I met LJ's new girlfriend today, I think.
("You THINK? That's the best you can do--'I think'? What's THAT about?" Well, he said something when he told me who was coming to town with him about "cousin's girl" or some tenuous connection--but who refers to their cousin's girl as "babe"? hmmmmm...)
Anyway: I met LJ's new girlfriend today, I think.
She looks almost exactly like me, except with more tattoos and piercings, and (if possible) even rattier-around-the-edges. (My mother would probably sacrifice years of her life in exchange for the ability to force this girl to get a haircut, were they ever to meet.)
But otherwise: she's a short fat white girl, mid-30's, with long brown hair, questionable fashion sense, and a way of carrying herself which hints at compromised self-esteem. Outside, looking at her car (which she's loaning to me for a couple of weeks, at LJ's behest) we looked like good twin/bad twin.
It says a lot, I think, that I find this whole "coincidence" hugely entertaining--and confirms my suspicions that this was probably the best breakup ever. This is the first time I've ever been so okay with not-being-with-someone that I can meet their new girl and not hate either of them even a little. (...thinks back through major relationships...okay, #1 is married, and I'm jealous a little; #2, who cares--I don't even like HIM; #3 was JP; #4 isn't hetero anymore; #5 was CR and again--I PITY his girl more than anything, but I hated the chick he left me for; I don't know what happened to #6, but I wish him well; and LJ was #7.) So yeah--with the exception of #6, I have SOME negativity toward either the new girl or the old guy. I think that's pretty normal...isn't it?)
They left me the keys, then headed back to wherever-they-came-from, in my (MY!!) truck. I told them to be careful on their way back, and thought again: This is not so bad.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
This Made Me Cry.
(The poet in this story, Donna Humphrey, was the mother of federal judge Joan Lefkow. Lefkow's husband and her mother were killed by a man whose suit had been decided unfavorably by Lefkow.
If you're not familiar with the story, here are some articles about the Lefkow murders... one two three four.
It's a very sad story to begin with. And to me, a repressed ex-poet myself, this article makes it unspeakably sadder.)
*****************************************************
Poetry tells story of judge's mother
Mary Schmich (mschmich@tribune.com)
July 29, 2007
Donna Humphrey loved her desk. With its broad top, wooden drawers and inlaid leather writing pad, it made her, a woman who had never gone to high school, feel she really was a poet.
Not many people thought of Humphrey as a writer during her single moment of renown, however, or even fully registered her name. On the day she died so brutally, in February 2005, she was just Judge Joan Lefkow's mother.
Humphrey was 89 at the time, and she appeared almost as a footnote in the media accounts of the man who broke into Lefkow's Chicago home, shot the federal judge's husband and mother to death and left the bodies in the basement for the judge to find.
The photos that appeared of Humphrey after her murder—a gray-haired woman who, like so many older women, would be easy to overlook—gave no clue to the complex life she had recorded in her poems.
In her last phase of life, Humphrey had lived alone in a suburban Denver townhouse. Clearing it out after her funeral, in the den that contained her beloved desk, her children found her lifetime of writing.
Poems lay in boxes, folders, desk drawers. There were poems written in the 1940s and ones written much later, like one called "Widows." It starts like this:
We are everywhere
We with our little perms
Our little purses,
Our careful steps
Supported by our walkers
Or our canes.
We are the survivors.
Years ago we laid our men away
And though
We did not know it then
Our own significance
As well.
Growing up, Humphrey's children knew she wrote poems, though they never saw her writing. She had no desk on their Kansas farm. Lefkow guesses she composed poems in her mind at the ironing board or with pen and paper on the dining table after the kids went to sleep.
A few were even published in small journals. Once she won a gold watch for writing a jingle for Perfex detergent.
"That was such a thrill for a farm woman," Lefkow says, "a Bulova watch arriving in the mail."
After Humphrey's death, when some of her friends from church asked for copies of her poems, Lefkow and her sister Judy Smith began to think about publishing a few privately.
But for a long time, Lefkow couldn't even read the poems.
"I felt looking at them would be so painful," she says.
She was afraid she would confront not just reminders of her mother's awful death but also of her hard life.
Humphrey had spent much of her life depressed, regretting paths not taken and opportunities denied, finding solace in little but her poetry and her conservative Christianity.
Here's a poem about selling the family farm where she'd grown up, next to the land where she reared her own children:
Goodbye, old home, old farm,
Goodbye to elm trees, wind-battered, brave,
Cloaking nakedness each Spring
With gallant greenery. Your branches held
our swings
And sheltered shyest dreams doomed to
impossibility.
Those shy, doomed dreams kept young Donna company on the lonely farm, where as a girl she spent her days making beds, mopping floors, scrubbing clothes and hanging them to dry.
She was the fourth of six children, among them Willis, her bedridden brother, dead by age 11. She remembered him in a poem:
. . . how tired he was of being sick. He told
Of days when he, too sick to play, would sleep,
And of a dream he had of playgrounds
Like any girl, Donna wanted to be pretty, and so she wept when she was forced to wear black, high-top corrective boots for the weak ankles that afflicted her until the day she died. She wept again when her father told her she was needed on the farm and couldn't go to high school.
College was one of Humphrey's shy, doomed dreams. She wanted to be a teacher. She was happiest when she was reading. Books, magazines, newspapers—she read everything her grandmother, another self-educated farm woman, brought into the house.
When her grandmother discovered a correspondence school in a magazine ad, the two of them went to high school together, by mail.
In that way, young Donna learned to write.
And, finally, more than a year after her death, her daughter Joan was able to read her poetry.
"I got through some other things I was struggling with in terms of closing out the two lives that were lost," Lefkow says.
She found poems written in a plain, lyrical style. They told stories. They mused on age and God and children.
In one Humphrey writes wistfully of a youthful romance while she was married; in another of an abortion in midlife.
With raw truth, her poems evoke a woman's life in a place and time that was hard for everyone, especially sensitive, ambitious women.
"But they weren't as dark as I expected," Lefkow says. "A lot of it was sweet, so humane and powerful in some fundamental way. That was reassuring to me, that there was joy in her life."
There wasn't a lot of joy, but there was this about the freedom young Donna felt riding a horse named Bill:
….girl and horse
Beyond the sight of elders, streaked through
pastures,
Jumping ditches, risking life and bones
At breakneck speed and then, sedately,
home again,
Bringing the cows for milking.
Last year, Lefkow met Suzanne Isaacs, who runs Ampersand Inc., a private publishing firm in Chicago. Isaacs offered to help publish her mother's poems.
So in September, 500 copies of Donna Humphrey's poems will be in print. Many will go to friends and relations, but some will be for sale.
It's Lefkow's way of saying "thank you" to her mother, and "I'm sorry."
"It's a way of remembering her, assuring that her descendants remember her and know that she was a person of value, a woman of value."
It's the reward Donna Humphrey couldn't imagine in 1959 when she wrote "Frustration."
I long to be a poet; and once, I thought I would
I'd write of Life and Love and such
As no one else quite could.
And so I wrote my patient lines
I bared my secret soul
Poured out my heart in anguished words
Sure that I'd meet my goal
Of published works and public praise
But now, at long, sad last
I know the truth; it shall not be
No words of mine shall cast
Their deathless spell on future minds
In this or distant lands.
(link to original article)
******************************************
If you're not familiar with the story, here are some articles about the Lefkow murders... one two three four.
It's a very sad story to begin with. And to me, a repressed ex-poet myself, this article makes it unspeakably sadder.)
*****************************************************
Poetry tells story of judge's mother
Mary Schmich (mschmich@tribune.com)
July 29, 2007
Donna Humphrey loved her desk. With its broad top, wooden drawers and inlaid leather writing pad, it made her, a woman who had never gone to high school, feel she really was a poet.
Not many people thought of Humphrey as a writer during her single moment of renown, however, or even fully registered her name. On the day she died so brutally, in February 2005, she was just Judge Joan Lefkow's mother.
Humphrey was 89 at the time, and she appeared almost as a footnote in the media accounts of the man who broke into Lefkow's Chicago home, shot the federal judge's husband and mother to death and left the bodies in the basement for the judge to find.
The photos that appeared of Humphrey after her murder—a gray-haired woman who, like so many older women, would be easy to overlook—gave no clue to the complex life she had recorded in her poems.
