you don't ever want to see "Dad cell" on your cell phone, because he never calls you. you assume something bad has happened to your mom, because she is The Communicator. When there are plans or questions or issues to be dealt with, you see "Mom Cell."
you don't ever want to answer that call, but you have to. then you have to hear that your mom is back in the hospital after what was promised to be a low-key gall bladder removal.
you don't want to hear the hint of ohgodohgod in your dad's voice when he tells you he's in a waiting room while Mom gets all kinds of tests run, and she won't be back in her room for at least an hour. you don't want to imagine your dad sitting in a hospital waiting room. you don't want to know that he's freaking out as calmly as he can, because Mom most likely will need another surgery and will have to stay in the hospital a few days.
your mom has never stayed in the hospital a few days. you are fucking terrified to see her in a hospital bed, because she's already tiny and you know she'll look even tinier.
you don't want to go tell your boss you'd like the rest of the day off because you're afraid you'll burst into tears when you tell him why. and you know you must tell him why.
you don't want to even put one toenail over the line of doubt that everything will be okay. everything has to be okay. your daddy has alzheimer's and your mom is a hero. your mom keeps everything together. you have a hard enough time believing she'll actually die one day, she's just that lively. you selfishly assume you couldn't possibly handle what she handles, what she has in front of her, because of what's happening inside your dad's brain.
you'll stop and get peach flowers on the way because that's what she loves.
you'll call your brother and request his presence because you can't do this alone, damnit. you suggest he bring his daughter because she will light up the room in ways flowers can't. he says he's already gone to pick her up.
family, you realize, becomes more important with every passing year.
7.25.2006
7.21.2006
think of me what you will, i'm keeping them
One year ago this week, twin sandwiches were born. They were born peanut butter & jelly on Wonder Bread. I'm pretty sure it was crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly, as those have been my ideal PB&J choices since I was a tot.
My sandwiches, they are one year old.
Meet my sandwiches!
My sandwiches, they are one year old.
Meet my sandwiches!
(Sorry about the blurriness. I was having a lighting issue
and this was the best shot of them all.)
The circumstances of these twins staying with me for a year go like this: I was told to bring my own food for a float trip. I had just moved back to St. Louis with Noel, just a handful of days prior to the float trip, and things were askew to say the least. PB&J sounded so manageable. So I made a bunch of PB&Js (yes, sadly, the twins were once sextuplets) and put them in the cooler which floated behind us the whole trip down the river.
Somehow they made it back into my car when we were unpacking the cooler at the end of the trip. Maybe I thought I'd be hungry on the way home. More likely the cooler's mommy didn't want my shit in there anymore. Either way, they ended up in a stash of nasty things, such as wet swimming shorts and sandals. Things you dump in the trunk to deal with later.
I will admit I didn't deal with them later. Well, okay, I did. Six months later. I happened upon a bag in the downstairs closet, the closet behind the door I never open, and in the bag I found pair of moldy sandals - really, really moldy - and the swim shorts, which were stinky and not worth saving for fear of perma-stink. Then I noticed the sandwich bag and thought oh shit, this is going to be naaasty. Imagine my surprise and immediate inclination to keep them, these...well, these wonder sandwiches.
Let us all ponder the wonder of Wonder bread. HOW. Why they aren't shooting Wonder Bread into women's pores is beyond me. These babies look exactly like they did a year ago - not a fleck of mold, just your typical PB&J-got-smushed oily soak-through.
Or is it the Ziplock bag? I thought even Ziplocks were semi-permeable. You can smell through them, so why wouldn't a smite of air get through too? The only noticeable difference is that the twins are very, very hard. (On the edges. The middle? Smooshy! Amazing!)
Anyway, my sandwiches are one year old this week and I'm keeping them. You knew I would. How could I not? It's an experiment at this point. I'm going to make them a soft bed in a shoebox and get them out once a year and see what's sprung up. If there's still a blog, there will be updates.
the storm, it was a-brewin'
For all of you readers who don't live in St. Louis (all two of you, is what I mean) allow me to dissect the little storm that we had, and when I say little I really mean Holy Shit! That's a storm!
It was called the closest thing to a hurricane the Midwest could ever experience. Yesterday I mentioned something about 60 mph winds, and it was actually more like 80 mph. It left over 400,000 people without power. There are only 3 million people in St. Louis! 1/6 is an enormous percentage. Ameren, the power company, said in a "normal" bad storm 100 towers "go down." In this particular storm, it was more like 400. Each of the towers provides 15,000 homes with power. That, my darlings, is a major power outage, and it's not expected to be entirely fixed for another 4-5 days.
