I guess I don't like the word surrender because it means giving up. And I have no plans to do that. In fact, I'm just getting started.

An emotional intervention

“Hey, wait,” said a voice from behind me. After 180 minutes of concentrating on beats and music in my Monday night dance class, the sound of vocal chords seemed oddly out of place, even when wrapped in crispy Mountain View air. I pirouetted towards the sound and saw one of the guys I’d danced with. His voice was foreign. But his dark eyes, his oval face, his thick nearly-black coarse hair, the heat of his arms was familiar. "Do you want to go get some tea? There’s a place on Castro that has pearl tea. You know, the stuff with the tapioca?”

I hesitated and then asked, “Does it have caffeine?”

“Come on,” he said waving me towards him. “I’m sure there is at least one that doesn’t.” We started walking and the giant blister on my left foot made me limp. He offered to drive us, even though it was only two blocks away. I agreed, even though getting in cars with men I don’t know wasn’t something I typically do. But he seemed safe. Like I already knew him.

We both ordered the Taro tea. We sat at a round café table that wobbled just slightly. Across from me was a man whose eyes I had stared into for 10 minutes. Whose arms had twisted with my arms, whose hands had been on small of my back. But now sitting three feet away from him, I felt strangely uncomfortable.

His water bottle tipped and my reflex grabbed it and returned it to its upright position. “What was that all about?” Defensively, I said: “Motherly instinct.” I outed myself as a mom. And I knew instantly that our conversation was about to go down a difficult path with two choices, and I hadn’t decided yet which one I would take.

“How many kids do you have?” he asked, smacking the water bottle with the back of his hand to return it to it sideways position.

“Two.” My right leg crossed over my left started bouncing in that self-conscious way. My eyes darted around the café and settled on the exit sign.

“Tell me something about you. Something other than that you’re a single mom. I already got that. And why you’re so uncomfortable.”

“I’m uncomfortable because I don’t open up to people I don’t really know.”

“I don’t like small-talk. And you already know me. I’m just like you, like everyone. I want to be loved and accepted. I want world peace. Food for everyone. A safe place to live. Happiness. A long life.” And after a moment of letting all of his hopes settle around the room like dust, he said, “Your turn.”

Iced with fear, my mouth didn’t work. I looked around the café. I noticed the couple in the corner with their laptops and silence. I noticed the man with the black fedora reading a magazine. I looked at my tea and wonder why the tapioca is black. I saw the potted tree in the corner and wondered what kind of tree it was with it’s twisting trunk and bushy green top.

His eyes were sharp with intention. It was like being in therapy with a therapist that I hated. My sweaty clothing lay damp against my chest, chilling me. And I started to shake. I suspect it wasn’t just from the cold. I can only assume that when he said your turn, he wanted more than just a list outlining my basic human wants and desires, a list that mirrored his.

I took an inventory of my choices. I could run away, but I feared that leaving would ruin my Monday dance class. I could stay and not answer his questions. I could confront my fear of opening up and just tell him about me. About my son. But that would mess up my separation of Church and State: the separation of dancing from parenthood, from hospitals. Externally, anyway. He repeated the question: “What do you want.”

I took one last look around the café and shivering turned into convulsions. My eyes went back to his penetrating gaze and I tried to hold it so that he would hear my tiny voice: “I can’t ever have what I want.” My hands went to my face. My head tipped towards my chest. I stopped trying to not cry. I stopped pretending that my life is regular with regular worries about money or my divorce or health insurance and whether I remembered to pay my credit card bill.

I keep hoping that I’m going to discover that everything in my life doesn’t come back to hospitals and heart defects and surgeries. But everything in my life does lead back to it. Even when I think I’m getting along just fine. I’m surviving. I’m living. I’m in school studying and writing. Mostly happy. But everything I write, every story I can imagine circles back to his birth seven years ago.

It’s crushing. It’s disappointing. It’s exhausting.

I always thought that eventually, living with uncertainty would just become part of my wardrobe. It would be that old pair of jeans that I don’t like but can’t seem to donate to the Goodwill and every so often I'd be forced to wear. But that isn’t like it at all.

My son’s medical problems are like razor blades under my skin. And anytime anything grazes against me, I get cut from the inside. And the wounds can scab over and appear to be healed on the outside, but on the inside I’m always bleeding and the potential for pain is everywhere and constant.

