It looked nice, but it reduced my living room to being a place where I sat and watched TV or knit, because there wasn’t really room to do anything else.

Like hoop.

My last apartment was spaced out to create a dance space in my living room, despite the jewelbox size of the studio. I liked having the big, open area to just throw down in, or hoop while I watched TV.

It bugged me that I didn’t have it now. I don’t really feel safe hooping outside ever since an incident with a creepy neighbor. And I can go to the gym, but…I don’t want to, half the time, now that I can’t go as late as I used to. I prefer to go to the gym when I want to film a new video.

I tried hooping in my bedroom, but one collision of my pricey new LED hoop with the ceiling fan quickly put paid to THAT notion. Besides which, I have just ordered a new bed, and…it is a big bed. There won’t be room to hoop.

This afternoon I was cleaning house and assembling a pizza for the Girls’ Night I have with Maggie. I put on BBC Radio 1 Xtra, which happened to be playing a Carnival inspired music festival. Upbeat music keeps me moving. Usually. Well. It didn’t NOT keep me moving this time, but the problem is I pretty immediately dropped everything I was doing, picked up my hoop, and began to tear it up.

Untill I ran into the sofa. And the wall. And a cat or two. And my computer desk. Aggravated, I dropped my hoop and studied the living room for a second.

And then I had had it.

Before you could say “No! It creates a room division where there wasn’t one!” I had the sofa against the wall, the end table by my computer desk, and I was throwing down in the middle of my suddenly enormous dance space, grooving and sweating and loving every minute of it.

Apparently I need my own dance space if I want to live.

I have been so out of sorts not having a regular, safe hoop practice of my own. It’s like yoga; I can do it in a class, but my best, happiest sessions are when I am self-directing my practice, getting back to what I loved in the first place.

So. This is my dance space.

It’s been a sort of singular goal of mine for as long as I can remember. Children. I want them.

Don’t I?

Forgive me for TMI, but I’ve been celibate for two years. I’ve had the odd date but no chance at all at a relationship. This is the longest I’ve been alone since I started dating. I suppose if I really wanted to, I COULD go out and rectify that. God knows my forays into OKCupid have proven that there are men who want to get into my pants.

But. They’re men who want to get into ANYONE’S pants, and that’s not what I want. In fact, I haven’t met anyone at all whose pants *I* want to get into in return. And then there’s the inevitable horrible drama, which I am so very over given that my last boyfriend fostered selfish, painful drama like people eat toast for breakfast. So, I am alone.

And somehow I’ve become increasingly all right with it. My friends have gone on, since the last time I visited this subject in any depth, to have more children. And the children are adorable. But they scream shrilly and leak fluids and they break things and LAUGH about it. Which I am increasingly unable to cope well with.

I’ve managed to organize a general tranquility in my life. My apartment is utterly mine. I cook a lot and keep things tidy most of the time. I don’t have to ask someone else’s opinion on what I cook, watch, listen to, or bring in. I don’t have to worry about what might be destroyed or who might be hurt.

That plus the lack of selfish asshole drama and being able to go wherever I like without having to either make children arrangements or keep checking in with someone…it’s sort of liberating. And the more time trails by and my status quo doesn’t change, the more settled and happier I am with it.

In fact I occasionally think it would be extremely annoying if something were to happen that does change all that I have now.

But then I’m a little pissed that I haven’t been given any choice about it. It is how it is despite my best efforts, and while I may be lucky as hell in the eyes of my married friends, I still resent it. It’s less luck, I say, than a circumstance foisted upon me that I have learned to appreciate.

So part of me IS happy to be, I guess, free and independent. But there’s still a part of me that’s angry about it. And therefore I can’t completely give up on it.

Yet sometimes I wonder if I hold on to that old wish because I think I should. I’m supposed to want to have a husband and kids. Aren’t I? I shouldn’t be happy being a touchy spinster. Should I?

I swing between gratitude and resentment for my life, happy with my circumstance but unable to let completely go of the idea that maybe one day, a partner and kids would be nice.

I have SO MUCH I want to do that is contingent on how things are now. Five years between now and my self imposed deadline. I don’t know whether to hope that something interrupts the plan or pray that it doesn’t.

The problem is, I just haven’t felt like writing. Which is unfortunate because my streak of bad luck continued with my car, Zaphod, blowing up and dying on a busy highway two weeks ago.