And thus, PANDELIRIUM! if I may be so bold as to quote Jeff Foxworthy.
Because 100 degree weather doesn't mesh so well with nearly 1/2 a million people without power. People with pets who get hot too. People with elderly relatives who can't use their AC, their fans, and most troublesome, their phones.
Last night while driving home from celebrating SH's birthday, I got a little spooked. There simply weren't any lights on, anywhere. South City was hit the hardest as far as outages and property damage. The sidewalks were filled with people with nowhere to go. Hot outside but hotter inside, so naturally they all came out in foul moods, hungry, stressed out, and did I mention HOT?
A group of us went out to dinner only to find the restaurant had a party of 30. The next restaurant, reached 20 minutes later because traffic signals were out, was arrived at by mistake. We thought we were in a different restaurant, a much, much cheaper restaurant. OOPS! So we left with a smidgen of shame after having sat for 10 minutes already. We got to the right restaurant and it was packed. The birthday girl suggested we all go get McDonald's and bring it back to the house so we could get to the game playing and cupcake-gobbling.
I shit not - it took 45 minutes to get back to their house. Every traffic light was out. Every single fucking drive-thru was longer than it would be even at 12-1pm when everyone is on lunch. No one could eat the food at home because at that point their food was either spoiled or they were too afraid to open the fridge because every last whiff of cold air in there should stay in there.
Did I mention that somehow Micah and I didn't lose power? It was a freak of nature thing. Our block was the only block within miles that had power. The entire strip of South Grand was black. I don't understand why businesses weren't getting looted right and left, but perhaps people just haven't reached their boiling points yet. Or maybe, just maybe, people can be decent.
Still didn't keep the streets from feeling weird. Like apocolypse weird. There's a ridiculous amount of damage to the trees, and some major buildings (including the airport) lost chunks, if not entire sections, of roof. Every single street is littered with branches and debris. Our beloved neighborhood park makes me want to cry it's so jacked up. And I've seen at least 10 of these within just a few miles of home:
It was called the closest thing to a hurricane the Midwest could ever experience. Yesterday I mentioned something about 60 mph winds, and it was actually more like 80 mph. It left over 400,000 people without power. There are only 3 million people in St. Louis! 1/6 is an enormous percentage. Ameren, the power company, said in a "normal" bad storm 100 towers "go down." In this particular storm, it was more like 400. Each of the towers provides 15,000 homes with power. That, my darlings, is a major power outage, and it's not expected to be entirely fixed for another 4-5 days.
And thus, PANDELIRIUM! if I may be so bold as to quote Jeff Foxworthy.
Because 100 degree weather doesn't mesh so well with nearly 1/2 a million people without power. People with pets who get hot too. People with elderly relatives who can't use their AC, their fans, and most troublesome, their phones.
Last night while driving home from celebrating SH's birthday, I got a little spooked. There simply weren't any lights on, anywhere. South City was hit the hardest as far as outages and property damage. The sidewalks were filled with people with nowhere to go. Hot outside but hotter inside, so naturally they all came out in foul moods, hungry, stressed out, and did I mention HOT?
A group of us went out to dinner only to find the restaurant had a party of 30. The next restaurant, reached 20 minutes later because traffic signals were out, was arrived at by mistake. We thought we were in a different restaurant, a much, much cheaper restaurant. OOPS! So we left with a smidgen of shame after having sat for 10 minutes already. We got to the right restaurant and it was packed. The birthday girl suggested we all go get McDonald's and bring it back to the house so we could get to the game playing and cupcake-gobbling.
I shit not - it took 45 minutes to get back to their house. Every traffic light was out. Every single fucking drive-thru was longer than it would be even at 12-1pm when everyone is on lunch. No one could eat the food at home because at that point their food was either spoiled or they were too afraid to open the fridge because every last whiff of cold air in there should stay in there.
Did I mention that somehow Micah and I didn't lose power? It was a freak of nature thing. Our block was the only block within miles that had power. The entire strip of South Grand was black. I don't understand why businesses weren't getting looted right and left, but perhaps people just haven't reached their boiling points yet. Or maybe, just maybe, people can be decent.
Still didn't keep the streets from feeling weird. Like apocolypse weird. There's a ridiculous amount of damage to the trees, and some major buildings (including the airport) lost chunks, if not entire sections, of roof. Every single street is littered with branches and debris. Our beloved neighborhood park makes me want to cry it's so jacked up. And I've seen at least 10 of these within just a few miles of home:
And every single one of them has a baby in a yellow buggy! Weird, right? They are National Guardsbabies. They start their training young. It takes many years to raise a good hero. I'm pretty sure that's what the National Guard does - look heroic. Because when they are called in, something really shitty happened in your town, and that's when you need a hero. (Also, millions of dollars to clean it up.)