“Is it is okay if I come into your space?” he asked in a softened voice as he pull a chair up and straddled my shriveled body. His arms came around me and I sank into his chest. “I’m not going to say it’s okay or that it’s going to be okay. I just sensed a sadness in you and I thought you might need some help getting it out.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Sometimes we don’t know we need help,” he said.

We stayed there until the guy with the broom told us that the café was closed. As I sat up and looked around, I noticed the guy with the fedora was still sitting in the same place, the couple putting their laptops in their cases. I wondered what they thought of my public emotional break. If they thought anything, they probably thought my boyfriend just dumped me. I got up, grabbed my purse and then he put his hands on my face and held my gaze a moment longer. Then we walked to the car, me still limping from the dance blisters.

Instinct and denial

Instinct instructs my hips and torso in that room with music and tiny glinting lights. Soft skin on cold hardwood floors. Rhythmical sound summons motion. For two and a half hours I am only a body moving around that group of 40 arms, 50 chins, 60 wrists. Talking is taboo. Only swaying. Only spinning. Only jumping. Only dancing. It’s a glorious window without guilt. A comfy cushion without thoughts of harsh hospital waiting rooms and organ transplants. That musical room is bliss, a wondrous gift, my sanctuary.

At 9 o’clock, it stops. My throat constricts as last bits of music drift out of that gymnasium and my mind finds his portrait. Thoughts start flowing right away. My son is again pulsing through my brain. His lungs working hard. His lips not pink. That vital organ thumping too fast, working so hard. I want his 7th birthday. His 18th birthday. His 21st birthday. I want many classrooms and running and picnics and icy surf tapping our limbs. I want him to study, to obtain a diploma, a family of his own. I want Christmas without IVs. I want clocks to spin and a thousand months to pass. With him.

That still room thins out. I wish for additional hours of savory sounds twisting my hips and arms with anonymous shins and warm limbs. I want dancing again so that I can fully dismiss our truth for a bit, his story—facts that blow wind from my human form and grays my hair. But not today. So I stand and walk to my car and I snap into my world. It blurs my joy as rain soaks into dry sand—thoroughly and wholly.

(Note to reader: With the exception of the title, this piece was written without the letter "E" ... inspired by an assignment for grad school.)

I can handle it

Last weekend was a test. It was test of my self-confidence. It was a test of my desire to still be just like the old me. The old, pre-kids me when I felt comfortable going out to dance clubs all by myself.

I had plans to meet at Ruby Skye in San Francisco with some acquaintances from my favorite dance club/Irish pub on the Peninsula. We firmed up plans to drive separately. We firmed up plans to meet at the club at a certain time. Then once I found the perfect street parking just a block from the club, I got a call saying that they would be delayed. They were meeting up with some other friends at the W Hotel first. Since I was not giving up my free street parking (the lot was $28!), I said I would head to the club solo.

Going into the club alone was relatively easy, but heading onto the dance floor solo took a little extra courage. As I stood at the edge of the floor I watched for a few minutes and tried to pick out the most-friendly-looking group of women. Fortunately they were very nice, and I stayed with them the whole night.

Earlier this year, I started to learn the joys of going out to dinner by myself. I also learned that I like traveling by myself. It forces me to get outside my comfort zone and talk to new people. And now I know that I still have it in me to go out dancing alone. I'm proud of myself, but honestly, I prefer the company of friends. Still, I won't let a lack of a companion hold me back from doing the things I want to do or going the places I want to experience.

And as for those lame acquaintances who ditched me -- their loss.

Attention ladies...

When you are on the dance floor, do not squat so that your booty is a few inches from the floor and then bounce up and down with your knees out in a 90-degree angle. You do not look like sexy kitten. You simply look like a frog. Not. A. Good. Look. I'm not against all squatting dance moves, just those reminiscent of Frogger.

And while we're on the topic, do not let your dance partner pick you up and carry you around while he bounces up and down. Horrifying.

Let's dance with a little dignity, people. Thank you for your attention in this important matter.

Worlds are colliding

Like the Boston University button I used to wear on my jacket which proclaimed, "Be You," I am always being me. But depending on who I am with, certain characteristics of my personality are accentuated. It's a bit like Dr. Seuss's My Many Colored Days. The story goes: "Some days are yellow. Some are blue. On different days, I'm different too." But instead of being determined by my mood, my color usually depends on who I'm with.