So if we’re all counting, since April I have changed jobs, apartments, and cars. Oh, and I cut my hair. Well, that’s not so unusual, but whatever. The point is: change, so much change. I got a bit overwhelmed by all of it, finally, and slid into a deep funk for a few days. Exacerbated, as ever, by the arrival of the Festival of Roses and all its accompanying paralyzing pain and hormonal shifts.

I, my friends, have been a fucking party to be around. If you like parties with psychotic clowns, wilted flowers, mouldy snacks and GG Allin for ambient music. Just to top things off.

My grandparents came up to once again help me obtain a new car, so between feeling like an idiot for needing the help, the raging hormones, the fact that I’ve gained ten pounds since April, a problem with my rent, oh, this, that and the other…yes. It just…has sucked. I have been all weepy and angry and self-loathing and just, well, as I said, a party.

I finally forced myself out of the apartment to go dancing at the gym and once more ditched 95 percent of my junk food intake, so within a couple of days (plus the Festival ended) I was back to my normal slightly cynical but ultimately reasonable to be around self. Which was a relief to everyone who watches me go through these phases.

Now I am caught up in trying to tidy up the very literal mess left behind – these funks lead to me not doing laundry, or picking up after myself, or washing dishes, because it’s all I can do just to haul my mopey carcass out of bed, clean it, and send it to work. So THAT is some kind of fun right there. Fortunately I have developed this sense of dogged determination, so I am keeping at it and slowly unearthing the apartment of a normal person from under the pile.

HOWEVER. Let us put that behind.

I’ve been toying with the idea of a cooking blog for single people. Video, of course. I have known a lot of folks who are in the single and clueless demographic when it comes to cooking – they don’t know how to cook, they’re sort of afraid to learn because they think it’ll be complicated, so they live off of takeout and convenience crap. They expand their waistlines, raise their cholesterol levels, and contribute mightily to trash and garbage levels in landfills. And there’s no need for any of it.

I point the finger at myself, too – I left home at twenty, and it was five more years before I actually cooked something for dinner. I made meatloaf from scratch, and that set me on the path I walk today, which is that of avoiding the freezer section, shopping the outer perimeter of the store as much as possible, and limiting the amount of food that comes through my car window in a paper bag. I am not perfect, I still fall down (dinner tonight: tortilla chips), but I know I am in a better, more practical and self sustaining place than I was 13 years ago, and I want to sort of pass along some of the things that I have learned. I think there is interest, going by the comments and emails I get whenever I post a food blog. And there has been success when I do guide people in recreating some of my dishes.

Cooking does not have to be difficult or very time consuming, it’s fun and good for your wallet and your health when you do it right. I’m not proposing a healthnut show (I’d never get to bake cookies if I did, and that would just be tragic), just something to take the fear out of cooking. So that is on my mind. Quick, uncomplicated dishes to take the mystery out of feeding yourself something other than crap.

It has not escaped me that this would require me to keep the apartment tidy. Heheheh. Ulterior motives. Anyway, it’s an idea. Mostly I was inspired by Sandra Lee and her awful Semi Homemade show. I want to be the anti-Sandy. There will be no tablescapes here, just my slightly ratty fake flower arrangement in a twenty five cent yard sale vase.

Right. Anyway. Sorry about the lengthy absence. But I have at least popped back in, and perhaps I will be around more.

Here. To tide over, specks and spots and peeps into what I’ve been doing…

Jar of Hearts from Lissa Angeline on Vimeo.

Soon. Honestly. Soon.