Can we talk for a moment about the proper procedure when one reaches a four-way stop, which is just about every block in this town before the power outages? Apparently the people in this town need a little refresher. We already have little to no respect for anything telling us to STOP, so I think it's time for an intervention. Now how do I get all 3 million people to read this blog...?
Some DOs and DON'Ts For Four-way Stops:
(mostly don'ts, let's be real)
--> DON'T be messin' with your radio when you're up to bat. We don't have time for that. Pay attention.
--> DON'T zoom ahead after the person you're behind because you know you can get away with it if you cram far enough up that car's ass. This is not Noah's fucking Ark.
--> DO watch for who is already stopped when you are at the front of the line. In fact, if you want a shiny gold star sticker, keep tabs on who is where when you are three cars back. Progressive, I know.
--> DON'T wait for someone like me to get pissed. I will direct traffic, and I won't feel bad about it, because I've realized people actually move when I tell them too when I lay on my horn and flail my arms, because YOUR FUCKING TURN, ASSHOLE is the same in every language.
--> DO realize that the most efficient way to get through an intersection is if all the north and south facing people move at the same time, followed by all the east and west. Two simple moves! North and south! GO! East and west! GO!
--> DON'T sit there with your mouth hanging open, inching ever so much further, inchy inchy bo-binchy, until you're halfway through the intersection. If you're going to disregard the pattern, you'd better haul some fucking ass.
At least people actually started stopping at the blacked-out lights. During the first 12 hours or so post-storm, before the portable stop signs are put up, I really think most folks just cruise right through because their automatic pilots don't see a red light. No red light? Must be green, even if I can't see it for some reason right now!
I apologize if the lecture is unneeded. I'm stewing over the fact that it took me thirty minutes of my lunch break to get to my bank, the farther away bank because the first still doesn't have power. I sat in 1/2 mile back-ups at unlit lights only to arrive at the bank believing in the power of thinking rapid positive thoughts, rapid to the point of brain-curdle: pleaselettherebepowerpleaselettherebepower...pleaselet...pleaselet...FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK! Storm is NO LONGER INTERESTING!
I'm done. Class dismissed. Please don't tell your mommy how much I used the word fuck.
7.20.2006
fights, storms, and nightmares! tra-la!
Last night was the shittiest night I've had in a very long time. WOO!
First, the fight. Yep, Micah and I were not happy with each other for a solid 4 hours yesterday. It all started when I came home from work and immediately started cleaning the other window AC unit, the one I decided we must start using RIGHT NOW. Micah, on the other hand, was extremely tired. Yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far, and he worked outside in it from 6:30am until 3:00pm. He was totally spent and in a crabby mood, and rightfully so.
He started complaining about how expensive the rent was for such an inefficient place. I was still feeling bad about signing us up for another year, which only made me more gung-ho about getting that fucking unit in the window and creating an igloo for us in the living room. I wanted to show him it didn't have to be so hot. He did NOT want to help me. I only needed his help actually getting the unit in the window, which he did, but he was so negative. Every word that came out of his mouth was drenched with venom, not directed at me, I guess, but more the situation. I was not helping this cause, because I started getting really tired of the negativity and I kind of just started smiling and being nice, trying to diffuse his temper by pretending it didn't bother me, which totally backfired on me. He soon began to think I just didn't care. At all. You don't care that we pay too much. You don't care that I'm tired.
Oh, I care. I'm the one who negotiated the rent down $50 a month. I'm the one spending hours after getting home from work (the most precious time of the day) cleaning that hair-filled AC unit with a butter knife and tweezers, followed by applying plastic over the window with SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE so no hot breeze comes through. And the tired thing? What else am I supposed to do other than offer you food and say Baby, I'm so sorry you're tired. It must be really shitty working outside in that weather. I think about you all day and hope you're doing okay. WHICH IS WHAT I SAID. TWICE. I know this is going to sound trite because not everything should boil down to when you were born, but FUCKING CANCERS, man! The moodiness abounds!
Well. Somehow I get past the sticky negativity without blowing my top and manage to form the igloo, which involved: nailing a blanket over the door-less doorway; pulling the wonky retractable door from it's secret hideaway, closing the massive front window which included Micah struggling mightily with the ancient storm window; the ugly plastic curtain pulled from the depths of the junk closet and jerry-rigged back into place; and weather-proofing all around the AC unit with plastic and said SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE) and I'm feeling very satisfied. The AC unit (can we call him Fred?) is pumping hard, but he's got a lot of hard work ahead of him. Fred's got moldy breath, which scares me, but I figure I just flossed him and what he needs is to be left alone while the fresh breezes blow through him.