When I'm with Therapist Friend, my Sassy-Potty-Mouthed side is a little louder. When I'm with my in-laws, my Good-Wife-Good-Mother side is a little more prominent. When I'm at a networking event, my Smarty-Journalist side shines. When I'm with my husband's coworkers, my Level-Headed-Intellectual side is a bit more pronounced. When I'm out dancing, I flaunt my MILF-y side. Underneath all the slight fluctuations, I'm still me.

It's still a little strange when things get a little mixed up and those worlds collide. Like George on Seinfeld being weirded out by the potential ramifications of his fiancee Susan getting all chummy with Elaine, I too am a little weirded out by different parts of my life intersecting. Or more specifically, the different people in my life witnessing different parts of my life that they aren't usually exposed to.

Last Thursday night, a big Wham:

I was out with Teacher Friend. We were at our favorite Irish bar and dance club, dancing our regular moves, seeing some of the same faces. I was decked out in a hot pink top, tight jeans, black boots, a navy news-boy cap, and glorious amounts of eye makeup and lipstick. Therapist Friend would have been so proud! I looked fabulous (before I left the house, Father in Chief concurred with a fistful of my booty in his hand). I had invited a couple of women I've met through FIC's job. Florist Friend was there. Writer Friend stopped by with her husband. Writer Friend's husband has seen me around the office showing off my LHI side. He's seen me at parties flaunting my GWGM side. But Thursday was the first time he saw my other side and I'm pretty sure he was horrified.

I don't think he was horrified because I was all decked out (because I looked pretty darn good). I don't think he was horrified because I was out dancing (it's no secret that I like going out dancing). I don't think he was horrified because I was drunk (I was NOT drunk. Since I am typically my own personal designated driver, my libation of choice is club soda with a splash of cranberry). I think what horrified him the most (and I'm assuming this based on facial expressions alone) was the fact that I frequent that low-brow dance club almost every single week. And possibly more horrified because I am always inviting his nice, level-headed (and sexy) wife to join me.

There is a chance that he wasn't horrified at all. Maybe that was me just feeling a little over exposed as people from my Level-Headed life collided with my low-brow side. I'm not ashamed of my low-brow side. It's a fun, carefree, white-trashy side that reminds me of my Western New York youth. My youth of hanging out in fields drinking. My youth of sneaking into strip clubs. My youth of crashing parties in trailer parks. But I'm not doing those things now. I'm not getting drunk. I'm not hooking up with guys. I'm not sneaking around to unsavory places without anyone knowing about it. Sure I dance with hunky Latino guys, men with a touch of brown sugar, and geeky Silicon Valley engineers, but my adventures are all on the up and up.

Some people look forward to long bike rides (like FIC). Some people look forward to international travel (like Photographer Friend). Some people look forward to dinner parties (like Food Editor Friend). I look forward to wearing sexy outfits while shaking my hips around the dance floor. Those few hours offset the 164 other hours during the week when I'm a fashion-sensible mom and aspiring author.

I need new equipment

Mandy went dancing this past weekend. It was the first time she'd been out dancing in years. She wrote: "It was a gay bar, so reminding men to keep their junk to themselves was not that much of an issue for me."

It reminded me of an adventure I had when I was in Portland a few weeks back. My girlfriend and I went out to see an 80s cover band (which was fabulous). When it was done, we went to another bar. It was a gay bar filled with a colorful crowd of men and women of all shapes, sizes, and persuasions.

We laughed. We danced alone. We danced together. We danced with some of the people in that colorful crowd.

There was one guy in particular who wanted to dance with me. I figured it was for the same reason that I wanted to dance with him--he was a good dancer and being a gay bar, it was the pure pleasure of dancing with another person that brought us together. There were no sexual undertones. And he was not grinding me with his junk.

When I'm dancing, I prefer that my dance companion not touch me unless he knows how to put his hand at the small of my back for spinning and dipping purposes. Otherwise I enjoy my personal space so that I can perform my moves without someone else's moves encroaching on my fun. Eventually, my friend decided it was time to head home for sleep (her son would be up in the morning wanting attention and food, as those needy, puny humans usually do).

I thanked my dance companion and told him that I was going to head out. He then offered to drive me wherever I needed to go when the club closed. Since I don't go in cars with strangers, I declined. Then he asked if he could get my number. I was a bit confused. I then told him that I live in San Francisco and was only visiting for the weekend. Then he told me he had a job offer in San Francisco. Then I told him I am married and have two kids.

