Survival of the Prepared and Entitled

It's taken me a few days to become reacquainted with the real world. Instead of peeing against a tree, I'm peeing in a regular toilet, reminded how groundbreaking modern plumbing can be. Instead of boiling water and sharing food with my best friend around a campfire we lighted and maintained ourselves, I'm eating frozen food out of a box heated by a radioactive microwave. And instead of being completely stress-free, not checking my email or cellphone and basking in the moment and the here-and-now, I'm once again stressed and exhausted.

Casey and I spent the better part of two days more than five hours away in Catawba, Virginia for a Modern Survival course. I have to admit that as last week went by, plagued by last-minute projects and running around, not quite enjoying my birthday as I did in years past, I was dreading packing and sleeping in the woods, instead of on my couch, catching up on my television shows. But when Casey got to my house on Thursday night, and we started anticipating the road trip, and wondering out loud to each other about the goings-on we would experience for the weekend, I became excited to do something new, especially something I knew would result in me being proud of myself.

Who cares about DVDs, gift cards, and other birthday presents? I was lucky to have my boyfriend and my best girlfriend go halvsies each on my tuition for the weekend. Casey and I were ready to go out into the wilderness - and survive on our own. We were ready to go it alone without any of the guys in our lives thinking they could do it better, knew better, or performed better. It was the quintessential girls weekend.

Small-Town Travels
Casey and I were on the road at 10 a.m. Two stops for food, and more than six hours later, we find ourselves winding down a nine-mile road behind a school bus, dropping off children of all ages to parents parked higgledy-piggledy on curvy grassy spots along the way. Everyone turned to see who were riding in the gray Scion XB with all the bumper stickers on the back. Turning into a gravel driveway to Mountain Shepherd , our new home for the weekend, we gunned it up a hill as steep as a roller coaster, the Scion shaking so violently from the shifting around and our laughing as everything on the dashboard slid into our laps. As soon as we pulled up, Reggie, a 40-something ruggedly handsome man with clean lumberjack facial hair came out to greet us. "You guys are mine!," he yelled. And we were off!

After meeting Reggie's beautiful wife Dina, we started hiking up a massive hill into the middle of Reggie's approximately 100 acres of perfectly dense forest. The strap on my bag breaks; I almost pass out from the hill! (Casey said my face was so white, and I could feel it. All that smoking... another item that will be alleviated this year on my "to-do list.") At the top, Reggie pointed out our firewood, and where we could set up the tent; where our drinking water sat; and some emergency supplies in a bear-proof case. And as the sun quickly set, he scurried back down the hill, letting us know he and our other co-students would return at 10 a.m.

Alone Together
Lucky for us, Casey brought some fire pellets. We were supposed to learn how to make a fire ourselves, but that wouldn't have helped us Friday night. We set up the tent, and as Casey made camp more comfortable, fluffing out our sleeping bags and coordinating our sides of the new homestead, I hunted for sticks and tinder to start our fire. The moon almost full, illuminating the mysterious forest we found ourselves habitating (so vibrantly you didn't need a flashlight) we pinpointed our perfect bathroom spot, ate Ramen, and played Rummy.

The night was so cold. I found out fast my sleeping bag was not for such cold weather. Two pairs of long john pants, one long john shirt, one pair of flannel pants, a pair of jeans, a tshirt, a fleece jacket, and two sweatshirts (as well as three pairs of socks and one ear-flapped hat later) I was still freezing from the cold forest floor permeating my skin, my heart my lungs. I hardly slept until Casey convinced me to nap in her eskimo bag while she started the fire for breakfast.

We were really anticipating who would be in our group for the class, but had no indications of their walks of life. It turned out to be a group of individual rascals: Alex, a current Virginia Military Institute (VMI), a small-town boy full of stories about his dad and hunting; Fran, a woman at least 50, wearing a hunting sweatsuit, popping muscle relaxers and carrying hiking poles; Mike, a mysterious Northern Virginian, clean, could be gay, and worked for a government contractor who had sent him to Iraq and Afghanistan (among other exotic, foreign and dangerous places); Vick, a 70 year-old (at least), who had already taken Reggie's four-day survival class, whose wife was taking a women empowerment class run by Dina, and who slept in the cabin at the bottom of the hill, instead of roughing it with us; and Eric (nickname Detroit, because we couldn't remember his name for most of the trip), a hot 35-year-old, who looked like a gorgeous Finnish hiker, with pronounced facial features and a deep voice, on top of out-of-nowhere hilarity.