Suddenly, there are 60-degree winds bending our neighborhood in half. Our backyard is filling up with tree debris and the gutter flies completely off the building, looking like a ballerina pirouetting dizzily until she falls into the arms of the man-tree. The grass mats I hung for privacy are shredded. The fake plants I bought and then discarded because they looked uglier at home are nowhere to be seen, and I could care less. In the distance I can hear things falling, crashing into other things, and I run inside with glee when the tree in our backyard touches the building, something it can't normally do. Glee? Totally. I fucking love storms. And if a tree fell on my car? I wouldn't cry. I'd take pictures, and then go shopping for a new car.
The 60 mph winds made Micah realize we didn't need to use Fred anymore. We should open the windows again and let some of that chilly air in, Gabby! It sounded rational, sure, except I'd just essentially wasted those hours of getting Fred ready and battoning down the hatches. I knew he had a point - why pay for Fred to run when you can get Mother Nature's whore-ass for free? - but it still completely pissed me off when Micah started undoing my igloo, right down to struggling mightily once more with the storm windows, which he bitched about the whole way through. Isn't there someone who comes and does this? Isn't that why we RENT?
Yes baby, it is, but it's a matter of not wanting to wait two days for some half-wit maintenance guy to show up when you can obviously do it faster yourself.
He knew right away that I was upset. He said I'm sorry I took down everything you put up. To which I replied with the most passive-aggressive answer on the face of the earth: I'm sorry you took it down, too.
So then he put it all back up. And I waltzed in and said what are you doing?! The wind is really cold! at which point we ceased talking completely. We were both past being civil and wisely just shut the fuck up.
Then, while Micah was in the shower, I hear someone yelling his name outside. It's Micah's brother, who has never dropped by unannounced before, but he was in the neighborhood. He was like some sort of angel, albeit a beer-bellied one a few teeth short of a full grill. But then we were able to sit and not talk to each other and be okay with it, 'cause C was distracting us. Ten minutes into his visit Micah waves a little at me to get my attention and he tilts his head at me with a tiny smile as if to say can we be done now? I miss you. And I smile back because I'm done too.
EXCEPT NOT. Because as soon as C leaves, Micah will barely talk to me again. But now I have ceased caring. I'm so TIRED he says. THEN GO TO BED ALREADY! I snap. Because if he tells me he's tired one more time...
We go to bed together, amazingly. It's frigid in the bedroom and I start to feel nicer. I reach out to Micah, he'll barely look at me. Why is it so hard for him to break his moodiness? It's like smiling at me would be admitting defeat in whatever little fucked up battle he's having in his head. I curl my arm around his and cuddle for a moment, which is as intimate as I was willing to be, and then shortly after turned over and fell asleep, conflict not quite resolved but scabbed over, at least. I realized that throughout the entire night of bickering I didn't once think that maybe he wasn't the person I thought he was, that maybe I misjudged him and that I didn't like what was finally coming out, which has always been a theme when I'm involved in a fight with a boyfriend. Not once did I think he wasn't worth it. Because I know the decency and glee that man contains, and I know the bitch I entertain. Everyone has a beast.
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Re: the nightmare I had last night
Dear Ex-boyfriend #1:
It's been seven years since you came along and ruined my life, and six years since you came to my apartment and made me hate you more than I have ever hated anyone. I saw you on the highway once, after the fact. You noticed my car and drove next to me long enough for me to notice someone was intentionally keeping pace with me. When I finally looked over to see who it was, you waved at me and smiled. Like nothing had ever happened. Like the restraining order did not exist. If I'd had my wits about me I would have at least turned my middle finger up at you, but at that moment I could barely breath, you scared my lungs into stillness, and all I could do was turn my head back like you didn't exist and keep driving, scrambling to recall where the closest police station was, prepared to drive right to it. Thankfully, you got off the highway.
I dream about you. Rather, you are the star of my nightmares. I didn't dream about you at all for a long time, and then suddenly you were there on a semi-regular basis, probably once a month. Then the dreams were gone. The last dream I remember having about you (before last night, that is) things were remarkably peaceful. I wasn't running from you. I was walking next to you and we were talking. I thought this was a huge step for me, an indication that I was at peace with what you did to me and no longer felt afraid. See, I never had any therapy after what you did to me, and I should have. I never worked it out. I thought I was doing so well after going through such a thing, the most terrifying thing in my life. After last night, I'm not so sure.