He was crushed, and then I realized he wasn't gay. I guess my gaydar is broken.

Keep your junk to yourself

When did dancing with someone become simulated sex? Can someone please tell me when this happened?

I'll admit, it's possible that this extremely intimate dancing has been going on around me for years and I never noticed. I'm into my own moves on the dance floor--rolling my arms, shaking my booty, flinging my hips, and sliding my feet. Plus, I haven't been out dancing to pick up guys in more than 10 years, so I could just be out of touch with how single people interact with each other.

I enjoy dancing with people. But it's more like parallel play with toddlers. My son is playing with his car here, and your daughter is playing with her doll there. They aren't playing together necessarily, but they are playing near each other, enjoying the other kid's proximity. That is the way I like to dance. I shake my groove here. You hustle your moves there. But we do not share toys, so to speak.

So how did I happen to notice this Dirty Dancing on Ecstacy phenomenon? Someone told me that I seemed "timid."

I used to be the girl who blushed back when I was just starting out as a reporter. But timid? As in, timid on the dance floor? That just is not me. Or at least I didn't think it was me. For as long as I can remember, I've always run enthusiastically onto an empty dance floor. I didn't need anyone or anything except a song with a good beat.

Dancing is my thing. It's my release from a long and stressful week with kids. I look forward to it the way a hungry baby latches onto a milky breast. After that guy's comment, I took a minute to look around me, to notice the other dancers taking up space around me. And there were some definite distinctions to the way I dance versus what I saw:

1) I do NOT grind up against my girlfriends.

2) I do NOT let guys grind their junk into me.

3) I do NOT bend over and touch the floor while dancing.

4) I do NOT look like I'm having sex with the person I'm dancing with.

So if you add those things up, I guess I am a timid dancer. And I guess I'm okay with it because I will not change adapt to this new, way-too-much-information style. I'll stick with my solo style and ignore all that groping and grinding going on around me.

Important life lessons learned by watching Flashdance

As 2008 begins, it is important to consider some very important life lessons from the movie Flashdance. I watched the movie for the first time recently with some of my fabulous friends during one of our nights in. Considering I'm such a huge dance fan, I'm honestly not sure I how made it this far in life without ever actually seeing this movie. Perhaps I was too young--I was only 10 when it was released. Or perhaps I was too busy to watch the movie because I was so busy cutting the necks off of all of my sweatshirts. Without further adieu:

1) At least you put yourself out there.

Getting over the fear of rejection is difficult. I know I'm guilty of this for sure. But if I never try anything because I'm afraid of being rejected or not succeeding, then I will never get anywhere. And I imagine rejection is sort of like playing a guitar: at first it really hurts, but eventually you get all calloused and you don't feel it anymore. And along the way, you learn to play guitar.

2) When you give up your dream, you die.

If we aren't constantly striving for something, what is the point? We should all look forward to achieving something, or going somewhere, or doing something. I believe in my book and my writing. If I didn't, I'd only have piles of laundry, muddy footprints on the carpet, and the whines of wee folk to fill my days. I know there is so much more to me and to life than chores and plugging my ears when my kids are annoying. Even when I'm discouraged or feeling bummed or overwhelmed, deep down I still believe in me. I know I have my husband and my family and friends cheering me on, but when it comes down to it, I need to be the one picking myself up and driving myself forward. That other stuff is hugely important, but I need to be the person who is most clearly looking out for me.

3) Not a quote, but still an important lesson learned: How to take my bra off without removing my shirt.

A timeless skill. Happy 2008!

Important things I learned while dancing

I had an opportunity to go out dancing with a couple of friends last Thursday. I paid for it dearly Friday morning. However, I learned two important things that night:

1. Never, ever have more than one Long Island Iced Tea. Ever. It often seems like a good idea to have a second while the first one is making me an awesome dancer. But it's not. Trust me.


2. Teacher friend--who landed a nice bruise on her bum after falling on the dance floor--shared some dancing words of wisdom with me: "If you don't fall down, it's because you didn't try hard enough." 

I must not have been trying hard enough on Thursday despite my several attempts. I still had a most excellent time.