These were the social vagrants we were spending our weekend with. They reminded me of Casey's nametag in her car that she wore to a wedding as a date with a friend, even though she didn't know the bride and groom - I'm Casey. I'm a Complete Stranger. That's what we all were.

Back to Basics
I could go more in-depth about what we learned. While I retained some of it, some will only pop out when I'm back in the woods, smelling the crisp air, digging my hiking boots into dirt and pine needles, peeing in a valley. The experience was in the ease of learning. In the being out in the open. In feeling beautiful and one with the world, after days of no makeup, the same jeans, no showers and natural odor. In the honesty of complete strangers telling portions of their lives around the campfire, without alcohol. Of taking turns giving opinions not caring what others thought, talking about our travels around the world, our families, our pets. Telling stories about our local mythical creatures, like the Goat Man, the Orangeback Zap, and the ManBearPig.

What we did learn revolved around seven survival skills that I'm going to use in my daily life, and refer to in this blog, to become a better version of myself:

• Positive Mental Attitude
• First-Aid (Take Care of Yourself)
• Shelter (Stay Safe)
• Fire Craft (Stay Passionate)
• Signaling (Maintain Proper Communication)
• Water (Stay hydrated and stay free)
• Food (Feed yourself with what you need)

When we jumped back on the road to drive the long haul back to the big ole city, us girls felt exhausted, empowered, and best of all, ready to take on the world. And we made a promise to ourselves and each other: only we can really change our lives to the way we want to live it. If Reggie and his wife Dina built they life they wanted, with the land and freedom and happiness they wanted, well we were entitled to the same strength and contentment.

In the long-term at least. For the short-term, we felt pretty entitled to a beer and a shower.

Happy Birthday, Almost Ann.

I'm turning 29 in about three hours, and I wish I had more to say about it. I mean, 29 is kind of that age that you don't really fear, and you probably don't really remember when you look back. It's kind of that miserable nothing. One more step to 30, but you're kind of where you were before you turned 29, probably where you were, or close enough (still in line at the same bus stop, so to speak) when you were 28. Still trying to figure it out, and still with that huge list in front of you of what you want and need to do to make it through the next decade.

I remember when my parents used to say, and even the older people that I knew surrounding me in my younger ages, that the older you get, the less you pay attention to your age, and your birthday, and generally the fact that you're just every day, step by step, getting older. I never believed them. But now as I sit on the verge of 29, all I can really think to say is, "So what?"

Probably the most eventful part of turning 29 is the deal I made with myself last year: if you can't do it yourself, then who is going to do it for you? Last year, I went ahead and bought myself an iPhone for my birthday, since I knew it was time to upgrade to some new technology. And I'm happy to report that I kept the promise to myself when I knew I was going to move and save a ton of money: I'm currently writing my blog on my new shiny HP laptop I bought with the security deposit from the house I formerly rented.

Life is good.

Usually I spend these kind of times reminiscing. I'm a sucker for that kind of stuff. I cry if I watch Dancing with the Stars and American Idol when they show scenes of a contestant's Long Road to Stardom. I like looking back, I dwell in it usually. But today, right now, tomorrow, there really is no place for that. I don't want to look back anymore. That's behind me, literally. I'm spending my next year looking forward. And I have a few goals I'd like to write down, kind of as a Happy New Year to Almost Ann's Year of Growth:

• Get into the Goucher Creative Nonfiction Program
• Lose the weight I've wanted to for years
• Reminding myself it's ok to say no and not feel compelled to do something because someone else wants you to
• Foster the friendships that have tested the past year, but still exist
• Spend more time with myself, by myself, fostering my talent.
• Write and read.

Really, I can't think of anything else right now. I mean, come on. I'm old. I like to spend time with my pug, drinking wine. I like grammar. I get home from work and can't be bothered to go back out. I wake up early for work and go to bed early. I start looking at kids with piercings in their face and hair the color of KoolAid and wonder why they would do that to myself. (Now that's ironic).

My years behind me have tired me out. But I'm older and wiser enough to listen to my body; and give it what it needs.

Happy Birthday, Almost Ann. Get your ass in gear.

Small Steps

It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. I remember when I first started Weight Watchers, the first few weeks were great. You work out every day, you measure everything, you poo-poo everything else, you get completely on your high horse about points and calories and fat, and you lose about 10 pounds in 3 weeks.