Have you…

Shot a gun… No, don’t think so. Held one once, but never shot it.
Gone on a blind date… Eh, I think the closest I’ve gotten was the one I set up via OKCupid.
Skipped school… No. I am from a small town. Everyone knows my family. It would never have succeeded.
Been to Canada… No.
Been to Alaska… Yes! And I want to go back.
Been to Cuba…I am not really up to subterfuge and rafting, so no.
Been to Europe…No. Working on it. Next year, I hope.
Been to Las Vegas…Twice! Love that crazy town.
Been to Mexico…I drove past the border once.
Been to Florida…A few times.
Been to California…Flew over it once.
Been to Maine…No.
Been on a plane…Oh yes. Mercy me yes.
Been on a Cruise Ship… No, one day I might. I would like to.
Been on a one day Lake Cruise Ship…I was on a four hour wedding cruise on a lake once.
Served on a Jury…I have been summoned but haven’t served.
Been lost…Have you MET me?
Been on the opposite side of the country…I guess. I’ve lived in South Carolina and been to Alaska, and I’ve lived in Texas and lived in Wisconsin.
Gone to New York City…Not YET. I understand I have a standing booty call when I do.
Swam in the Ocean…Yes.
Cried yourself to sleep…Not as such. I always stop crying before I sleep.
Played Cops and Robbers…Yeah.
Played Cowboys and Indians…I think so.
Sang Karaoke…I ask again, have you MET me?
Paid for a meal with coins only…More than likely.
Made prank phone calls…Yes. Including the Prince Albert In A Can one.
Laughed until some beverage came out of your nose …I would imagine so.
Read the Bible completely through…Not all at once. But over time I think I have.
Caught a snowflake on your tongue…Yuppers.
Danced in the rain…Oh yes.
Written a letter to Santa Claus…Yep.
Been kissed under the mistletoe…No.
Watched the sunrise with someone…No.
Blown bubbles…Not LATELY…no wait I am lying. Yes.
Gone ice skating…Yes!
Gone skiing…HAHAHAAH NO.
Camped out under the stars…Yes. Nature is noisy.
Seen something so beautiful that it took your breath away…Yes, I frequently lose my breath over hooping videos.
Are or have been married…No. Doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me.
Have children…No, also apparently not in the cards.
Have / had a pet…Callisto, Wilhelmina, and Trilby, psychotic felines all.
Been skinny dipping outdoors…No.
Been fishing…Yes. Boring.
Been boating…Frequently.
Been water skiing…HAHAHAHAHA NO.
Been hiking…Yes.
Been camping in a trailer/RV… No, I am dumb and tent camp. Yech.
Flown in a small 4-seater airplane…I have been in a two seater. It was freaky.
Flown in a glider…I sort of want to.
Been flying in a helicopter…No.
Been flying in a hot air balloon… No, but I want to really bad!
Been BUNGEE-jumping… No, no, a thousand times fuck you no.
Gone to a drive-in movie…I don’t think so. But I would like to.
Done something that should have killed you…Yes. You are supposed to turn off the engine starter for a propeller plane before you disconnect it from the wing. I should rightfully been electrocuted. I lucked way out.
Done something that you will regret for the rest of your life…I never regret, I only resent.
Been to Africa… Nope.
Ever ride an elephant…No. Stinky.
Ever eaten just cookies for dinner…uh, yeah. And?
Ever been on T.V…Probably. Yes. A telethon.
Ever steal any traffic signs… No. ROAD TRIP!
Ever been in a car accident…Well, I wasn’t IN it but my apartment was.
Had a nickname…Yeah. And I don’t answer to it without casting filthy looks.
Name Ever been in the local paper…Yes.
Ever been to Asia…Yes! I want to go back!
Ever been to Australia… No. One day.
Been sky-diving…Oh no. No no no.
Favorite drink: Non-alcoholic…Sweet iced tea.
Tattoos… One, on my left ankle.
Do you drive a 4-door vehicle… Yes.
Favorite number…5.
Favorite holiday…Christmas.
Favorite dessert…Brussels cookies.

What? It’s true.

I had just fetched up my morning cup of tea and had even taken a few calls when my phone rang. I looked at the screen – an 817 number. Huh, I thought. I don’t recognize the number. It’s either Becca’s friend about my candle order, or, ha ha, the apartment complex is calling to tell me something awful happened to my apartment again.

I paused in the middle of taking a sip of tea. Gee. I hope it’s my candle order.

Mmm. Not so much.

I made it home in record time and without spilling a drop of tea. You could see the melee around my apartment from blocks away. Amazingly, I was pretty calm. Or at least not hysterical.

I think it is a testament to…something – My breeding? General temperament? Acceptance of my life as a British comedy featuring American actors? – that all I did was slam out of my car, stomp to the gathering of officers and officials, dump my purse on the ground and shriek “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK” at the top of my lungs.

I mean, I totally could have punched a bitch. And I really wanted to.