Dirty talk

Picture this: It's dark out, past my bedtime, and I'm out of the house without kids, without my hubby. I'm sitting in a bar, drinking a strawberry margarita, waiting for it to be time to go see the Barenaked Ladies at the Bill Graham Civic Center in San Francisco. I'm with a girlfriend and two people I've never met before--her unmarried guy friend and her sister.

Then it happened. I can't believe I did it. I swore I would never be one of those women. But I just couldn't help myself. I opened my mouth and I couldn't stop myself. I was talking about my kid's dirty diapers. In public. Hello? With people who don't even have kids. What is wrong with me?

I don't even remember how it came up. We were talking about something and my friend mentioned that I use cloth diapers. (So is it her fault for bringing up diapers in public?). Well, something happened, and I'm talking about how easy it is to wash them and how they're not gross or smelly and all the personal gratification that comes along with being a little kinder and gentler on the environment. But no one cares. No one wants to talk about your kid's shit. No one wants to think about it swirling around your washing machine. Especially not single, hip, childless people who live in San Francisco. I don't even want to talk about it. I should have been talking about the election, going out dancing, cool new bands, what I'm doing for the holidays. How about that book I'm working on? Anything but shitty diapers.

Anyway, it was disgusting. I'm disgusted with myself. And how many of you were hoping I was writing about that other kind of dirty talk?

More than a mom: my eternal link to me

On many days it seems that I am not much more than a maker of food, a cleaner of spills, a organizer of activities. And under all that mundane, there is just not much left. It's so easy to forget that there is a real live person under those necessities who has needs and wants and desires and interests and passions. Or at least a real live person who used to have those things.

So where is that person now? I know she's in there somewhere, and hanging onto that person is essential to remaining sane. Photographer friend told me that her link to her former self is going out and talking shop with other grown-ups, maybe only mentioning her two daughters in passing. Because in that circle, they aren't the glue. They aren't the most important thing, or only thing defining her or connecting her to those other adults. Don't get me wrong, the kid connection is hugely important and the women I have met through my kids have saved my life.

But being a mom isn't the be all, end all. I think that having a newborn has made that much more difficult for me to remember. It seems that having another baby has pushed me farther away from myself because I am nurturer and protector and everything to this new puny human. My wants, my needs, my passions are virtually nonexistent because of this other incredibly important person who I love dearly.

Still, I know the old me is in there and I'm staying connected every once in a while. My link is dancing. I loved going dancing when I was in high school (I met Father in Chief in a roundabout way though a very cheesy club in Western New York called the Yellow Jaguar back in 1989), I loved it in college (Venus de Milo, Avalon, TT The Bears, and others in Boston--especially because my college sweetheart was in a band and I was one of the most dedicated fans), and here and there in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past 10 years. Most recently at the Little Fox Theatre while my three-week-old baby was home with FIC.

Dancing reminds me that I'm still me, even if I smell like spoiled milk and you can see my breast pads under my shirt. I'll probably out there shaking my groove-thang when I'm 75--and for those few hours I'll feel like I'm timeless, ageless, and childless. I know that dancing isn't the be all, end all either. And it's not more important than my kids. But we all need something fun once in a while just for us.

Knocked up at the prom

What includes a black stretch limo, a high school year book show and tell, oodles of tell-all girl talk, gabs of glittery eye shadow, and 80s pop superstar Rick Springfield? It wasn't a high school prom. Nope. It was the Second Chance Prom--a local-radio-station-sponsored event in San Jose on June 10. I was a mere eight months pregnant.

Don't know what your high school was like, but a ripened-fruit like me was not an unusual sight when I actually was in high school way back when. There were probably 20 babies born to classmates during the four years I spent at Lockport High School. And who knows how many other pregnancies no one knew about.

But at this prom--this Second Chance Prom--I was proud of my blossoming belly. Sure my massive middle left me a little off-kilter and my left foot was still sore from my falling-down-the-stairs incident in May, but I danced and laughed and revisited my youth for a few hours. It was by far the best baby party ever, the best prom ever. There were no annoying jocks or popular kids to avoid, there were no curfews, no parents to lie to about where we were headed afterwards, and no boyfriends trying to score--that mission had been accomplished at least twice since this was my second pregnancy. That night, those couple of hours were about me and my girlfriends connecting, not necessarily as moms, but as friends. We forgot about laundry and dishes and diapers and husbands. And we remembered how to laugh and reminded ourselves that we need to do stuff like this more often.