And then you plateau big time around the third or fourth week, and you get frustrated, and drink one more Miller Lite here and there, and you start eyeing your food instead of measuring and you start thinking you know everything about what to eat, and you overeat, and then it’s done…

That’s the pitfall I’m trying to avoid.

It’s only been 4 days since I’ve kept strictly to the Weight Watchers diet, but I technically weighed in last Friday and this Friday, so that’s a week. I registered a 3.8 weight loss!

I’m looking for another 3 pounds next week, mainly because I’m finally going to start exercising. Since I’m alone practically all the time, finding the time isn’t hard at home, and there’s not many people that can boast that their apartment building has a free gym. I’d like to plan for going in the morning before work, and sometimes after work. I need to figure it in though. I know I need to do some exercising next week, since I’ll be in the woods for a few days next weekend on the survival course, and need to feel at least slightly like I can survive some hikes. I know it’s going to be hard.

Another hard thing, is my birthday is coming up, and I’m pretty sure that my boyfriend is going to completely forget until November 16 (Tuesday) when he wakes up for work at 1 p.m. and sees all these people posting Happy Birthdays to me on Facebook. We go out tonight with my Birthday Buddy (my best friend since I was about 16, more than 13 years ago!) for his celebration and my boyfriend hasn’t mentioned anything about plans on Saturday. Sunday I’m out with my mom and aunt and then him and I work all week, and then I’m away all weekend. I don’t think he planned anything, even after I told him what I wanted to do. I’m half tempted to tell him, and it’s really hard to ask, but I have to teach him a lesson, and I can’t butt in for him anymore and save the day. This is him all the way. He needs to figure it out.

I don’t want to get into a crying fit again this weekend. Especially since I feel so high right now from my results!!! (And especially since I had two glasses of wine last night!!!)

Tonight we go to the Ottobar and the Sidebar, one for a show, another for a dance party. It should be a good night full of friends. I’m looking forward to making Salmon for dinner. I sure am turning into an old woman…

I'm a Weight Watcher

It's never a good feeling to be the fat kid.

The funny thing is, I always considered myself the fat kid, even when I wasn't. The feeling didn't come from my weight in earlier years, but more so from the people with which I ran. They had thin faces; mine is more rounded. They had skinnier torsos; I was square with a hourglass figure at the tip. I have dark hair, a product of my Native American heritage and very pale skin, which made me look bigger; most of my friends growing up had blond hair... or pretended to. While I didn't read a lot of fashion magazines that told me how to stay stick thin, mainly because that's a current phenomenon credited to the waif movement, I knew that I looked different, and that correlated in my head as, well, fat and ugly.

Although, believe me, you wouldn't have known it from the staggering amount of boyfriends and inversely small amount of time I stayed single when I was younger. I chalked it up to my personality and the fact that I was strange and exciting. Funny thing is, when I've looked up some of my "pretty" friends from my childhood and early adolescence on Facebook, they don't look as pretty as grownups as I imagined them to be.

And while looking back at photos will confirm the worst - that I was more so mentally unable to consider myself pretty, attractive, skinny, and smart all in the same lot - it's also confirmed what I know to be true today - I'm fat.

Recently, I've tried to convince myself otherwise: that it was water weight, humidity, perception. I tried sucking in so long all day that I wanted to just drop. But now that my size 12 and 14 pants don't fit, and I'm buying 16 (and just went shopping at Fashion Bug, where I would bitch and complain while shopping with my mom in younger years) I feel fat and I know I look fat. People are looking at my midsection.

The number is the indicator. I keep buying bigger and bigger clothes, and growing into them, instead of saying, Eww, this is enough. Heck, what I wouldn't give to be a 12 right now... without popping the buttons off of my work pants like I did the other day.

Counting the Calories
When I was in college, I weighed roughly 145. When I used to feel like I gained a few pounds, I'd pull out my Denise Steel Buns of Steel and Abs of Steel tapes and work it off. I also had the luxury of working retail while I was in high school and college, so running around all day and eating McDonald's food didn't quite change my figure.

I knew I had a problem when I graduated from college and left my job at Office Depot to start my new desk job as a financial editor. I promised everyone on the crew that I'd stop by and visit, mainly because I was still living at home, right over the hill. A few months after starting my new job, I stopped by Office Depot, and one of the guys I worked with said that I looked like I'd, "Put on a few pounds, but was still cute." While I don't remember what I did afterwards, I probably ate something crappy to make me feel better.