I dreamt I was in my car in a small parking lot. I saw you. You were walking towards my car and I backed up for some reason, I guess it was the only way for me to get out of the lot. I was about to slam my foot on the gas and get the hell away from you but you pulled out a gun and aimed it at me. We were right in front of a hotel and you demanded I go inside with you. I thought you were going to rape me, possibly kill me, because you never put the gun away.
We sat on the bed and you told me that you still love me. You've loved me all these years and you don't know how to get over me. You said you really wanted to have sex with me. You never let go of the gun. I knew I had to get away from you, but I was afraid of you. So I did what I did after you did what you did six years ago - I told you I loved you and no, I wasn't mad at you, and everything would be okay. Anything to make you calm down. Anything to get away.
I don't exactly recall now, some six hours after waking from that nightmare, but I think you might have gone into the bathroom and I snuck out. I remember walking past two hotel maids, thinking what if they go tell him I left? what if he follows me?!
I got away. I drove to my coffeehouse, which didn't look anything like my coffeehouse, and I started looking for Micah. He's my new boyfriend, the man I want to marry, the antithesis of you; he's the greatest thing that has happened to me, whereas you were the absolute worst. I couldn't find Micah. You made me lose track of him. I wandered along strange-looking streets, peering into my friends' apartments, seeing them sitting inside, and not wanting to disturb them in my quest to find you. I knew they didn't know where Micah was.
Then I woke up. I have never woken up and cried after a nightmare, but I did last night. My sobbing woke Micah and I told him what happened and he wrapped his arm tightly around me and told me it was okay. Just a nightmare. I was safe with him and nothing would happen to me.
I don't know what I have to do to get rid of you. I have always been a person who isn't terribly ashamed of my mistakes because I always learned a valuable lesson. Even if it has to be the hard way, I still learn. But you? I am entirely ashamed of you. I am ashamed of who I became when I was with you; someone addicted, greedy, selfish, repulsive and deceitful. You were so kind at first, gentle with your words and touches. I saw you morph into a monster and had the sense to get away. What you did to me was both the worst and best thing that could've happened, because the drugs were no longer a possibility when you stopped being one.
I'd like to say I'm done with you, I won't think of you, but I know that's not realistic. I know I probably dreamt of you last night because of the rough evening I'd had. I'd spent the evening arguing, a terrible storm blew through, and I went to sleep with unresolved anger, which is something I am very much against. I broke my own rule about going to bed angry. You pop up when shit is going wrong, because you are (and always will be) the representation of Shit Going Wrong, and you must be deeply entrenched in my subconcious at this point.
Basically? Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You are fucking pathetic. Getting away from you was hard, so hard, but hating you is the easiest thing I've ever done. And I'll do it forever. If you ever see me again you can be sure I won't turn my head and keep driving. All I can do is hope karma does its dirty job. I should've known not to mess with you when I found out you'd been shot in the face, because people don't get shot at 3:00am on their own doorstep because they didn't do anything. I'm sorry he missed. Sorry your doctors were so good.
Worst,
G
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On a far less melodramatic note, Happy Birthday, Shelly! You are such a great friend and even if you'd rather not, you always listen and give honest advice. You'll always be my favorite Spades partner!
(Shouldn't go to bed angry, shouldn't leave a blog angry.)
First, the fight. Yep, Micah and I were not happy with each other for a solid 4 hours yesterday. It all started when I came home from work and immediately started cleaning the other window AC unit, the one I decided we must start using RIGHT NOW. Micah, on the other hand, was extremely tired. Yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far, and he worked outside in it from 6:30am until 3:00pm. He was totally spent and in a crabby mood, and rightfully so.
He started complaining about how expensive the rent was for such an inefficient place. I was still feeling bad about signing us up for another year, which only made me more gung-ho about getting that fucking unit in the window and creating an igloo for us in the living room. I wanted to show him it didn't have to be so hot. He did NOT want to help me. I only needed his help actually getting the unit in the window, which he did, but he was so negative. Every word that came out of his mouth was drenched with venom, not directed at me, I guess, but more the situation. I was not helping this cause, because I started getting really tired of the negativity and I kind of just started smiling and being nice, trying to diffuse his temper by pretending it didn't bother me, which totally backfired on me. He soon began to think I just didn't care. At all. You don't care that we pay too much. You don't care that I'm tired.