Viva Las Vegas -- Pregnant-style

Woo hoo! Three nights in Las Vegas without Toddler in Chief. It was just me, Father in Chief, and the sights, sounds, smells, and sensory-overload in general of Sin City.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

My bag was packed with sassy pregnant outfits--polyester gauchos with glittery sashes, sparkly tops, flared short skirts, clunky black boots, small and fashionable handbags that did not contain a single diaper, goldfish cracker, crayon, or matchbox car. I had glitter eye powder, roll-on body glitter (courtesy of fabulous former dance companion Babs), liquid blue eyeliner, loud necklaces, negligees, massage oil, and red hot lipstick. (And there was no one's ass to wipe but my own.)

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Few of those outfits ever saw the flashing lights of slot machines or disco balls. The morning after we arrived, I dropped some cash at the Walking Company because my clunky boots were killing my toes. My grand intentions were to live it up and make this trip--this glorious, child-free getaway--a comprehensive excursion of every hip spot along the Strip. I aspired to strut my pregnant self through a memorable extravaganza of dancing and late nights and people watching. All my plans were quickly redefined. My sore feet, upset stomach, and overwhelming exhaustion redirected my three child-free days.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Sure I was just a tag-along to FIC's Amazing Meeting conference. So there I was, walking the strip in my comfortable and practical shoes, feeling tired and yes, very lame. How lame is it to go to Vegas and prefer to stay in and watch March of the Penguins on Pay Per View instead of heading out to one of the hundreds of dance clubs? It almost seemed wrong that such a G-rated movie was one of the choices on our hotel television.

Penn & Teller was our nightlife highlight. No dancing. No blackjack. No glittery shows. Just my tired ass seated for the two-hour show. And all that passive entertainment was so exhausting, that we promptly went back to our room…and slept.

Dance Goddess or Pathetic Groupie?

It's already been announced that my super fabulous solid dance friend is relocating to Atlanta--she actually left today. And last Friday was our final chance to go out and shake our groove thangs to our favorite 80s cover band Notorious. At the last minute Attorney Friend couldn't make it. But I decided to go on my own in her honor. But sadly there were so many thing wrong with the scene:

• Blending with the Older Crowd

I ended up going with Mathematician Mom from my son's other playgroup. She cheerfully pointed out that there it was an older crowd, in a good way--just a bunch of older people which is much better than a bunch of 23-year-olds, like I usually see in The City. As soon as those words left her mouth, it was like I was up on the wall looking down on the scene. There I was, blending in with that older crowd, with my companion thinking that this is a good thing. Did I really blend in? All of those people in their 30s, 40s, 50s. Okay, so I'm in my early 30s, but I don't actually think of myself as older. I'm a super hip chic, who happens to be a mom, who happens to be in my 30s. Does this qualify me as older. I think I'm going to have to start falling back on that every-so-popular mantra: You're as old as you feel. And I do not feel 30-something. Even though I rarely ever get carded when I go out. Although I did at this event. Did that simply mean I seemed to be on the young end of this older-crowd spectrum? Or did everyone get carded?

• Can't determine: Is this Good or Bad?

Because Notorious wasn't playing in SF--rather playing in the SF burbs--there weren't many familiar groupies there to encourage with shout-outs and acknowledgements. That left me--in my official Notorious T-shirt--looking like a total loser. At least that's how I felt when they hollered out "Suzanne" at least three different times. Instead of feeling fabulous because I'm on a first-name basis with the band, it actually made me contemplate my coolness. I wasn't sure if I had crossed the line from dancing goddess to pathetic groupie. After one of my front-row, solo dance-a-thons, an older guy boogied his way to my side. And when the song ended, Notorious called out that they really loved my T-shirt. And this guy then asked me which band member I was married to. Did it seem that I was that connected to the band that I was actually related to them? Yikes. This was very interesting because when I saw Notorious in Berkeley a couple of weeks ago, Jay (one of the singers) made a point to mention something about his wife while we were chatting between sets (yes, I like to chat with the band... how else do you think they know my name? Besides the fact that I post comments on their Web site's message board?).