Now, I weigh about 190. As a woman I know fluctuate, but this is not an error in my scale. When I was getting personal training three times a week and kickboxing, as well as doing Weight Watchers (for the first time) and seeing a nutritionist, I went from about 180 to 165. I was happy at 165.

I could have lost another 20, but I was good. I was happy. I felt sexy. My body had filled out. I do come from a more full-figured family. My mother and my aunt are rounder women. We have larger boobs and hips and thighs. And it wasn't helping my cause that the real partying after college started: lots of happy hours turning into late-night binge drinking, followed by steak subs and french fries to soak up some of it in hopes of getting through work the next day. And doing it all over again. And then spending Saturday and Sunday mornings sleeping in and sitting on the couch, until it was time to go to the bar or the club or a house party.

It's true: When you're not counting the calories, and you're drinking Yuenglings and Guinnesses, the pounds really start to creep up on you. Now I've started Weight Watchers, again. And I hope to be more successful than my previous weight loss endeavors.

The Skinny and the Low Down
Probably the scariest part of this entire transition is my boyfriend. He's skinny as a rail, and of course, says I'm not fat. When I met him I was 165. His eating habits have directly affected me in a bad way. The boy works production work, on his feet 10 hours a day, 4 days a week. He can put away a Five Guys burger and a Qdoba burrito in one sitting. When idle on the weekends, he eats all day, and big meals roughly every 2-3 hours.

At first, when we met, that was ok. I was still on my diet, at 165, having a lot of sex for a workout and running around town. But relationships bog you down in many places: the waist and the home in most instances.

Nights ordering pizza, watching movies, drinking beer. Not good for anyone interested in watching their figure.

While I'm only on Day Two of Weight Watchers, and alone for my meals since he works night work, the main test is going to be the weekend. I have to eat only salads, and make sure not to drink much. That shouldn't be a problem, since I've officially shunned beer (except for a Miller Lite here and there). Wine and mixed drinks it is. But when I sit down to make dinner on Friday and Saturday, the last thing I'm sure he'll want is food that may make him skinnier. He did take some of my Chicken Parmesan with whole wheat pasta I made for work lunch today, so we'll see how he thought it was.

I know with Weight Watchers, it's all portion control and being prepared. I just need to make sure that if I do mess up one meal, I keep going. Also, this time, instead of doing meetings (full of people that look at me like I'm the skinny one as they talk about how they wake up in the middle of the night and eat hoagies) I'm doing the online version. My iPhone app will make it easier to check out foods I can eat at restaurants and fast food joints, and check the nutrition on things in the store before I buy them.

We are planning a Wegman's trip on Saturday, so that's a good step in the right direction. If there's one thing that does keep my boyfriend and I together, it's our love of food. This time, it's just going to have to be different food.

I did have hopes of getting to the gym yesterday or today, but lucky for me, my WW diet start has happened upon the start of my period and the worst cramps known to man. But better now, than when I'm in the wilderness next weekend for the Survival Course I'm taking with my best girlfriend.

Making the Wrong Things Right
Since most of the point of this blog is to write about the activities I'm doing to turn Almost Ann into the Ann she knows she is inside, there are two other great things that happened this week. For one, I officially emailed those I've chosen to write Letters of Recommendation for me for Goucher College's Creative Nonfiction Master's Program. It's a low-residency program that only lasts two years. I've written a lot of creative nonfiction and liked it, although poetry is always my fall back. I've been writing since I was... five? It's been the most constant thing in my life. And it's chronicled me through some of the best and worst times I've had. I've even been able to read some of my diary entries at a comedic show series here in Baltimore called Humiliated.

It's taking me approximately 8 years since leaving undergrad to finally parlay the fear I have of being a writer. Last year, I applied to the Library Science Program at University of Maryland, and while I made the Waiting List, I didn't make the final cut. It would have been an amazing program, and the option was there for me to apply again this year. With living in White Marsh, and commuting to Columbia, driving to Silver Spring somewhere in there for four years part-time just isn't in the cards. And while I love museums, and history, and the chronicling of our world, mainly the impetus for applying was money.