In her last phase of life, Humphrey had lived alone in a suburban Denver townhouse. Clearing it out after her funeral, in the den that contained her beloved desk, her children found her lifetime of writing.
Poems lay in boxes, folders, desk drawers. There were poems written in the 1940s and ones written much later, like one called "Widows." It starts like this:
We are everywhere
We with our little perms
Our little purses,
Our careful steps
Supported by our walkers
Or our canes.
We are the survivors.
Years ago we laid our men away
And though
We did not know it then
Our own significance
As well.
Growing up, Humphrey's children knew she wrote poems, though they never saw her writing. She had no desk on their Kansas farm. Lefkow guesses she composed poems in her mind at the ironing board or with pen and paper on the dining table after the kids went to sleep.
A few were even published in small journals. Once she won a gold watch for writing a jingle for Perfex detergent.
"That was such a thrill for a farm woman," Lefkow says, "a Bulova watch arriving in the mail."
After Humphrey's death, when some of her friends from church asked for copies of her poems, Lefkow and her sister Judy Smith began to think about publishing a few privately.
But for a long time, Lefkow couldn't even read the poems.
"I felt looking at them would be so painful," she says.
She was afraid she would confront not just reminders of her mother's awful death but also of her hard life.
Humphrey had spent much of her life depressed, regretting paths not taken and opportunities denied, finding solace in little but her poetry and her conservative Christianity.
Here's a poem about selling the family farm where she'd grown up, next to the land where she reared her own children:
Goodbye, old home, old farm,
Goodbye to elm trees, wind-battered, brave,
Cloaking nakedness each Spring
With gallant greenery. Your branches held
our swings
And sheltered shyest dreams doomed to
impossibility.
Those shy, doomed dreams kept young Donna company on the lonely farm, where as a girl she spent her days making beds, mopping floors, scrubbing clothes and hanging them to dry.
She was the fourth of six children, among them Willis, her bedridden brother, dead by age 11. She remembered him in a poem:
. . . how tired he was of being sick. He told
Of days when he, too sick to play, would sleep,
And of a dream he had of playgrounds
Like any girl, Donna wanted to be pretty, and so she wept when she was forced to wear black, high-top corrective boots for the weak ankles that afflicted her until the day she died. She wept again when her father told her she was needed on the farm and couldn't go to high school.
College was one of Humphrey's shy, doomed dreams. She wanted to be a teacher. She was happiest when she was reading. Books, magazines, newspapers—she read everything her grandmother, another self-educated farm woman, brought into the house.
When her grandmother discovered a correspondence school in a magazine ad, the two of them went to high school together, by mail.
In that way, young Donna learned to write.
And, finally, more than a year after her death, her daughter Joan was able to read her poetry.
"I got through some other things I was struggling with in terms of closing out the two lives that were lost," Lefkow says.
She found poems written in a plain, lyrical style. They told stories. They mused on age and God and children.
In one Humphrey writes wistfully of a youthful romance while she was married; in another of an abortion in midlife.
With raw truth, her poems evoke a woman's life in a place and time that was hard for everyone, especially sensitive, ambitious women.
"But they weren't as dark as I expected," Lefkow says. "A lot of it was sweet, so humane and powerful in some fundamental way. That was reassuring to me, that there was joy in her life."
There wasn't a lot of joy, but there was this about the freedom young Donna felt riding a horse named Bill:
….girl and horse
Beyond the sight of elders, streaked through
pastures,
Jumping ditches, risking life and bones
At breakneck speed and then, sedately,
home again,
Bringing the cows for milking.
Last year, Lefkow met Suzanne Isaacs, who runs Ampersand Inc., a private publishing firm in Chicago. Isaacs offered to help publish her mother's poems.
So in September, 500 copies of Donna Humphrey's poems will be in print. Many will go to friends and relations, but some will be for sale.
It's Lefkow's way of saying "thank you" to her mother, and "I'm sorry."
"It's a way of remembering her, assuring that her descendants remember her and know that she was a person of value, a woman of value."
It's the reward Donna Humphrey couldn't imagine in 1959 when she wrote "Frustration."
I long to be a poet; and once, I thought I would
I'd write of Life and Love and such
As no one else quite could.
And so I wrote my patient lines
I bared my secret soul
Poured out my heart in anguished words
Sure that I'd meet my goal
Of published works and public praise
But now, at long, sad last
I know the truth; it shall not be
No words of mine shall cast
Their deathless spell on future minds
In this or distant lands.
(link to original article)
******************************************
Friday, July 27, 2007
Update From The Farm
All is quiet in Gladystopia.
Squeaky, safe at her AA-evangelist friend's house and/or her baby-daddy's, sends word through Tim that she feels much better. Tim informed me that the AA-friend has promised to buy him a carton of smokes to thank him for taking care of Squeaky. She ought to be sending me a case of Pepsi, if that's the plan; I was just as responsible for her care and feeding, only more! But people look at things the way they want to; and anyway I didn't do it for credit--it's just annoying to see other people getting praised for things they wouldn't be able to do if I wasn't around to help THEM. Whatever, you know? The important thing is that Squeaky's safe and, according to Tim, is trying to get herself together. I'm glad to hear it; nobody deserves the life that girl has had.
Tim and I spent a quiet night at home last night--he brought home some beer, and while I watched "Don't Forget the Lyrics" and "So You Think You Can Dance", Tim fried some pork chops and watched Nicolette's Cardinals whomp the bajeebus out of his Cubs. He and Nicki are going to try the long-distance relationship thing, it seems, which is cool--as I've said, I like Nicki and I think she's good for Tim. Plus, if I lose the house, he says they've talked about it, and he will probably go live downstate with her.
That may happen soon. I haven't been able to get a hold of the lawyer, and the sale date is scheduled for next week. If I lose it, I lose it. If I can, I'll buy it back. If I can't, I'll move to Mom's. It's all fine with me, really, unless you count the actual MOVING part.
The job is AWESOME. I'm developing my little likes and dislikes of people I work with; so far, there are many, MANY more likes than dislikes. Everyone is SO helpful and friendly and there really aren't any snobby or judgemental people. And I haven't even started on the neighborhood--I can't mention which one it is, because every Chicagoan would instantly be able to figure out where I work--but I have found YET ANOTHER Chicago neighborhood in which I would totally love to live, if only I could afford it. In fact, if I lose this house, after a year or two of building up my savings, one of my options would be to rent an apartment in this neighborhood--that's how much I love it.
So--aside from total exhaustion and the side-effects of too much caffeine--I am completely happy. I'm even eating healthier--the cafeteria in my workplace is woefully short on tasty crap food, so I find myself eating things like....fruit. Or....sandwiches. Or....soup. (I did have a burger from one of the local places yesterday, but I'd have to file that under--as the LOLCats would say--Not So Grate, Akshuly. Or possibly even Pleh...Do Not Want.) The commute is kicking my butt, I'll admit--largely because a) it takes about 90 minutes one-way, most of which is spent either walking from point to point or switching buses/trains/etc, and b)the train ride involves passing JP's building twice a day, and all the emotions THAT conjures up--but I'm learning to deal with even that. (Well, most days I am, anyway.) And even the commute seems like a small price to pay for going to such an awesome place daily.
Is it normal for someone not to know what to do with herself because there's no longer anything to complain of? I think I understand now why local news is always so depressing--it's because good news, while it's nice and wonderful and everything, makes for pretty boring stories.
NOT, mind you, that I'm looking for drama; heavens, no. :)
Squeaky, safe at her AA-evangelist friend's house and/or her baby-daddy's, sends word through Tim that she feels much better. Tim informed me that the AA-friend has promised to buy him a carton of smokes to thank him for taking care of Squeaky. She ought to be sending me a case of Pepsi, if that's the plan; I was just as responsible for her care and feeding, only more! But people look at things the way they want to; and anyway I didn't do it for credit--it's just annoying to see other people getting praised for things they wouldn't be able to do if I wasn't around to help THEM. Whatever, you know? The important thing is that Squeaky's safe and, according to Tim, is trying to get herself together. I'm glad to hear it; nobody deserves the life that girl has had.
Tim and I spent a quiet night at home last night--he brought home some beer, and while I watched "Don't Forget the Lyrics" and "So You Think You Can Dance", Tim fried some pork chops and watched Nicolette's Cardinals whomp the bajeebus out of his Cubs. He and Nicki are going to try the long-distance relationship thing, it seems, which is cool--as I've said, I like Nicki and I think she's good for Tim. Plus, if I lose the house, he says they've talked about it, and he will probably go live downstate with her.