Oh, I care. I'm the one who negotiated the rent down $50 a month. I'm the one spending hours after getting home from work (the most precious time of the day) cleaning that hair-filled AC unit with a butter knife and tweezers, followed by applying plastic over the window with SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE so no hot breeze comes through. And the tired thing? What else am I supposed to do other than offer you food and say Baby, I'm so sorry you're tired. It must be really shitty working outside in that weather. I think about you all day and hope you're doing okay. WHICH IS WHAT I SAID. TWICE. I know this is going to sound trite because not everything should boil down to when you were born, but FUCKING CANCERS, man! The moodiness abounds!
Well. Somehow I get past the sticky negativity without blowing my top and manage to form the igloo, which involved: nailing a blanket over the door-less doorway; pulling the wonky retractable door from it's secret hideaway, closing the massive front window which included Micah struggling mightily with the ancient storm window; the ugly plastic curtain pulled from the depths of the junk closet and jerry-rigged back into place; and weather-proofing all around the AC unit with plastic and said SCOTCH FUCKING TAPE) and I'm feeling very satisfied. The AC unit (can we call him Fred?) is pumping hard, but he's got a lot of hard work ahead of him. Fred's got moldy breath, which scares me, but I figure I just flossed him and what he needs is to be left alone while the fresh breezes blow through him.
Suddenly, there are 60-degree winds bending our neighborhood in half. Our backyard is filling up with tree debris and the gutter flies completely off the building, looking like a ballerina pirouetting dizzily until she falls into the arms of the man-tree. The grass mats I hung for privacy are shredded. The fake plants I bought and then discarded because they looked uglier at home are nowhere to be seen, and I could care less. In the distance I can hear things falling, crashing into other things, and I run inside with glee when the tree in our backyard touches the building, something it can't normally do. Glee? Totally. I fucking love storms. And if a tree fell on my car? I wouldn't cry. I'd take pictures, and then go shopping for a new car.
The 60 mph winds made Micah realize we didn't need to use Fred anymore. We should open the windows again and let some of that chilly air in, Gabby! It sounded rational, sure, except I'd just essentially wasted those hours of getting Fred ready and battoning down the hatches. I knew he had a point - why pay for Fred to run when you can get Mother Nature's whore-ass for free? - but it still completely pissed me off when Micah started undoing my igloo, right down to struggling mightily once more with the storm windows, which he bitched about the whole way through. Isn't there someone who comes and does this? Isn't that why we RENT?
Yes baby, it is, but it's a matter of not wanting to wait two days for some half-wit maintenance guy to show up when you can obviously do it faster yourself.
He knew right away that I was upset. He said I'm sorry I took down everything you put up. To which I replied with the most passive-aggressive answer on the face of the earth: I'm sorry you took it down, too.
So then he put it all back up. And I waltzed in and said what are you doing?! The wind is really cold! at which point we ceased talking completely. We were both past being civil and wisely just shut the fuck up.
Then, while Micah was in the shower, I hear someone yelling his name outside. It's Micah's brother, who has never dropped by unannounced before, but he was in the neighborhood. He was like some sort of angel, albeit a beer-bellied one a few teeth short of a full grill. But then we were able to sit and not talk to each other and be okay with it, 'cause C was distracting us. Ten minutes into his visit Micah waves a little at me to get my attention and he tilts his head at me with a tiny smile as if to say can we be done now? I miss you. And I smile back because I'm done too.
EXCEPT NOT. Because as soon as C leaves, Micah will barely talk to me again. But now I have ceased caring. I'm so TIRED he says. THEN GO TO BED ALREADY! I snap. Because if he tells me he's tired one more time...
We go to bed together, amazingly. It's frigid in the bedroom and I start to feel nicer. I reach out to Micah, he'll barely look at me. Why is it so hard for him to break his moodiness? It's like smiling at me would be admitting defeat in whatever little fucked up battle he's having in his head. I curl my arm around his and cuddle for a moment, which is as intimate as I was willing to be, and then shortly after turned over and fell asleep, conflict not quite resolved but scabbed over, at least. I realized that throughout the entire night of bickering I didn't once think that maybe he wasn't the person I thought he was, that maybe I misjudged him and that I didn't like what was finally coming out, which has always been a theme when I'm involved in a fight with a boyfriend. Not once did I think he wasn't worth it. Because I know the decency and glee that man contains, and I know the bitch I entertain. Everyone has a beast.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Re: the nightmare I had last night
Dear Ex-boyfriend #1:
It's been seven years since you came along and ruined my life, and six years since you came to my apartment and made me hate you more than I have ever hated anyone. I saw you on the highway once, after the fact. You noticed my car and drove next to me long enough for me to notice someone was intentionally keeping pace with me. When I finally looked over to see who it was, you waved at me and smiled. Like nothing had ever happened. Like the restraining order did not exist. If I'd had my wits about me I would have at least turned my middle finger up at you, but at that moment I could barely breath, you scared my lungs into stillness, and all I could do was turn my head back like you didn't exist and keep driving, scrambling to recall where the closest police station was, prepared to drive right to it. Thankfully, you got off the highway.