This time, I'm optimistic. I need to work on my portfolio, and the whole application is due January 1. But I have a good enough start. I already have the ideas for the project I want to work on as well. It's going to be a hard two years. But it's time to really step up to the plate.

The second thing that goes hand-in-hand with that is I finally bought a laptop today that I'm waiting to be shipped. I've been working on a desktop computer from 2003; while it does the trick, I'm really a mobile person. And it takes FOOOOOORRRREEEEVVVVVVEEEERRRR to load anything. I want to go to Border's, to the coffee shop, to other people's houses, and work. Sitting at a desk, like I do all day at work, isn't an option. I feel constrained. I'm very excited, especially since the move here to White Marsh is saving me about $750 in rent and at least $200 a month in utilities. I finally had the gall to buy something for myself that isn't a waste of money.

In fact, it may be the ticket to it.

Crying in the Dark

In the recent day or a little more, I've had a pretty major freak out. These don't happen that often to me, because while I often opine that others don't express themselves enough and keep things bottled up, it appears it's the pot calling the kettle black.

It may have started to boil over when I decided to set up a special dinner for my boyfriend and myself. We just recently moved in together (less than a month now), and all the stress and running around and changes in schedules has kind of gotten to us - or at least to me. I set up a dinner at Centro Tapas Bar, a new small plate restaurant in Federal Hill/Locust Point. The restaurant received top honors in the City Paper's Best of Baltimore, so I figured we'd make a go at it.

When I told my boyfriend on the phone about it, the first thing that came out of his mouth was a complaint: "I hate Federal Hill, the parking there sucks... and there's all the yuppies at the yuppie bars." And then the next day, after I texted him the menu, he said, "The food looks really good... but I don't think it's going to fill me up." (Isn't the whole point of small plates to keep ordering food, trying a bunch of things, until you are!?!? Humph...)

I don't know about you, but if someone set up a dinner for me, the first thing I'd say was, "That's awesome! I'm so excited." That's not him. He seems to find a complaint for everything... and if you met his mom, you'd understand why immediately. There's nothing I hate more in the world than ungrateful people. So while I was excited about the dinner, that I was paying for 100% out the money I received from my security deposit, that excitement diminished immediately. In fact, Friday, a half an hour away from leaving work, I was about to burst out in tears, and just surfed the Net until I rushed out the door.

Missing Each Other Completely
Friday night was actually pretty good, regardless. I talked my boyfriend into leaving the apartment so my best girlfriend could come over for girl's night. He went to meet some friends that he hadn't seen in a while. We ordered Chinese food and drank wine and talked girl talk and watched Alice in Wonderland. While he didn't come home late, he stayed up late, which is something he does all the time, mainly because he works night work. To an extent, I understand him staying up until 3 or 4, because he doesn't get up until 1:30. However, during the week, we don't see each other. I'm up at 5:45 and out the door by 7, and he's just coming to bed sometimes around 6, not sleeping in bed with me at all. And I go to bed at 10:30... and he comes home at 1:30. I've become a light sleeper, so I can't sleep very well once he gets home... and he's playing video games all night in the first bedroom. I can hear him all night through the heat vent...

I'm a firm believer in sleeping in the same bed as much as you can, as well as eating breakfast and dinner together as much as possible. The weekends are the only days we see each other: From 5:30 Friday after work until 10:30 when I go to bed Sunday night. If you can't give most of that time to someone, after not seeing them all week, then you're not really in a real relationship.

But I digress... Saturday at 1 was my joint bday party with my mom and father, my brother and his wife, and their twins. My boyfriend knew it for the past week. And here I was at 12:15 ready to go, after trying to wake him up twice, and he was still snoring in bed. I finally said, "Look, I"m leaving in 15 minutes," sadly prepared to go it alone. Instead of rushing to just throw on some clothes, he gets in the shower... we're about 20 minutes late to my brother's house, and we don't speak at all on the car ride.

We survived the family get together, luckily because the 13-month old twins make you forget about everything.

Are You Looking At Me?
On the way home, we stopped for lunch and we hardly spoke. I was still pissed. He's a 31-year-old man, and he lives his life like he's 10. He sleeps late, and all the time; he plays video games; and he tries to do as little as possible as far as responsibilities. I pay the bills, I tell him when things are due. I'm home nights, so I end up doing all of the cleaning and shopping. And he drinks the beer I buy that I put in the fridge.