That may happen soon. I haven't been able to get a hold of the lawyer, and the sale date is scheduled for next week. If I lose it, I lose it. If I can, I'll buy it back. If I can't, I'll move to Mom's. It's all fine with me, really, unless you count the actual MOVING part.
The job is AWESOME. I'm developing my little likes and dislikes of people I work with; so far, there are many, MANY more likes than dislikes. Everyone is SO helpful and friendly and there really aren't any snobby or judgemental people. And I haven't even started on the neighborhood--I can't mention which one it is, because every Chicagoan would instantly be able to figure out where I work--but I have found YET ANOTHER Chicago neighborhood in which I would totally love to live, if only I could afford it. In fact, if I lose this house, after a year or two of building up my savings, one of my options would be to rent an apartment in this neighborhood--that's how much I love it.
So--aside from total exhaustion and the side-effects of too much caffeine--I am completely happy. I'm even eating healthier--the cafeteria in my workplace is woefully short on tasty crap food, so I find myself eating things like....fruit. Or....sandwiches. Or....soup. (I did have a burger from one of the local places yesterday, but I'd have to file that under--as the LOLCats would say--Not So Grate, Akshuly. Or possibly even Pleh...Do Not Want.) The commute is kicking my butt, I'll admit--largely because a) it takes about 90 minutes one-way, most of which is spent either walking from point to point or switching buses/trains/etc, and b)the train ride involves passing JP's building twice a day, and all the emotions THAT conjures up--but I'm learning to deal with even that. (Well, most days I am, anyway.) And even the commute seems like a small price to pay for going to such an awesome place daily.
Is it normal for someone not to know what to do with herself because there's no longer anything to complain of? I think I understand now why local news is always so depressing--it's because good news, while it's nice and wonderful and everything, makes for pretty boring stories.
NOT, mind you, that I'm looking for drama; heavens, no. :)
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Mother Hen
You know, I'm beginning to think that there's just no chance in this world for me to actively dislike anyone. Every time I find a nice, loathe-able person, -poof- they come out with something that makes it impossible to dislike them.
What I found out about Squeaky last night:
She has a kid.
Her parents kicked her out when she was 14.
Because she was an alcoholic.
Because her stepfather had been physically and sexually abusing her for EIGHT YEARS.
And her mother wouldn't believe it.
She was repeatedly raped while in residential housing.
The day she got kicked out of/left her most recent placement, she found out that her grandfather had died a week before and no one in her family had bothered to let her know.
Last night she called her mother for the first time in a few months....
...and found out that during those months, her mother has been diagnosed with MS, is now crippled and in a wheelchair, and has about two months to live.
And this girl is NINETEEN YEARS OLD. (Barely--her birthday just passed last month.)
Tim came up to my room last night on his way to take a shower. "I just want to...you know, thank you for being understanding about this whole thing," he said.
"Dude," I told him. "You know I am the hardest-headed person in the world, and I can hold a grudge with the best of them, but that girl is just a BABY, really."
She's apparently going to go stay with her son's father for a while; as I told her, I'm in no position to be taking on anybody til I know whether or not I'm going to have a roof over my own head in a week or two. She can babysit her son and the father's other two kids while the father is at work. They don't get along well, but it's just a case of getting on each others' nerves--nothing violent or dangerous. Which is good--I think she's had enough of that.
When I think of myself at nineteen, and then think of what Squeaky has been through at the same age...It just makes me want to cry, really.
What I found out about Squeaky last night:
She has a kid.
Her parents kicked her out when she was 14.
Because she was an alcoholic.
Because her stepfather had been physically and sexually abusing her for EIGHT YEARS.
And her mother wouldn't believe it.
She was repeatedly raped while in residential housing.
The day she got kicked out of/left her most recent placement, she found out that her grandfather had died a week before and no one in her family had bothered to let her know.
Last night she called her mother for the first time in a few months....
...and found out that during those months, her mother has been diagnosed with MS, is now crippled and in a wheelchair, and has about two months to live.
And this girl is NINETEEN YEARS OLD. (Barely--her birthday just passed last month.)
Tim came up to my room last night on his way to take a shower. "I just want to...you know, thank you for being understanding about this whole thing," he said.
"Dude," I told him. "You know I am the hardest-headed person in the world, and I can hold a grudge with the best of them, but that girl is just a BABY, really."
She's apparently going to go stay with her son's father for a while; as I told her, I'm in no position to be taking on anybody til I know whether or not I'm going to have a roof over my own head in a week or two. She can babysit her son and the father's other two kids while the father is at work. They don't get along well, but it's just a case of getting on each others' nerves--nothing violent or dangerous. Which is good--I think she's had enough of that.
When I think of myself at nineteen, and then think of what Squeaky has been through at the same age...It just makes me want to cry, really.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Camp Gladys
It's official; I'm running a homeless shelter.
First there was LJ. LJ got a pass because he was my boyfriend.
Then there were LJ's friends. They got a pass because LJ was my boyfriend.
Then there was Tim. Tim got a pass because I've known him for ten years and lived with him before, and because he'd always been responsible in the past.
Then there was Jaime. Jaime was just going to crash on our floor for a couple of nights, till the fuss he was having with his sister blew over. Well, whatever blew over or didn't, Jaime's still on the floor three days out of five, at a minimum. But Jaime gets a pass because he's Tim's friend, he's a nice guy, and he brings food, beer, weed, and/or cigarettes from time to time.
Then there was Nicolette. Nicki wasn't homeless, but she was Tim's girl and so SHE got a pass. It didn't hurt that she was really cool to hang around with, loves cats, and was more than happy to contribute to the food/beer/cigarette fund.
Then there was Squeaky.
Squeaky: lied about her age, ate our food, used my shampoo, drank our beer, stole my methadone and denied it up and down, and flirted with Jaime just to piss Tim off. Also, she was grossly annoying and annoyingly gross. (Dear Squeek: I do not need to hear the story of how that last guy you were staying with shaved your genitalia. This topic can be filed under "Not Relevant To My Interests". Sincerely, Gladys.) Once the methadone-thievery was discovered, I told Tim she was no longer welcome in my house. (Yeah, I said "my". I hate doing that, but in situations like this, I think I can be forgiven for pulling rank via the use of pointedly-accurate possessive pronouns.) Tim tried to stick up for her--first he obliquely implicated Jaime, then asked me if maybe I hadn't "miscounted" my doses. First of all, I don't recall ever miscounting, in all my years on methadone. Secondly, even if I HAD miscounted, I would have been off by 10 or 20 grams, max--NOT 240-plus. (I don't know exactly how many were missing--I had a small stockpile of extra 10-mg pieces, because I'd been trimming back my own doses--but there were at LEAST 24 pieces missing for sure.) THEN, after I told Tim there was no way on earth I'd "miscounted" by THAT much, he tried this gambit: "Well....I mean, I know I was drinking pretty bad those two days...I don't know, maybe I blacked out and took it then??" I explained to him that if he HAD taken 240 mg of methadone while in an alcohol-initiated blackout, he would probably STILL be cleaning puke-stains off every available surface, because the combination of THAT much alcohol on top of THAT much methadone, when he has NO tolerance at all, would result in a barf-fest worthy of the ancient Romans. He disagreed; he claims to have a stomach of iron, which rejects nothing. Whatever, I said, and went on believing it was Squeaky.
Then last night...Wait. I should back up.
Friday night Tim was out with Nicki, for her last night in town. She's had to go back to where she came from, at least until she can transfer her probation, but neither Tim nor I think she's going to do it. Tim's broken-hearted, and was even more so when Nicki ducked out early on him Friday night because she had to finish packing. He went to his favorite bar, to meet up with some friends and drown his sorrows. While he was there, he got a call from Squeaky.
Apparently, the psych eval she'd been dragged into was at the behest of another friend of hers. This friend is in AA, and doesn't like it when Squeaky drinks, or comes to her house drunk, and apparently she used the occasion of Squeek getting kicked out of her residential placement to conclude that she needed hospitalization. (This is the story I got from Squeaky, mind you; I'm fairly-certain there are many, MANY details either missing or fudged.) Squeaky claimed she didn't like the way the social-workers at the hospital spoke to her, and so she walked out and went to her ex-boyfriend's house.