I dream about you. Rather, you are the star of my nightmares. I didn't dream about you at all for a long time, and then suddenly you were there on a semi-regular basis, probably once a month. Then the dreams were gone. The last dream I remember having about you (before last night, that is) things were remarkably peaceful. I wasn't running from you. I was walking next to you and we were talking. I thought this was a huge step for me, an indication that I was at peace with what you did to me and no longer felt afraid. See, I never had any therapy after what you did to me, and I should have. I never worked it out. I thought I was doing so well after going through such a thing, the most terrifying thing in my life. After last night, I'm not so sure.
I dreamt I was in my car in a small parking lot. I saw you. You were walking towards my car and I backed up for some reason, I guess it was the only way for me to get out of the lot. I was about to slam my foot on the gas and get the hell away from you but you pulled out a gun and aimed it at me. We were right in front of a hotel and you demanded I go inside with you. I thought you were going to rape me, possibly kill me, because you never put the gun away.
We sat on the bed and you told me that you still love me. You've loved me all these years and you don't know how to get over me. You said you really wanted to have sex with me. You never let go of the gun. I knew I had to get away from you, but I was afraid of you. So I did what I did after you did what you did six years ago - I told you I loved you and no, I wasn't mad at you, and everything would be okay. Anything to make you calm down. Anything to get away.
I don't exactly recall now, some six hours after waking from that nightmare, but I think you might have gone into the bathroom and I snuck out. I remember walking past two hotel maids, thinking what if they go tell him I left? what if he follows me?!
I got away. I drove to my coffeehouse, which didn't look anything like my coffeehouse, and I started looking for Micah. He's my new boyfriend, the man I want to marry, the antithesis of you; he's the greatest thing that has happened to me, whereas you were the absolute worst. I couldn't find Micah. You made me lose track of him. I wandered along strange-looking streets, peering into my friends' apartments, seeing them sitting inside, and not wanting to disturb them in my quest to find you. I knew they didn't know where Micah was.
Then I woke up. I have never woken up and cried after a nightmare, but I did last night. My sobbing woke Micah and I told him what happened and he wrapped his arm tightly around me and told me it was okay. Just a nightmare. I was safe with him and nothing would happen to me.
I don't know what I have to do to get rid of you. I have always been a person who isn't terribly ashamed of my mistakes because I always learned a valuable lesson. Even if it has to be the hard way, I still learn. But you? I am entirely ashamed of you. I am ashamed of who I became when I was with you; someone addicted, greedy, selfish, repulsive and deceitful. You were so kind at first, gentle with your words and touches. I saw you morph into a monster and had the sense to get away. What you did to me was both the worst and best thing that could've happened, because the drugs were no longer a possibility when you stopped being one.
I'd like to say I'm done with you, I won't think of you, but I know that's not realistic. I know I probably dreamt of you last night because of the rough evening I'd had. I'd spent the evening arguing, a terrible storm blew through, and I went to sleep with unresolved anger, which is something I am very much against. I broke my own rule about going to bed angry. You pop up when shit is going wrong, because you are (and always will be) the representation of Shit Going Wrong, and you must be deeply entrenched in my subconcious at this point.
Basically? Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You are fucking pathetic. Getting away from you was hard, so hard, but hating you is the easiest thing I've ever done. And I'll do it forever. If you ever see me again you can be sure I won't turn my head and keep driving. All I can do is hope karma does its dirty job. I should've known not to mess with you when I found out you'd been shot in the face, because people don't get shot at 3:00am on their own doorstep because they didn't do anything. I'm sorry he missed. Sorry your doctors were so good.
Worst,
G
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On a far less melodramatic note, Happy Birthday, Shelly! You are such a great friend and even if you'd rather not, you always listen and give honest advice. You'll always be my favorite Spades partner!
(Shouldn't go to bed angry, shouldn't leave a blog angry.)
7.16.2006
back in Motherfuckinghotville
OH MY GOD.
Today is exactly why I hate summer. It is 99 degrees with a heat index of 105. How could anyone possibly enjoy summer? There are exactly three reasons to like summer, whereas I can think of at least 10 for fall, winter, and spring each.
1) Popsicles
2) swimming
3) the Summer Olympics - and that only happens every four fucking summers!