We went to Lowe's for some stuff for the apartment and Target. This is where I started my rapid downfall into waterworks. As I was walking around, I felt like everyone was staring at me, at my face. Due to my hormonal problem, the acne around my chin is really bad. I've been trying to take turmeric for it, wash my face twice a day, put on repairing lotion. But some of the zits head up often, some look really big and red without heads, and then I have scars from popping them because I get so angry. I put makeup on to cover them, but by the time we were in Target, I believe it wore off.

I didn't realize it, but my new acne, at the age of 29, has changed who I am. I like the dark much better; I don't like going out as much; and I'm really sensitive when I see people staring at my chin when I talk. I don't even look many people in the eyes at work anymore, because I'm so embarrassed. And there's nothing I can seem to do about it, except add a dermatologist to my now long list of reasons I have to leave work early for a doctor's appointment.

I started balling on the car ride home. Jim kept asking me what was wrong, but I couldn't talk about it. I was embarrassed that I was feeling this way about acne. There are much better things to cry about, and I'm crying about acne. I kind of felt like my world lost direction.

Whimpers and Snores
We got home, and I canceled our dinner reservation. I didn't want anyone to see me, I wasn't really feeling like getting dolled up and going out on the town. Instead, I sat in the dark on the bed, while he got ready to play the video game he bought when I wasn't looking, and practically hid from me. I tried to hug my dog and hang with him... I just couldn't stop crying. Finally, he came in to ask if I was ok, and as I was crying... he fell asleep snoring.

That didn't make me feel much better.

We woke up, had dinner, read, tried to watch a movie, drank wine and played video games, because that makes him happy, and I wanted something to take my mind off everything. I thought I would be over the crying thing, now that my face was swollen.

Cards Stacked
Additionally, I had plans today with my best guy friend, who's birthday is a few days before mine, to go to the museum for our bday outing. I was really scared, because he's been drinking a lot, so I was pretty sure he would cancel, and my boyfriend said if he canceled, he would go with me. We were planning on going at noon.

My boyfriend came to bed at... 6:30. I had gone to bed around 3... he hadn't even tried to come with me. Again, we didn't really sleep together. So I started crying again, because I really feel like this is the beginning of the end. If he doesn't want to be intimate with me, which I consider sleeping next to me, and not always sleeping with me, if you catch my drift, then the clock is ticking.

Regardless, my best friend didn't cancel and I went out all day today, shuffling through the Walter's Art Gallery, taking part in some Day of the Dead celebration and listening to a mariachi band, and grabbing lunch and a beer at a Mt. Vernon Irish pub named Mick O'Sheas and watching the Baltimore Ravens beat the pants off the Miami Dolphins.

I felt at ease not being around my boyfriend today. Which is another telling sign. I have been honest with myself going into this: I knew this move would either work completely, or not at all. I'm a betting woman, and while I'm not yet willing to wager, I know where the cards are stacked.

My boyfriend has been at his mother's house doing laundry. Seeing as it's 8:14, I'll probably see him for about a half an hour, before I have to go to bed. And then, even though we live together, we won't really see each other again until Friday.

That's life right now. And it sucks. When you're not feeling very excited about your appearance and how people see you, it's not so great to have a boyfriend who loves his video games and his sleep more than you. If I were someone else, and they were telling me this story, I'd really wonder why they were together in the first place.

Hi Mom, Allow Me to Introduce Myself

My mother and I share a birth month. November. Scorpios. It makes perfect sense to me... we don't get along real well.

Today, I had to go out to grab my mother a birthday gift for our joint celebration tomorrow. It's a dreaded expedition, which sounds horrendous, I know. While I'm lucky to have had a mom growing up, and with that, parents who have stayed together and loved my brother and me, I don't really have a relationship with her. We're more like acquaintances. I lived in the same house with her for 23 years and that's that - we're acquaintances.

Try finding a Happy Birthday Mom! card or a Happy Mother's Day! card that says, "I'm glad to have made your acquaintance" or "You sure are swell, I hope to get to know you better." Because that's what I feel they should say in my situation.

How About a Blank Card With a Puppy On It?
Instead, I have to choose between many (what I believe to be) emotionally, false statements:

"Mom, you've always been there for me. You taught me right from wrong and you taught me how to be strong."

"Mom, I couldn't have gotten through my most wonderful and terrible moments without you. You have been the strength and calmness I've needed all my life... and for the rest of it."