Her ex sounds like a gem--but why does that surprise me? Anyway, the long and short of it is, they were drinking with some of his friends, and then they started inviting other guys in, and at some point, according to Squeaky, "They put me in bed with a bum. Now, I'm homeless, but I ain't no BUM." I don't know what-all happened, exactly, but apparently she called Tim at some point, and Tim heard things in the background that made him fear for Squeaky's safety (Tim's quote: "It sounds to me like if she stays there, she's gonna get raped.") and he told her to get out of there and meet him at the train. At that point, he called me to tell me that he wouldn't be home that night; he was going to meet Squeaky and the two of them were either going to ride the trains all night, or else look for somewhere to sleep by the lakefront.
Now, you can say what you want about me, but I try not to be an unreasonable person. Yes, circumstantial evidence pointed very sharply to the fact that she had stolen my methadone (more strongly, it turns out, than even I knew--we'll get there in a moment) but no matter WHAT somebody's done, if their safety is in question and there's anything I can do to alleviate that situation, I'm most likely gonna do it. (I can think of maybe three people in this world to whom that would not apply--JP's ex, the one who said she was glad he was dead; CR, my ex; and Bertha, the 400-lb Woman. That's it...and actually, the last two would depend on my mood.) Squeaky may have pissed me off severely, but I certainly didn't want to find out she'd been raped because I decided to hold a grudge.
So...yeah, wait for it....I told Tim that if she DID meet up with him, it was okay for him to bring her back to the house. They got back around 3 AM--Jaime was already asleep in the living room--and they were there Saturday afternoon when I finally came downstairs.
Tim, of course, had promised to keep her in his room, but I knew from the moment he said it that THAT wasn't going to work; containing this girl is very much like containing a small, very energetic Rottweiler puppy. She was bouncing through the house like a little ping-pong ball, coming into the living-room every ten seconds to talk to me as I tried to play Scrabble on the computer. She was pretty open about her situation--she told me "I really don't have anywhere else to stay...I haven't got any friends. The only people who'll talk to me are Tim...you...Jaime...There's this one girl, but she's in AA and she's the one who tried to get me put in the psych ward...they were gonna put me in the STATE ASYLUM!" she said, outraged.
I asked her what had happened that had led this girl to try to have her admitted in the first place. She said "She just doesn't wanna deal with me, so she wants to dump me off so somebody else will find me a place to stay."
"But why did they want to admit you in the first place?" I asked.
"Because I'm not on medication," she said. That was the most I could get out of her on THAT count; she was more interested in recounting her grievances against the social workers, security guards, and generally-every0ne-else during her evaluation.
"Why did you get kicked out of your old place, anyway?" I asked. And here was where things got REALLY informative.
"Well...I think it was the day after the last time I was here?" she said. "And I hadn't gotten more than 2 hours of sleep, because Tim was having those chest pains..." (Tim is prone to chest pains. Considering the way he abuses his body, I am not in the least surprised; if I had to guess, I'd say his liver was trying to make a break for it by any egress possible. I don't THINK he's going to have a heart-attack.) ..."Anyway, I left here and I went back to my place, and I just went straight to bed. And I slept from like, 6:00 that night til 8:30 the next morning. And when I got up, they were all like 'What have you been doing that makes you fall asleep for FOURTEEN HOURS???'" (Gee, I wonder. Anyone care to hazard a guess?) "And so they were telling me 'You're not following the program, and we've got people on a waiting-list who would be happy to get your spot, and...' So I was like, you know what? Since you're obviously gonna kick me out anyway, let me save you the paperwork and just leave. And so I did."
Needless to say: First, the sleep-for-fourteen-hours thing. She COULD have just been really tired, true. But to then choose to leave her only place of residence, knowing that if she DID try to stay one of the first things they would do would be a drug test...It just shakes out very, very suspiciously. Also during that conversation, I may have tripped her up further on her age. She originally told Tim she was 20; then he found out somehow that she was only 19. During this last conversation, though, she said something about having lived in residential treatment for five years..."ever since my parents put me out of the house when I was thirteen," she said. Math freaks, please join in: thirteen plus five equals x, and x does not equal 19. Jaime says he thinks she's about 16, judging from how she acts. I have no skill for telling people's ages, but I'm really starting to wonder about this one.
"So what's your plan?" I asked her.
"Well, I mean, I've got a job...or, I think I still have it, anyway..." she said. I didn't even pursue that.
"So what's your plan?" I asked Tim. "About Squeaky, I mean."
"I'm gonna figure out something for her," he said.
What a plan. "Gonna figure out something." I'd be interested to hear how THAT worked out, if in fact there was anything at all to WORK out. Somehow I have a feeling he's counting on me to solve everything...AGAIN...
...which is not gonna happen.
When Tim's in a not-so-hideous mood, we're going to have a conversation, to the effect of: You've lived here for nine months. You don't pay rent. You don't buy food, or beer, or even your own cigarettes. That alone is acceptable to me, if just barely so, because you contribute in other ways--cleaning, mostly, and keeping an eye on things. As long as I have a home, you have one too. But your crew--unless they start putting cash in my hand or food in my fridge--get a 2-day limit. Period. Jaime and Nicki have at least shown a willingness to contribute to the greater good--even if it's just beer and smokes--but this girl is not even able to care for herself. And while that's sad, it's also not my responsibility, and I'm not going to take her on.
I don't want to be cruel, or to put anyone in an untenable situation...but I mean, damn. I'm just BARELY starting to be able to put my OWN pieces back together; I can't be saving any more strays. (...well, other than the sweet little black kitten in the backyard, who rubbed up against my ankles while I was outside talking to Debbi on the phone...must resist kitty-saving urges!)
First there was LJ. LJ got a pass because he was my boyfriend.
Then there were LJ's friends. They got a pass because LJ was my boyfriend.
Then there was Tim. Tim got a pass because I've known him for ten years and lived with him before, and because he'd always been responsible in the past.
Then there was Jaime. Jaime was just going to crash on our floor for a couple of nights, till the fuss he was having with his sister blew over. Well, whatever blew over or didn't, Jaime's still on the floor three days out of five, at a minimum. But Jaime gets a pass because he's Tim's friend, he's a nice guy, and he brings food, beer, weed, and/or cigarettes from time to time.
Then there was Nicolette. Nicki wasn't homeless, but she was Tim's girl and so SHE got a pass. It didn't hurt that she was really cool to hang around with, loves cats, and was more than happy to contribute to the food/beer/cigarette fund.
Then there was Squeaky.
Squeaky: lied about her age, ate our food, used my shampoo, drank our beer, stole my methadone and denied it up and down, and flirted with Jaime just to piss Tim off. Also, she was grossly annoying and annoyingly gross. (Dear Squeek: I do not need to hear the story of how that last guy you were staying with shaved your genitalia. This topic can be filed under "Not Relevant To My Interests". Sincerely, Gladys.) Once the methadone-thievery was discovered, I told Tim she was no longer welcome in my house. (Yeah, I said "my". I hate doing that, but in situations like this, I think I can be forgiven for pulling rank via the use of pointedly-accurate possessive pronouns.) Tim tried to stick up for her--first he obliquely implicated Jaime, then asked me if maybe I hadn't "miscounted" my doses. First of all, I don't recall ever miscounting, in all my years on methadone. Secondly, even if I HAD miscounted, I would have been off by 10 or 20 grams, max--NOT 240-plus. (I don't know exactly how many were missing--I had a small stockpile of extra 10-mg pieces, because I'd been trimming back my own doses--but there were at LEAST 24 pieces missing for sure.) THEN, after I told Tim there was no way on earth I'd "miscounted" by THAT much, he tried this gambit: "Well....I mean, I know I was drinking pretty bad those two days...I don't know, maybe I blacked out and took it then??" I explained to him that if he HAD taken 240 mg of methadone while in an alcohol-initiated blackout, he would probably STILL be cleaning puke-stains off every available surface, because the combination of THAT much alcohol on top of THAT much methadone, when he has NO tolerance at all, would result in a barf-fest worthy of the ancient Romans. He disagreed; he claims to have a stomach of iron, which rejects nothing. Whatever, I said, and went on believing it was Squeaky.
Then last night...Wait. I should back up.
