Winter is over

I'm going ahead and annoucing that winter is over here in Atlanta, even though I know this annoucement will come back and bite me in the ass. We never got our once-a-year snow day here this year; it was a winter of cold rains with no relief of having school or work closed because of ice. Still, when I stepped outside yesterday to the 69 degree bright and sunny day, the fruit trees were starting to bloom and there was the unmistakable air of spring about everything.

At my house we closed off the dark cold season with a horrible round of bronchitis. I was put on bed rest for three days and told that if I got dehydrated I'd end up in early labor, and so I was to drink a gallon of water every 12 hours. The husband stayed home with me to watch me worriedly as I faded in and out of nasty coughing spells and drugged sleep. We had to take my tempreture every hour or so to make sure I didn't get too hot for the baby. The husband ended up getting the same sickness himself, and is still at home in bed with the sweaty mess. Our baby was generally imprevious, rolling around in my stomach, annoyed by the change in daily routine sickness brought. A trip to the midwives Thursday night gave me the breifest of last ultrasound glimpses at the person who we'll meet at the end of the month. I saw only the top of my firstborn's head, and the midwife's sigh of relief:

"Plenty of water in there, and the baby's head is down. Look at that nice, round head!"

Strong heartbeat, lots of movement, and I had even managed to gain a pound despite sickness. The baby will be here in less than a month now, and I have become boring because I can write of little else. The husband worries a lot about delivery; I don't. I worry about bringing the baby home more than labor. Labor only lasts a number of hours. Having the baby home lasts 20 years or so, and the first bit is going to be the most challenging. Everything will be different, once again. Of course I am terrified and excited all at the same time.

Glitter Fabulous and Gone

Last month the Disco Diner closed here in Atlanta. It was one of those things I always thought about when I thought of this town - a strange purple and white A-frame sitting on the corner of North and Juniper, serving breakfast at all hours. A decade ago, this was Atlanta for me - driving down to shop for things you couldn't get in Nashville, watching drag and dancing at Backstreets, people watching at the Disco Diner. Atlanta always seemed to be a midnight place full of drunkeness and fun and greasy food, a place where the glitter fabulous from all over the South washed up at 4a.m. because, well, where else would you be at 4am? It's not like we had much by way of alternative; no, if you were from any of the four surrounding states, Atlanta was the midnight party destination you fought to find gas money for.

Sure, the techno/disco/glamrock Atlanta of a decade ago was pretty gay. Some of my friends were gay, but not the majority of us. We drove to the gay venues of Atlanta for the same reason our Grandparents drove here to go to black venues 50 years earlier. Because our own culture and clubs were boring as hell, and all the good artistic breakthroughs in a society happen in the margins of what is considered acceptable. I guess in 2006, where one of the top-grossing movies out is Brokeback Mountain, that it's just time the glitter-fabulous Atlanta moved on to that great party graveyard in the sky. Boys kissing on the dance floor can't be as thrilling to younger kids as it was to me; they've seen it all already. And I am soon to be thirty, and heavily pregnant. I'm not allowed to be edgy and cool anymore.

The Atlanta I knew from my young adulthood is gone. The laws passed a little over a year ago restricting bars and personal smoking habits in public places have closed Backstreets and, by extension, now the Disco Diner and a bunch of other places that catered to the after midnight crowd. Some venues have re-opened in The Underground, and maybe right now there's a younger version of me rhapsodizing about how wonderful Atlanta is after a night of partying there. I can devote a little time to eulogizing it here, but honestly, the baby kicks so much now that I can't even plan a farewell party for a time that I loved. Years ago, the death of glitter-fabulous would have been an occasion for a theme.

I should not complain about the city changing so much when I have changed as well. One of my core beliefs used to be "work hard, play harder", by which I meant that I would work on 10 hour, 12 hour workday binges for a couple of weeks at a stretch, and then crash for a few days or maybe even a week into a few days and nights of parties. This strategy got me great grades and a shiny Master's degree and I was happy for a while. But on this day last year - Valentine's Day, for chrissakes - I was in GoddamnMiami working instead of at home for my first Valentines with my new husband. I booked that business trip because I felt manipulated into it by a supervisor who thought Valentine's was a stupid day. And I remember sitting in a hotel room by myself wondering how I ended up in Miami, a city I hate more than any other, when I should have been at home curled around my husband. It was insane, the misplaced priorities of a workaholic. I will admit that the excesses of my glitter-fabulous times in Atlanta were destructive. But the alcohol, the weed, the excessive sex were all easy to give up as my body got older and started to object to rough treatment.

The excessive work? I have yet to entirely kick the habit. But I'm getting better now at saying no to projects that would increase my prestige but run me ragged. I will be home on time from work for Valentine's this year. The husband and I will go to a restaurant that we normally don't allow ourselves to afford, and I will be at home curled up with the love of my life by 10 pm. If my dreams are sprinkled with glitter dust and rememberances of hair dyes past, it is because I spent my younger days well, and I am glad I live here near where I have always been most happy.