• The Grand Exit

Any other night, Attorney Friend and I are still dancing when the lights go up and the band is already on their bus heading home. But I just couldn't do that this time. To not seem like a total loser, I had to drag myself away from the scene before the last song ended. I just couldn't stand to be there when it officially came to an end and the lights came on. It would be like putting an exclamation point on the fact that 1) I am indeed a groupie, 2) The band really does know me by name, 3) I really was there by myself--Math Mom left during intermission and I couldn't drag myself away that early into the show. So, as much as I desperately wanted the band to autograph the playlist for a keepsake/going-away gift for Attorney Friend, I had to leave to prove to myself that I'm not really that pathetic.

How much is too much information?

The BIG question: Where have all the dancers gone? Out of all the super women I know, Attorney Friend (see left) is my only reliable dance partner. We have even made a pact. We are going out dancing at least every other week for the next year. After that we'll revisit the whole having-another-baby issue. For now, it's all about us.

That said, I never know what to do when we're out dancing and some guy wants to dance with me. I never know how much information is too much information to share. There are three scenario that ponder and I certainly don't have a clue which is the best way to go, especially because I have been out of the dating scene for 10 years.

First scenario: Don't say anything

Someone wants to dance with me. Fabulous! Especially if he's cute. Why not? Just because I'm married, doesn't mean I'm blind. And a good dancer gets bonus points. Then we dance, dance, dance. However, just because I've said that I'd like to dance does not mean that I'm interested in anything other than shaking my thing in his general proximity. The downside: at the end of the night he may have the impression that my interest in dancing with him means that I'm interested in more.

This happened to me and Attorney Friend one night when we were in Santa Rosa seeing Notorious. They felt misled. And I felt like I had somehow given the wrong impression.

Second scenario: Say too much

Someone wants to dance with me. I avoid him until intermission so that I can fully explain that I'm happily married. I also explain that I'd like to dance with him, but if he's interested in more than dancing he better go dance with that other chic. I explain that the reason I'm saying this is because I haven't been "out there" for a long time and I'm not sure what impression dancing with someone gives. This scenario gets everything out in the open. Probably too much information though. It's a dance and I don't want to assume that the guy was expecting me to go home with him.

This happened to me one night at the Red Devil Lounge in San Francisco (again seeing Notorious). There was a guy who wanted to dance with me and I kept avoiding him. Then during intermission, I went into a 10-minute explanation that I'd like to dance with him, but I'm married. And is he looking to hook up with someone? If so, then he should probably look elsewhere because I'm just interested in a dance partner. The take-away: he thought I was insane. It was definitely an over-share.

Third scenario: Just the right amount

Someone wants to dance with me. I someone manage to convey that I'm interested in dancing, but that is that. He doesn't grope me or grind me. Rather, there is the perfect amount of space between us and there is no misunderstanding about what a dance means.

The problem is that I still haven't mastered this third scenario. I guess the way to avoid is to have Father in Chief as my manly accessory. This weekend's destination: Notorious (of course) with Mandonna (the all male, all live tribute to the Material Girl). I can hardly wait. The men are not so sure.

Something totally new: I'm a mom!

My sister-in-law and I were out trying to find a fun place to go dancing in downtown Buffalo last night. We were walking around the hip Chippewa part of the city and stopped at a club called Jade, hoping for some 80s music. We didn't find any, but we were chatting with the bouncer and somehow it came up that I live near San Francisco. He used to live in San Jose.

And then he asked me what I do in San Francisco. While that sounds like a simple enough and seemingly-innocent question, it has been a very touchy topic. Without a "real" job, I have had somewhat of an identity crisis. I wrote in March:

We are what we eat. We are what we do for a living. And what we do for a living, as a parent, isn't readily recognized as a glamorous, tell-me-more kind of job.

I have struggled with this topic since I became an at-home mom more than two years ago. But here's the kicker. Instead of hesitating, I just said, "I'm a mom. I'm also a writer."

There it was. It was out there. Instead of starting my answer with the typical "I'm a writer" part, I started with the mom part. That was a first! And it was very liberating to say out loud without any kind of apology. I don't know why it came out that way. I didn't plan it and I hadn't been thinking about it. It was just my natural, spur of the moment, honest answer.

Maybe I'm feeling good about my work. And my undernourished ego has been temporarily satiated with my new writing assignments. So perhaps I don't feel the need to embellish my life by starting with the usual, "I'm a writer." Maybe because the work is sort of steady (at least for the time being), and satisfying, I don't need to prove anything to anyone. I’m a mom. And I'm a writer. And I'm okay with it—in that order.