Friday night Tim was out with Nicki, for her last night in town. She's had to go back to where she came from, at least until she can transfer her probation, but neither Tim nor I think she's going to do it. Tim's broken-hearted, and was even more so when Nicki ducked out early on him Friday night because she had to finish packing. He went to his favorite bar, to meet up with some friends and drown his sorrows. While he was there, he got a call from Squeaky.
Apparently, the psych eval she'd been dragged into was at the behest of another friend of hers. This friend is in AA, and doesn't like it when Squeaky drinks, or comes to her house drunk, and apparently she used the occasion of Squeek getting kicked out of her residential placement to conclude that she needed hospitalization. (This is the story I got from Squeaky, mind you; I'm fairly-certain there are many, MANY details either missing or fudged.) Squeaky claimed she didn't like the way the social-workers at the hospital spoke to her, and so she walked out and went to her ex-boyfriend's house.
Her ex sounds like a gem--but why does that surprise me? Anyway, the long and short of it is, they were drinking with some of his friends, and then they started inviting other guys in, and at some point, according to Squeaky, "They put me in bed with a bum. Now, I'm homeless, but I ain't no BUM." I don't know what-all happened, exactly, but apparently she called Tim at some point, and Tim heard things in the background that made him fear for Squeaky's safety (Tim's quote: "It sounds to me like if she stays there, she's gonna get raped.") and he told her to get out of there and meet him at the train. At that point, he called me to tell me that he wouldn't be home that night; he was going to meet Squeaky and the two of them were either going to ride the trains all night, or else look for somewhere to sleep by the lakefront.
Now, you can say what you want about me, but I try not to be an unreasonable person. Yes, circumstantial evidence pointed very sharply to the fact that she had stolen my methadone (more strongly, it turns out, than even I knew--we'll get there in a moment) but no matter WHAT somebody's done, if their safety is in question and there's anything I can do to alleviate that situation, I'm most likely gonna do it. (I can think of maybe three people in this world to whom that would not apply--JP's ex, the one who said she was glad he was dead; CR, my ex; and Bertha, the 400-lb Woman. That's it...and actually, the last two would depend on my mood.) Squeaky may have pissed me off severely, but I certainly didn't want to find out she'd been raped because I decided to hold a grudge.
So...yeah, wait for it....I told Tim that if she DID meet up with him, it was okay for him to bring her back to the house. They got back around 3 AM--Jaime was already asleep in the living room--and they were there Saturday afternoon when I finally came downstairs.
Tim, of course, had promised to keep her in his room, but I knew from the moment he said it that THAT wasn't going to work; containing this girl is very much like containing a small, very energetic Rottweiler puppy. She was bouncing through the house like a little ping-pong ball, coming into the living-room every ten seconds to talk to me as I tried to play Scrabble on the computer. She was pretty open about her situation--she told me "I really don't have anywhere else to stay...I haven't got any friends. The only people who'll talk to me are Tim...you...Jaime...There's this one girl, but she's in AA and she's the one who tried to get me put in the psych ward...they were gonna put me in the STATE ASYLUM!" she said, outraged.
I asked her what had happened that had led this girl to try to have her admitted in the first place. She said "She just doesn't wanna deal with me, so she wants to dump me off so somebody else will find me a place to stay."
"But why did they want to admit you in the first place?" I asked.
"Because I'm not on medication," she said. That was the most I could get out of her on THAT count; she was more interested in recounting her grievances against the social workers, security guards, and generally-every0ne-else during her evaluation.
"Why did you get kicked out of your old place, anyway?" I asked. And here was where things got REALLY informative.
"Well...I think it was the day after the last time I was here?" she said. "And I hadn't gotten more than 2 hours of sleep, because Tim was having those chest pains..." (Tim is prone to chest pains. Considering the way he abuses his body, I am not in the least surprised; if I had to guess, I'd say his liver was trying to make a break for it by any egress possible. I don't THINK he's going to have a heart-attack.) ..."Anyway, I left here and I went back to my place, and I just went straight to bed. And I slept from like, 6:00 that night til 8:30 the next morning. And when I got up, they were all like 'What have you been doing that makes you fall asleep for FOURTEEN HOURS???'" (Gee, I wonder. Anyone care to hazard a guess?) "And so they were telling me 'You're not following the program, and we've got people on a waiting-list who would be happy to get your spot, and...' So I was like, you know what? Since you're obviously gonna kick me out anyway, let me save you the paperwork and just leave. And so I did."
Needless to say: First, the sleep-for-fourteen-hours thing. She COULD have just been really tired, true. But to then choose to leave her only place of residence, knowing that if she DID try to stay one of the first things they would do would be a drug test...It just shakes out very, very suspiciously. Also during that conversation, I may have tripped her up further on her age. She originally told Tim she was 20; then he found out somehow that she was only 19. During this last conversation, though, she said something about having lived in residential treatment for five years..."ever since my parents put me out of the house when I was thirteen," she said. Math freaks, please join in: thirteen plus five equals x, and x does not equal 19. Jaime says he thinks she's about 16, judging from how she acts. I have no skill for telling people's ages, but I'm really starting to wonder about this one.
"So what's your plan?" I asked her.
"Well, I mean, I've got a job...or, I think I still have it, anyway..." she said. I didn't even pursue that.
"So what's your plan?" I asked Tim. "About Squeaky, I mean."
"I'm gonna figure out something for her," he said.
What a plan. "Gonna figure out something." I'd be interested to hear how THAT worked out, if in fact there was anything at all to WORK out. Somehow I have a feeling he's counting on me to solve everything...AGAIN...
...which is not gonna happen.
When Tim's in a not-so-hideous mood, we're going to have a conversation, to the effect of: You've lived here for nine months. You don't pay rent. You don't buy food, or beer, or even your own cigarettes. That alone is acceptable to me, if just barely so, because you contribute in other ways--cleaning, mostly, and keeping an eye on things. As long as I have a home, you have one too. But your crew--unless they start putting cash in my hand or food in my fridge--get a 2-day limit. Period. Jaime and Nicki have at least shown a willingness to contribute to the greater good--even if it's just beer and smokes--but this girl is not even able to care for herself. And while that's sad, it's also not my responsibility, and I'm not going to take her on.
I don't want to be cruel, or to put anyone in an untenable situation...but I mean, damn. I'm just BARELY starting to be able to put my OWN pieces back together; I can't be saving any more strays. (...well, other than the sweet little black kitten in the backyard, who rubbed up against my ankles while I was outside talking to Debbi on the phone...must resist kitty-saving urges!)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
More Confessions
I know some of you will recoil in horror from what I am about to say. Possum-burning is nothing to the piece of heresy I am about to spout, and for this I apologize, but I cannot help it. And especially now, it would probably be more acceptable to advocate genocide than to admit to the following; but I have always prided myself on my honesty in this blog, and so :::bracing myself:::
...here we go.
I am not even the least bit interested in Harry Potter.
There. I've said it. Do what you will. I don't care about the books, I don't care about the movies, and the only feeling I have for J.K. Rowling is unspeakable envy, because I will never be as famous or wealthy as she is. I don't know any details about Muggles or Quidditch or who these characters are; I've heard the names but I don't know their relationships to the story or to one another and I pretty much do. not. care. Like, at all.
My friends, of course, are a different story. Debbi and Cowgirl are avid fans; I've sat through dinner conversations which have made about as much sense to me as nuclear physics, except maybe less. They're my friends. You make allowances.
But I cannot turn on the television, cannot spread open a newspaper section, cannot even listen to the radio or stand in line at the grocery, without being bombarded by things Potter. And it's not that I think children's books are beneath me--this is Cartoon Girl you're talking to! It's more my insane loathing of anything about which there is the stench of the bandwagon. (In case you're wondering? It smells like patchouli.) I will be glad--very glad--when everyone has read this book, seen the movie, and stopped talking/writing/agonizing about the whole phenomenon, because it bores me. I want it to go away and be quiet, or at least I want to avoid it. It bores me the way NASCAR bores most people.
The only benefit--the ONLY benefit--which accrues to me from Pottermania: people have, even for a moment, stopped talking about Paris Hilton. No matter what causes it, that's always a positive thing.
...here we go.
I am not even the least bit interested in Harry Potter.
There. I've said it. Do what you will. I don't care about the books, I don't care about the movies, and the only feeling I have for J.K. Rowling is unspeakable envy, because I will never be as famous or wealthy as she is. I don't know any details about Muggles or Quidditch or who these characters are; I've heard the names but I don't know their relationships to the story or to one another and I pretty much do. not. care. Like, at all.