It really goes on and on, but you get the point. I feel like I'm the only daughter in the world on Mother's Day or my mother's birthday, shifting her weight foot to foot, going from card slot to card slot at the local Target, hoping to find something mundane, yet pretty and feminine, card that really only says, "Happy Birthday. Have a great day."

Buy It Like You Mean It
Instead, I do what my father has taught me well: Just buy a really nice gift that your mother would never buy for herself.

I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and bought mom a nice Baltimore Ravens purple Reebok velour sweat suit, a picture cube for her to put pics of my brother's kids (the twins) in, and a pair of pajama pants. Let me tell you, velour sweat suits are not cheap.

I never thought I'd be buying my mother an Italian mafia suit. But I believe that she deserves it, especially after all she's been through...

Why do I not feel very close with my mother? It all comes down to respect. My father is an alcoholic, and boy is he still at the height of his practice, even with diabetes. I used to love my dad for who he was before I knew - all little girls like dads who play with them and get silly and buy stuff on a whim. Until they grow up and find out that most of the behavior was caused by alcohol, specifically his best friend, Seagram's.

And as girls do, they get older, and they get feisty, and they realize that their father is not the strong man they think he is. He talks back, he suggests that you do things you don't do, he calls you names, he yells at you at 3 in the morning when you're trying to sleep, he pukes in the toilet that's against the bathroom wall up against your bed, he shows up at your work or volunteer job hammered with some inane story about how they treat you, he calls you a devil worshipper, a slut.

And the next day, he buys you a TV and wants to have you come with him to the plant store to buy azaleas for the garden.

But the worst of all, and believe me, there's too numerous to count above, is not what he does to you - it's what he does to your mother. And how your mother takes it.

Worse than Divorce
My mother, I think, used to be angry about my dad. She used to yell at him. "John, leave her alone!" "John, leave the kids alone."

And then, he would yell at 3 a.m. about how she was so fat, and snored all the time, and he couldn't sleep, and that she would stay up until 4 in the morning on the couch watching tv. And whenever she would try to give her opinion, he would cut her off. He wouldn't listen to her. And eventually, she even stopped defending us from him. She even once or twice, grabbed my arm in anger, like he used to do.

Things digressed this way, until slowly, as if she were snow melting in the last corner of the shaded backyard under a bush, she became just a body, on the right side of the couch, not saying anything. Like a non-being. She would do crosswords, pretend to sleep, eat one slice of pizza for dinner, smoke an inane amount of cigarettes, ask the same questions about me every time I saw her. And I gave her the same answers, frustrated that she didn't even listen to me. Didn't remember me.

But why would she, I finally realize? The man she once loved never does. And I sure wasn't giving her the time of day, for having stood back, and let my father do to us, emotionally and psychologically, what he did.

Renaissance Woman
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back. Cancer runs in the family. She kept quiet about it. Maybe I kept my distance, mainly because I hate being around the house for any extended period of time. I never know when I walk through that door whether my father's been drinking or not. And who knows, with my brother married and me almost 30 and on my own for years, what goes on in that house with just the two of them? She's been cancer free, and has been doing fine.

And actually, better than fine. All of a sudden, my mother has transformed, as my father has become smaller, more wrecked by alcohol and diabetes. His nose drips and he doesn't even notice it. He has injuries he doesn't even deal with. I believe I finally know that my mother despises him, and understands his days are numbered now - even though we thought the same years ago.

She has quit smoking. Completely. (I haven't even done that.) She goes out with friends. My Aunt has been around for a few years, after moving back from Florida, and that's good consolation and company. She joined the swimming club down the street, and just the other day, told me she joined the gym. She's lost weight, and is looking better than I ever remember, without looking at family photos.

Rebuilding the Relationship
My mother is older than 60. I'm amazed, and inspired.

If I'm going to rebuild my life to where I want it, one of my starting points is my relationship with my mother. In support of that, I've concocted an outing that we haven't done in years, and invited my aunt to come along - a girl's shopping day next Sunday.

I think it's time for me to stop hating and despising the woman who I thought wasn't standing up to my father for his obvious inefficiencies, and begin praising the woman she's creating herself as - a Renaissance woman. It's time for my mother and I to be reintroduced.

And quite frankly, I can't think of a better celebration of her new lifestyle and her new endeavors than a bright purple velour track suit to wear home from the gym and the swim club.

I think that's gonna say it better than a card this time.