I can't think of anything except how I want to go swimming. I pretty much think that every second of every moment I'm at home or forced to walk more than ten steps outside. I've suggested once or twice to Micah that we should move into the bedroom completely. Cut the cats a door so they can get in and out, put a mini-fridge on his Home Depot credit card and set that bad boy up in the closet, and possibly even learn some tasty crockpot recipes. WE COULD DO IT!
Or, you know, we could have moved instead of signing another lease. I knew this was coming. I know it's way too expensive to run two AC units. I know we have horribly inefficient windows and trying to cool down the connected and giant living and dining rooms would have laughable results. But dang it, I LOVE this apartment. Also, I've moved 10 times in 9 years and I would like a break. However. I will never make this mistake again. Gigantic dark wood columns and beams and lovely stained glass windows are not a good trade for central air. My big bad.
My general malaise is probably related to coming home from the conference. It ended up being mostly a vacation. As I said previously, I love hotels and if I'm in one, it means I'm not home. Not home means vacation, even if it involves getting up at 6:30 to shower and be on time for the meetings I had to attend. At the end of each day I still got to come back to the hotel (which I called "home" several times, as in "let's just go home and order room service") and hang out with Micah in a room with a thermostat. Oh, and the swimming possibilities were endless.
The best part was the weather. We giggled as we listened to the meteorologists on the local news talk about taking precautions because it was so hot - 86! - and go on and on about the terrible humidity. Ignorance is bliss, obviously.
Sandusky, OH, is on Lake Erie. There's always a breeze. We also witnessed some fantastic storms. We sat on our balcony wrapped in towels after returning from swimming, smoking cigarettes and marveling at how we could barely see the other side of the parking lot it was raining so hard. Beautiful.
Alas, we are home, and all the sweatier for it. The bedroom is shut up nice and tight with the AC pumping in preparation for the meltdown. There is always a meltdown.
I'm going to go put some fresh batteries in my camera and see what I came away with. Unfortunately I didn't take as many pictures as I wanted, most likely a direct effect of being so goddamn lazy and cold. I got to be cold in July! Because thermostats go below 60 degrees!
I wanna go back.
Today is exactly why I hate summer. It is 99 degrees with a heat index of 105. How could anyone possibly enjoy summer? There are exactly three reasons to like summer, whereas I can think of at least 10 for fall, winter, and spring each.
1) Popsicles
2) swimming
3) the Summer Olympics - and that only happens every four fucking summers!
I can't think of anything except how I want to go swimming. I pretty much think that every second of every moment I'm at home or forced to walk more than ten steps outside. I've suggested once or twice to Micah that we should move into the bedroom completely. Cut the cats a door so they can get in and out, put a mini-fridge on his Home Depot credit card and set that bad boy up in the closet, and possibly even learn some tasty crockpot recipes. WE COULD DO IT!
Or, you know, we could have moved instead of signing another lease. I knew this was coming. I know it's way too expensive to run two AC units. I know we have horribly inefficient windows and trying to cool down the connected and giant living and dining rooms would have laughable results. But dang it, I LOVE this apartment. Also, I've moved 10 times in 9 years and I would like a break. However. I will never make this mistake again. Gigantic dark wood columns and beams and lovely stained glass windows are not a good trade for central air. My big bad.
My general malaise is probably related to coming home from the conference. It ended up being mostly a vacation. As I said previously, I love hotels and if I'm in one, it means I'm not home. Not home means vacation, even if it involves getting up at 6:30 to shower and be on time for the meetings I had to attend. At the end of each day I still got to come back to the hotel (which I called "home" several times, as in "let's just go home and order room service") and hang out with Micah in a room with a thermostat. Oh, and the swimming possibilities were endless.
The best part was the weather. We giggled as we listened to the meteorologists on the local news talk about taking precautions because it was so hot - 86! - and go on and on about the terrible humidity. Ignorance is bliss, obviously.
Sandusky, OH, is on Lake Erie. There's always a breeze. We also witnessed some fantastic storms. We sat on our balcony wrapped in towels after returning from swimming, smoking cigarettes and marveling at how we could barely see the other side of the parking lot it was raining so hard. Beautiful.
Alas, we are home, and all the sweatier for it. The bedroom is shut up nice and tight with the AC pumping in preparation for the meltdown. There is always a meltdown.
I'm going to go put some fresh batteries in my camera and see what I came away with. Unfortunately I didn't take as many pictures as I wanted, most likely a direct effect of being so goddamn lazy and cold. I got to be cold in July! Because thermostats go below 60 degrees!
I wanna go back.
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