My friends, of course, are a different story. Debbi and Cowgirl are avid fans; I've sat through dinner conversations which have made about as much sense to me as nuclear physics, except maybe less. They're my friends. You make allowances.
But I cannot turn on the television, cannot spread open a newspaper section, cannot even listen to the radio or stand in line at the grocery, without being bombarded by things Potter. And it's not that I think children's books are beneath me--this is Cartoon Girl you're talking to! It's more my insane loathing of anything about which there is the stench of the bandwagon. (In case you're wondering? It smells like patchouli.) I will be glad--very glad--when everyone has read this book, seen the movie, and stopped talking/writing/agonizing about the whole phenomenon, because it bores me. I want it to go away and be quiet, or at least I want to avoid it. It bores me the way NASCAR bores most people.
The only benefit--the ONLY benefit--which accrues to me from Pottermania: people have, even for a moment, stopped talking about Paris Hilton. No matter what causes it, that's always a positive thing.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I Do Not Invite Drama.
You would think--wouldn't you think?--that what with all this happy happy happiness happening, there wouldn't be any room for the kind of garbage that seems to happen with regularity in the vicinity of my life. (I can't say it happens "to me"--I'm not a victim of it--but it certainly happens AROUND me often enough.)
As I was saying--You would think that, wouldn't you?
You would be wrong, just like I was.
I know I mentioned that Tim had a new girlfriend. Well, Tim now has a new EX-girlfriend, it appears. This sucks for more than one reason, as you will see. I don't know what happened--I think it was a bunch of juvenile trash about who said who would call at what time and then didn't, or who wasn't sweet enough when he called her on the phone, possibly because she either was or was not sleeping with her ex.
This makes me very, very glad that I'm currently eschewing relationships.
So anyway, somewhere along the line, Tim started getting calls from this female he'd met while he was homeless. He wouldn't tell me much about her, other than that she was really, REALLY pressuring him for a booty-call, and he was ambivalent enough that I figured I'd never meet her.
That lasted til I came home from Mom's and ...boom, there she was. And she was young. I mean, he TOLD me she was young, but there's young, and there's YOUNG, and she was definitely, extremely, very very YOUNG. I would have guessed 22, maybe.
She was also one of Those Really Loud Brash Girls. I have occasionally, in my past, been almost one of Those RLBGs; I've grown out of it, mostly. TRLBGs are the sort of women who age poorly, who are found in dive bars wearing too much makeup and skirts too tight, well into the age when less makeup and looser clothing would serve them well. While they're young, these are the women who will sleep with your boyfriend without a second thought, and wonder why you're mad. These are people who are best in small doses, taken at long intervals, preferably while in a large and interesting crowd.
Needless to say, I could barely stand her. But I tried, for Tim's sake; he said she reminded him of one of his old girlfriends, in some ways, and I know that relationship was one of his unresolved issues, so I figured: Let him work it out; I'll put up with her for THAT long, at least.
And that lasted til last night, when I discovered that four days worth of my methadone had mysteriously "disappeared" from the bottle on the kitchen shelf, where I have kept it since Day One.
The clinic says they can't do anything about it unless I file a police report; I'm not inclined to do that. I have enough methadone to get through the rest of the week on half-doses; there's a chance, though, that I could go dopesick before my regular clinic appointment on Monday. Tim, of course, didn't want to believe it; first he asked if maybe I'd "miscounted" my doses, then he actually tried to throw his friend Jaime under the bus, because both Jaime and the girl stayed over for the same two nights. I know Jaime; he wouldn't do that. He would ask for some, if he wanted it; Jaime's a weed dealer, not a thief. The girl, though---not only is she loud and brash and amoral, but she's also a liar--she told Tim she was 20, when she's actually 19--and apparently also a thief. (Tim called to ask her about it; all she could say was "I'm so tired..." Gee, I wonder why; you just ate about 240 mg of methadone, you little nit.)
I do not want to be dopesick. I am hoping I won't be. But I am very, very, very very pissed--at her, mostly, and a little bit at Tim, for letting his lower brain get the better of his judgement. Mostly I'm just nervous--and I will be, til Monday morning.
Update, 10:00 PM:
In comments, Cody left me this Very Good Question:
What kind of 19 year old girl falls for a 30-40 yr old homeless guy?
My immediate answer was "A very slutty one", or possibly "a very shady, cagey one". But a while ago I got a call from Tim which pretty much answered any and all questions about her, once and for all, and so I pass this answer along to you:
The kind who gets kicked out of her supervised-living program (for reasons unknown) and who, lacking anywhere else to go, ends up in the psych ward.
And check THIS out--At Tim's behest, I called Jaime (to tell him that at no time had I ever even remotely suspected him of being the methadone thief) and Jaime reported to me the following: Apparently, and completely unbeknownst to me, the little robber (heretofore named Squeaky) found out this morning that she was being booted from her current residence. (And Cody--here's another question: What kind of 34-year-old guy brings a female into his house without first getting at least a LITTLE baseline info about HER situation? Because as much as I can find out from him, he didn't know she was in supervised living, nor did he know why, nor does he know why she's being booted out, nor does he know whether the psych commitment was voluntary or (my guess) otherwise. Now, who the hell brings someone into A FRIEND'S HOME without knowing even the basics of where she lives, among whom, and for what reasons?? I'm beginning to doubt Tim's much-lauded character-judgement skills--seriously.)
Anyway, Squeaky knew she was going to be outdoors, and so apparently she started pressuring Tim to be allowed to stay HERE. In MY house. In the house of the person from whom she just STOLE--after eating food from my fridge, drinking beer that I'd paid for, using ALL my damn shampoo to wash her ratty hair, smoking cigarettes that--surprise again!--I'd funded the purchase of...Did I mention she STOLE FROM ME??? And not just empty-the-change-jar stealing--stealing MEDICINE, without which (I have NO doubt at ALL she knew) I could conceivably become quite ill?? And she's asking TIM, of all people--Tim who hasn't paid a dime since he moved in here seven MONTHS ago, Tim who I've been feeding and buying beer and smokes for, Tim who I drove all over creation til I no longer had a car, Tim who HIMSELF only lives here because I consider him a friend and I know in the long run he'll do what he can to pay me back--but she's asking HIM if she can stay here in MY house? The house of the person--not to harp on the point here, but c'mon--the house of the person whose methadone she just STOLE???
(Hey Squeaky--do the words HELL NO mean anything to you? No?? Okay then--how about HELL NO, BITCH?? Oh--you understood THAT part. Good. Just so we're clear.)
I should calm down a little, maybe. :)
So yeah--don't get me wrong, I have the utmost empathy for people afflicted with mental-health issues (especially since I'm one myself!) but THIS girl is a cat of an entirely different stripe. I think the best way to sum up the whole situation--from 19-year-old bimboslutness to methadone thievery, general rottenness, biting-the-hand-that-feeds and all the rest--is a two-word declarative, commonly used in such cases by my neighbors:
Bitch crazy.
Oh--but in other news? Tim and Nicolette have apparently reconciled. Which puts me in an awkward situation--I don't want to lie for Tim, and I totally don't approve of the way he was so quick to get with Squeaky while his relationship with Nicki was up in the air--but a) it's not my business; b) I would SO much rather see him with someone like Nicolette than with Squeaky; and c) I like Nicki better anyway. But I'm glad she's back, even if it might only be temporary--apparently her legal troubles in a nearby state are a little worse than she thought, and she may be stuck living there, for at least a while.
You know, not to seem overly settled or sedate or boring or anything...but seriously, all this drama? Not so much my bag, anymore. Maybe it's only fun when it's YOUR drama--I distinctly remember all my old-time escapades being exceptionally fun--but all these complications in the lives of those around me...well, they're getting a little old. I may just be feeling the rush of having a new job and new responsibilities, but all this Tim stuff just seems so high-school to me.
And oh, by the way, the job is going AWESOMELY. More about that soon.
As I was saying--You would think that, wouldn't you?
You would be wrong, just like I was.
I know I mentioned that Tim had a new girlfriend. Well, Tim now has a new EX-girlfriend, it appears. This sucks for more than one reason, as you will see. I don't know what happened--I think it was a bunch of juvenile trash about who said who would call at what time and then didn't, or who wasn't sweet enough when he called her on the phone, possibly because she either was or was not sleeping with her ex.