Birthed from a Canal

It's never pleasant to be stuck in a tube. It kind of reminds me of when Tank Girl disobeys Kesslee (Malcolm McDowell's character) and he shoots her down a tube that's freezing and very, very tight. And tighter still.

I had my third MRI today in less than a year. March, May, November now. My boyfriend always asks me how I did after them.

The first time, I wore my contacts, and wasn't sure I could close my eyes without them sealing shut and red on my irises while they radiated me. I had an almost panic attack, looking at the blue line only inches from my face, my head strapped into a plastic brace.

In May, they added contrast to me, and the warming sensation made my heart jump. You feel like you peed yourself, it's so warm. And you can't tell if you did or not.

This time, my stomach resented the notion entirely. I went to the bathroom before I left work, and had to hurry back to the toilet once I arrived at the radiology location: only 15 minutes later.

Diagnosis Days
It's been a tough year. I decided that I needed a Primary Care Physician, and I got one. I decided I wanted to really see if I had a heart murmur. The cardiologist cleared me, luckily. I wanted to see if the migraines and sharp lightning bolt pains in the right side of my head were abnormal, so I went to a neurologist.

At first, they diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), which a lot of people get from scar-causing, nightmare-inducing tragedy and disaster. Think war, 9-11, mass murder. Mine happened to be a car accident back in 2000. Only now, ten years later, am I losing my sense of smell, and partly taste, from invisible bruising on my frontal lobe, possibly caused my my concussion as well as damage caused when the windshield cut my head wide open, and caused swelling in my Central Nerve.

I also had petit mal epilepsy when I was a child, and the only way they treated that was with Phenobarbitol, a horse tranquilizer that I was on for about ten years. No wonder when I think back to my childhood, I don't remember much. That, and I appear to have lost some memory from the car accident of being young and carefree. There are some things I'd rather not remember. But that car accident taught me about mortality, and growed me up real quick.

Maybe that's why I don't like tubes, MRI machines, tunnels, claustrophobic spaces. True, I like my personal space, and a closed door in a room for privacy, but you put walls up against me, and I kind of freak out. When I was younger I had wires glued to my head every six months, until the CAT scans started. I remember being so tiny, that the tube felt so big, and I had a blanket and my stuffed animal and sat as still as a hunter waiting for its chance to leap. It felt like a little treehouse, a tent, a fort in there. I was so tiny, and it was so very big.

But now, not so much.

Ball of Light
Once my neurologist ordered my first MRI, we realized everything I went through for the car accident wasn't showing up. Everything was firing on the right channels. But what we did find, accidentally, was a small dot on my pituitary gland. It looked like a tiny little ball of light on a black palimpsest.

That May, the MRI confirmed it: a pituitary tumor. A lot of people go through life not knowing they have one. Autopsies show that about 10% of people, who die at a good older age, have a little guy hanging out there. But this discovery coincided with my adult onset acne and my periods getting much further apart, not to mention some emotional issues that kind of cropped up out of nowhere for no reason whatsoever.

A round of blood tests, and I'm finally diagnosed with elevated Prolactin levels due to the pituitary cyst. Prolactin is a hormone present in breastfeeding mothers. My body thinks I'm breastfeeding, hence the emotional issues, the acne, the periods being very far between. Normal women have a regular count of 2.8-29.2 ng/mL. I'm at 84... three times the normal levels.

Let's Make a Deal
I tell you... every time I'm in that tube, I think of one thing first: If there's a zombie apocalypse and they come to American Radiology, I'm fucked! My legs will be mighty tasty sitting out there all akimbo. Warm from the contrast. Relaxed. Elevated.

It's amazing what goes through your head in a forced one hour of sitting. I try to sleep, but then I start thinking about all the things I need to do, and should have done. All of my friends. And then I hear the bump bump bump bump, coupled with the rrr rrr rrr rrr in a tetrad as the machine whirls around me and it sounds like I'm at the dance club, with my one-armed striped neon shirt and my jean skirt, wishing the world would never stop turning.

My deal is this: I'm turning 29 in exactly 12 days. I've gained about 50 pounds since my college days. I just moved in with my boyfriend, which is still a rocky situation. I eat like crap, I'm depressed, I've kind of cut off my world a bit.

This is my returning to it. Every day. Almost Ann is on a mission. She's gonna get closer to herself.

Even if it means meeting my claustrophobic, overly analytical self in a dark tube.