What basically happened – and this story changes depending on who the girl talked to – is that there was a domestic dispute that resulted in a high speed car chase through my complex and ultimately culminated in freshly ventilating my bedroom. The aspect that changes is WHY she ended up crashing through my wall. She told my upstairs neighbor that her boyfriend in the pursuing vehicle had rammed into her and sent her veering into said neighbor’s car (which is totalled) and then caroming off into my bedroom.

She told the police that her brakes or front tires had gone out. Nice.

The apartment complex had three people on site for me, and seriously, I cannot tell you how it pays to cultivate a good relationship with your landlords. In reviews of my complex, the office staff tend to come off as monsters, but they’ve never ever been anything but awesome to me. I’ve tried not to bug them or cause disturbances, and I’ve even brought thank you cookies to the accounting staff (who, if anything, get vilified more than anyone else in reviews, and again, I’ve never had an issue with them).

In return for my being a decent citizen, the first thing the office ladies said to me was, “We already have a new apartment for you. It’s bigger and you can have it for the same rate as this one.”

“Is it upstairs?” I responded shakily.

We all laughed.

And really, that’s all you can do. This is such a bizarre situation. Who gets a car through their bedroom wall outside of movies and sitcoms? Less than a month after a break-in, no less. Honestly. I have cried today, but I have laughed more.

It’s true that it could not have worked out more perfectly. An inch more to the right and the woman would have either hit the electrical boxes and started a fire, or taken out a load-bearing wall. If I were still at Hotels.com and therefore working nights, I would have still been in bed, asleep, never knowing what hit me. She didn’t hit my cats, though Callie is having an arthritis flare-up from running to escape the collision scene. My laptop was on an end table that got splintered, but ultimately survived with only a few smudges and a light coating of dust.

Yeah, all things considered, losing a bed I needed to replace and one end table out of five is really not bad at all. My poor upstairs neighbor has to get a whole new car.

We’ll be filing with the woman’s insurance, naturally. And I have already moved my poor traumatized cats into the new apartment. They’re adjusting as well as can be expected.

My apartment, my little nest…I will miss it. I loved it and it was a good place to hole up and heal. I needed it for that. But after the break-in, instead of deciding to move when my lease was up, I had decided to stay regardless of the break-in, even though I didn’t need to hide and nest anymore. I sort of think this was the universe’s way of kicking me out of stagnation.

And the larger apartment will come in handy this summer when Angela and I start up our hoop business. We didn’t know where we were going to store dozens of hoops, now we do.

I’d toyed with the idea of seeing if I could get one of the corner one-bedroom apartments, now I have one. It’s laid out like my old townhome, but without the upstairs. And it has so much light.

I had been procrastinating on saving up for a new bed, now I have to just get it done.

I’d been thinking of clearing my closets and sending stuff to Goodwill but never did anything; now I will have to go through everything as I pack, and yes, much of it will probably end up at Goodwill.

It just ended up working out, as awful as it was and could have been, it has worked out as well as anything like this could. Plus I have a pretty great party story, you have to admit.

It has not escaped my notice that I am taking this remarkably well, which I think is a definite sign of me being a completely changed person. I know a year ago this sort of thing would have flattened me. Now I’m just facepalming and moving on, because I can’t see any sense in doing anything else. It’s not the end of the world. For once.

I wanted a change. I got it. Let’s go.

Yeah. No shit.

More later.

It’s pretty clear that I’ve been a bad blogger. What I was thinking is that perhaps commenters could give me a word each – and I’m preemptively ignoring whatever Gawain tries to put in – and I’ll do a blog entry on each word.

I’ll give a week’s time to accept words, because I don’t know who all still trickles in here. Then I’ll either write an essay a day till they run out, or not. If there’s no interest.

It has to be a noun. That’s it. Just one noun – that can be found in the Oxford or Merriam Webster dictionaries – per person.

So, go!

Let us turn our attentions elsewhere. I promised this story weeks ago.

Lest you think I believe I have it easy, not having children…please, allow me to disabuse you of that notion.

Trilby will turn two this year, and her wall-climbing weirdness has not lessened. I actually believe it’s gotten much, much worse, and I have indeed got a case in point for you.

My beautiful, but dim (maybe I should start calling her Brittany) kitten has been the recipient of many baths in her young life, most of them directly related to the delight she would take in exploring the fireplace at my old townhome. Fairly understandably, she has come to hate them.