This makes me very, very glad that I'm currently eschewing relationships.
So anyway, somewhere along the line, Tim started getting calls from this female he'd met while he was homeless. He wouldn't tell me much about her, other than that she was really, REALLY pressuring him for a booty-call, and he was ambivalent enough that I figured I'd never meet her.
That lasted til I came home from Mom's and ...boom, there she was. And she was young. I mean, he TOLD me she was young, but there's young, and there's YOUNG, and she was definitely, extremely, very very YOUNG. I would have guessed 22, maybe.
She was also one of Those Really Loud Brash Girls. I have occasionally, in my past, been almost one of Those RLBGs; I've grown out of it, mostly. TRLBGs are the sort of women who age poorly, who are found in dive bars wearing too much makeup and skirts too tight, well into the age when less makeup and looser clothing would serve them well. While they're young, these are the women who will sleep with your boyfriend without a second thought, and wonder why you're mad. These are people who are best in small doses, taken at long intervals, preferably while in a large and interesting crowd.
Needless to say, I could barely stand her. But I tried, for Tim's sake; he said she reminded him of one of his old girlfriends, in some ways, and I know that relationship was one of his unresolved issues, so I figured: Let him work it out; I'll put up with her for THAT long, at least.
And that lasted til last night, when I discovered that four days worth of my methadone had mysteriously "disappeared" from the bottle on the kitchen shelf, where I have kept it since Day One.
The clinic says they can't do anything about it unless I file a police report; I'm not inclined to do that. I have enough methadone to get through the rest of the week on half-doses; there's a chance, though, that I could go dopesick before my regular clinic appointment on Monday. Tim, of course, didn't want to believe it; first he asked if maybe I'd "miscounted" my doses, then he actually tried to throw his friend Jaime under the bus, because both Jaime and the girl stayed over for the same two nights. I know Jaime; he wouldn't do that. He would ask for some, if he wanted it; Jaime's a weed dealer, not a thief. The girl, though---not only is she loud and brash and amoral, but she's also a liar--she told Tim she was 20, when she's actually 19--and apparently also a thief. (Tim called to ask her about it; all she could say was "I'm so tired..." Gee, I wonder why; you just ate about 240 mg of methadone, you little nit.)
I do not want to be dopesick. I am hoping I won't be. But I am very, very, very very pissed--at her, mostly, and a little bit at Tim, for letting his lower brain get the better of his judgement. Mostly I'm just nervous--and I will be, til Monday morning.
Update, 10:00 PM:
In comments, Cody left me this Very Good Question:
What kind of 19 year old girl falls for a 30-40 yr old homeless guy?
My immediate answer was "A very slutty one", or possibly "a very shady, cagey one". But a while ago I got a call from Tim which pretty much answered any and all questions about her, once and for all, and so I pass this answer along to you:
The kind who gets kicked out of her supervised-living program (for reasons unknown) and who, lacking anywhere else to go, ends up in the psych ward.
And check THIS out--At Tim's behest, I called Jaime (to tell him that at no time had I ever even remotely suspected him of being the methadone thief) and Jaime reported to me the following: Apparently, and completely unbeknownst to me, the little robber (heretofore named Squeaky) found out this morning that she was being booted from her current residence. (And Cody--here's another question: What kind of 34-year-old guy brings a female into his house without first getting at least a LITTLE baseline info about HER situation? Because as much as I can find out from him, he didn't know she was in supervised living, nor did he know why, nor does he know why she's being booted out, nor does he know whether the psych commitment was voluntary or (my guess) otherwise. Now, who the hell brings someone into A FRIEND'S HOME without knowing even the basics of where she lives, among whom, and for what reasons?? I'm beginning to doubt Tim's much-lauded character-judgement skills--seriously.)
Anyway, Squeaky knew she was going to be outdoors, and so apparently she started pressuring Tim to be allowed to stay HERE. In MY house. In the house of the person from whom she just STOLE--after eating food from my fridge, drinking beer that I'd paid for, using ALL my damn shampoo to wash her ratty hair, smoking cigarettes that--surprise again!--I'd funded the purchase of...Did I mention she STOLE FROM ME??? And not just empty-the-change-jar stealing--stealing MEDICINE, without which (I have NO doubt at ALL she knew) I could conceivably become quite ill?? And she's asking TIM, of all people--Tim who hasn't paid a dime since he moved in here seven MONTHS ago, Tim who I've been feeding and buying beer and smokes for, Tim who I drove all over creation til I no longer had a car, Tim who HIMSELF only lives here because I consider him a friend and I know in the long run he'll do what he can to pay me back--but she's asking HIM if she can stay here in MY house? The house of the person--not to harp on the point here, but c'mon--the house of the person whose methadone she just STOLE???
(Hey Squeaky--do the words HELL NO mean anything to you? No?? Okay then--how about HELL NO, BITCH?? Oh--you understood THAT part. Good. Just so we're clear.)
I should calm down a little, maybe. :)
So yeah--don't get me wrong, I have the utmost empathy for people afflicted with mental-health issues (especially since I'm one myself!) but THIS girl is a cat of an entirely different stripe. I think the best way to sum up the whole situation--from 19-year-old bimboslutness to methadone thievery, general rottenness, biting-the-hand-that-feeds and all the rest--is a two-word declarative, commonly used in such cases by my neighbors:
Bitch crazy.
Oh--but in other news? Tim and Nicolette have apparently reconciled. Which puts me in an awkward situation--I don't want to lie for Tim, and I totally don't approve of the way he was so quick to get with Squeaky while his relationship with Nicki was up in the air--but a) it's not my business; b) I would SO much rather see him with someone like Nicolette than with Squeaky; and c) I like Nicki better anyway. But I'm glad she's back, even if it might only be temporary--apparently her legal troubles in a nearby state are a little worse than she thought, and she may be stuck living there, for at least a while.
You know, not to seem overly settled or sedate or boring or anything...but seriously, all this drama? Not so much my bag, anymore. Maybe it's only fun when it's YOUR drama--I distinctly remember all my old-time escapades being exceptionally fun--but all these complications in the lives of those around me...well, they're getting a little old. I may just be feeling the rush of having a new job and new responsibilities, but all this Tim stuff just seems so high-school to me.
And oh, by the way, the job is going AWESOMELY. More about that soon.
Monday, July 16, 2007
First Day
Having survived last night's cataclysmic panic (okay, not really, but I sure as hell didn't sleep well) I embarked upon my first day at my new job.
I love it. If I screw this job up in any way whatsoever, I hope one of you will track me down and shoot me. Because....seriously. Awesome job, awesome place, clear expectations, light work, lotsa money, outstanding benefits, and what has to be the most perfect schedule I've ever worked (with the possible exception of when I was in college and worked midnights at a factory one summer. And that was temp work!) NICE people, too--what amazes me most, though, is that every single person in authority has made it super-clear: THIS is what is expected of you. After that last place, a simple statement of expectations is something so wonderful that it feels like it should come with a bow wrapped around it. Just...Did I say "awesome"? I did? Hm. I'm gonna need some new adjectives here.
AND--just for extra happiness--the commute, while it's long, is in no way complex--and there are about eight different ways I could do it. I would dearly love to be driving, but that...Well, that's another story, let's just say; LJ took the truck to his cousin's, out of state, on the understanding that while he was back in town he'd buy me a (crappy, old, beater) car. (How, exactly, this would be financed...well, we can file that under "mysteries of LJ's business" and go happily on with the tale.) Anyway, about two days into his stay, he got a call from his cousin...apparently a door had been left unlocked, and some of his vegetable products had been removed from the premises, and blah, blah blah, blahdy blah blah gotta go back to wherever he came from, to deal with the problem. He promised to be back within 2 weeks or so, by which time the money for the car should be available...At this point, I don't much care; as long as I can get to work, my problems are minimal at best. Driving would save me a little time--but not all that much, really; I couldn't drive to where I work, because parking is allegedly horrid and not to be thought of for anyone who arrives after 7 AM--but I could drive partway and take the bus, if I felt so inclined. We'll see what happens when I have a car.
I am really, really happy. I can tell I'm going to be quite comfortable in my new place; the work is all stuff I know, or almost-know; there's room to learn, but it's not totally over my head. I can see myself staying here for a long, long time....