I do not hate baths. On the contrary, I adore them. My ultimate bathroom would have a double-wide and super deep tub with jets and an unlimited supply of my favorite Lush bath products. I stay in baths for hours, getting pruney, letting water in and out.

Until recently, I wasn’t allowing the cats in the bathroom because it was a mess and I didn’t want to deal with keeping them out of things. I’ve cleaned it up considerably since my mood’s improved, so this past weekend, I left the door open. The elder cats took this opportunity to wander in and out.

Trilby, however, stood in the doorway, clearly distressed. She would yowl at me piteously, crying louder whenever I turned on the tap to let more hot water in. It was entirely pathetic.

Were I to make the mistake of ducking my head into the water where she couldn’t see it, she would hop up on the side of the tub and scream in my face until I sat up again.

“What’s the matter, Noodle?” I asked, reaching out to pet her (Noodle is her nonsense nickname; all the cats have one. Callie is Koo-koo – as in Koo Koo Ka Joo, for she is indeed the walrus – and Mina is Meemers). She backed away and screeched angrily for a second before stepping forward again and contemplating my outstretched hand. Stretching her head forward a fraction of an inch, she sniffed at it with her little pink nose. Enormous blue eyes slid sideways to glance at me. “Rrrrreeeennnng?”

“That’s right, little bit. It’s okay. Come on in, I’ll pet you.” I pulled my hand back in order to dry it a little more on a towel.

To my surprise, she seemed to come to a decision; lurching forward, she grabbed the side of my hand in her teeth, tugging backward and snarling urgently. Apparently, I was failing to understand the dangers of getting wet, and she felt it was her civic duty to save me from myself.

“Ow. Trilby. Quit it.” I tried to snatch my hand back, but she was having none of it. As I watched incredulously, she dug her paws into the carpet and bit down harder on my hand, to the point where I didn’t know how I was going to extricate myself without losing a chunk of it.

“Ouuuungwoorrrrrlyrrrrlynnnngau,” explained my busy pet as she worked studiously to rescue me from the twin follies of hygiene and relaxation.

I leaned over the tub’s edge in an effort to keep from losing my pinkie finger to the batshit feline. “That’s really helpful, Trilby,” I yelped, half in my bathwater and half out the door. “Let go, letgoletgoletgoletthefuckgo! Ow! Shitcocking fuckweasels!”

I pulled one way, Trilby pulled the other, I swore a blue streak and she squealed irritatedly (Didn’t I know she was just trying to help? JEEZ) until finally I used my other hand to throw water directly at her face.

With an indignant quack, The Siamese Menace released my hand, turned (bob)tail and ran under my bed, where she sat chattering imprecations at me under her breath. Ignoring her, I examined my hand. To my amazement, apart from a pair of welts, there was no damage.

I glanced over at the space under my bed. A pair of slightly crossed blue eyes glared back at me. “Nnrrrrryorgle,” scolded the owner of the eyes, rather reproachfully.

“Just because you don’t like baths doesn’t mean I don’t, you insane thing,” I snapped. “Next time Timmy falls down a well, leave it.”

She was utterly unrepentant as she slunk out from under the bed and sauntered away to chew on a book. “Mneh,” she tossed back over her shoulder. It was clear she had decided that she was entirely in the right, and if I wasn’t going to heed her excellent advice, well, then she had better things to do.

Whoever coined the saying, “May you live in interesting times” needs to be dug up, resurrected, and shot.

Nothing was taken (they hit my neighbor first and cleaned her out, I guess they were really strapped for time when they hit me and realized quickly I have nothing of good value), and the cats are all fine.

But I’m not.

In broad daylight, someone kicked down my door and rummaged through my things. I just…Jesus. Who DOES that? And my door got fixed but what if they decide to come back later and get a better look?

This was my home, my safe haven, my little nest in the wake of all the horribleness with my ex. And now it’s been violated, my little sanctuary.

I’m so lucky, I know that. Luckier than my poor neighbor, who JUST moved in. But I don’t feel lucky, I feel stressed and worried and frightened.

On the other hand, I have a date Tuesday night.

So there’s that.

Yeah. Weirdest Monday ever.

Gonna try – TRY – to sleep. With my baseball bat in hand.