...providing that I can make it til October 16, the end of my ninety-day probationary period. I was never been scared of a probationary period until I lost that last gig, and it makes me really nervous to think about it now. Not that I plan on messing up, but...once burned, and all that.
All the same--I love it. I'm absolutely thrilled. I plan to kick MUCH butt.
And to all of you--thanks so much for all your words of encouragement!
I love it. If I screw this job up in any way whatsoever, I hope one of you will track me down and shoot me. Because....seriously. Awesome job, awesome place, clear expectations, light work, lotsa money, outstanding benefits, and what has to be the most perfect schedule I've ever worked (with the possible exception of when I was in college and worked midnights at a factory one summer. And that was temp work!) NICE people, too--what amazes me most, though, is that every single person in authority has made it super-clear: THIS is what is expected of you. After that last place, a simple statement of expectations is something so wonderful that it feels like it should come with a bow wrapped around it. Just...Did I say "awesome"? I did? Hm. I'm gonna need some new adjectives here.
AND--just for extra happiness--the commute, while it's long, is in no way complex--and there are about eight different ways I could do it. I would dearly love to be driving, but that...Well, that's another story, let's just say; LJ took the truck to his cousin's, out of state, on the understanding that while he was back in town he'd buy me a (crappy, old, beater) car. (How, exactly, this would be financed...well, we can file that under "mysteries of LJ's business" and go happily on with the tale.) Anyway, about two days into his stay, he got a call from his cousin...apparently a door had been left unlocked, and some of his vegetable products had been removed from the premises, and blah, blah blah, blahdy blah blah gotta go back to wherever he came from, to deal with the problem. He promised to be back within 2 weeks or so, by which time the money for the car should be available...At this point, I don't much care; as long as I can get to work, my problems are minimal at best. Driving would save me a little time--but not all that much, really; I couldn't drive to where I work, because parking is allegedly horrid and not to be thought of for anyone who arrives after 7 AM--but I could drive partway and take the bus, if I felt so inclined. We'll see what happens when I have a car.
I am really, really happy. I can tell I'm going to be quite comfortable in my new place; the work is all stuff I know, or almost-know; there's room to learn, but it's not totally over my head. I can see myself staying here for a long, long time....
...providing that I can make it til October 16, the end of my ninety-day probationary period. I was never been scared of a probationary period until I lost that last gig, and it makes me really nervous to think about it now. Not that I plan on messing up, but...once burned, and all that.
All the same--I love it. I'm absolutely thrilled. I plan to kick MUCH butt.
And to all of you--thanks so much for all your words of encouragement!
Monday, July 9, 2007
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Update: I had to change the name of this post because the length of it was making my sidebar act all crazy. Who'd a thunk??)
You know what the best part is about totally giving up hope???
It often makes the universe spit beer out through its nose.
EXHIBIT A:
As of 3:30 PM today, July 9, 2007, I have accepted an offer of employment with REALLY FRAKKIN AWESOME PLACE TO WORK, LIKE I TOTALLY COULDN'T IN A SQUAZILLION YEARS COME UP WITH A MORE-PERFECT JOB FOR ME ANYWHERE, EVER, AT ANY TIME. Seriously.
(For about three grand a year more than I WAS making.)
Insert exclamation-points.
And asterisks.
And the Happy Happy Joy Joy dance.
And beer.
And a HUGE, GINORMOUS, LUNG-COLLAPSING sigh of relief.
I might be able to keep my house now.
The world will now OFFICIALLY not fall apart, no matter what happens.
Dude.
This is so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so so so so so so awesome.
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
To whichever of the many, many deities which have been invoked on my behalf, from various friends, family, and acquaintances:
THANK YOU.
so. damn. much.
Also to the various friends, family, and acquaintances who invoked said deities in the first place:
THANK YOU TOO.
And get this: the schedule even takes into account my weird-ass biorhythms. Instead of 8-5, which would mean I get up at 6? It's 10:30AM-6PM. Tu-Sat. So I get a "real" day off every week, and I get to keep hours which are way more attuned to my reality. AND I get to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic, should I decide to drive. Which I don't have to, because: buses. Lots of them.
And FURTHER furthermore? It has been very clearly explained to me, the criteria on which I will be judged when it comes to performance, reviews, and my 90-day probationary period. So it's not like the last place, where they threw something at me and said "learn this" and then fired me because they didn't think I was learning it fast enough.
If anyone needs me, I will be melting into a puddle of gratitude somewhere.
Because just at the moment? I am so floored, I am out of words.
You know what the best part is about totally giving up hope???
It often makes the universe spit beer out through its nose.
EXHIBIT A:
As of 3:30 PM today, July 9, 2007, I have accepted an offer of employment with REALLY FRAKKIN AWESOME PLACE TO WORK, LIKE I TOTALLY COULDN'T IN A SQUAZILLION YEARS COME UP WITH A MORE-PERFECT JOB FOR ME ANYWHERE, EVER, AT ANY TIME. Seriously.
(For about three grand a year more than I WAS making.)
Insert exclamation-points.
And asterisks.
And the Happy Happy Joy Joy dance.
And beer.
And a HUGE, GINORMOUS, LUNG-COLLAPSING sigh of relief.
I might be able to keep my house now.
The world will now OFFICIALLY not fall apart, no matter what happens.
Dude.
This is so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so so so so so so awesome.
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
To whichever of the many, many deities which have been invoked on my behalf, from various friends, family, and acquaintances:
THANK YOU.
so. damn. much.
Also to the various friends, family, and acquaintances who invoked said deities in the first place:
THANK YOU TOO.
And get this: the schedule even takes into account my weird-ass biorhythms. Instead of 8-5, which would mean I get up at 6? It's 10:30AM-6PM. Tu-Sat. So I get a "real" day off every week, and I get to keep hours which are way more attuned to my reality. AND I get to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic, should I decide to drive. Which I don't have to, because: buses. Lots of them.
And FURTHER furthermore? It has been very clearly explained to me, the criteria on which I will be judged when it comes to performance, reviews, and my 90-day probationary period. So it's not like the last place, where they threw something at me and said "learn this" and then fired me because they didn't think I was learning it fast enough.
If anyone needs me, I will be melting into a puddle of gratitude somewhere.
Because just at the moment? I am so floored, I am out of words.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Moving
Me: So if this job doesn't come through this week, I'm gonna have to admit defeat and give up.
Tim: I hate to say it, but I've already given up. Not that I doubt you, but that's just how things work out for me.
There comes a point where you have to just accept it: all the wishful thinking in the world isn't going to save us. There is no mysterious Lotto ticket from months ago, stored in a coat-pocket and waiting to be cashed in for millions. There's no unclaimed property in my name which would suddenly be sufficient to dig me out of this hole. We did--well, I did--everything that could be done, but it's time to fold the tent.
I'm calling the mortgage company tomorrow, to find out how long we've got.
I'm calling the We Buy Ugly Houses people tomorrow, to find out how much we can get.
I'm calling the movers tomorrow, to find out how much it will cost to move.
I started a list last night, which I will continue tonight, of what will stay with me/what will go to storage/what will get dumped.
I'll be buying boxes this week, and duct tape, in an effort to get ahead on packing.
I'll be spending a fair amount of time at Mom's, this week, to figure out what will go where in her basement.
LJ is back in town, for the moment; he came back to take the truck. He drove back to Wherever He's Staying Now, and then came back the next day. The plan is that he's going to park the truck til he can afford to repair it (he says) and meanwhile, he will send me the money to make the payments. While he's in town, he's looking for a car for me, which will be in my name and mine to drive. I would say I don't see the logic in this, but I can guarantee: that truck is about to do something ghastly and expensive, very very soon. We looked at some cars on Saturday, but nothing in our price range looked good.
Tim is miserable. I'd forgotten how difficult he gets under stress. I feel for him, but there's only a certain level of buttheadedness I'm going to take before I lose my temper. I'm under stress too, dammit! There's more to it than that; his job is shorting him on both hours and money, so his most recent check was much less than he expected; Nicolette is out of town, dealing with a traffic ticket in her home state; and one of his other friends is getting on his nerves. Oh, and it's 90+ degrees here in Chicago, and he's in a small flat-roofed, uninsulated, frame-walled bedroom with no air conditioning unit. I offered to let him sleep on the floor of my room, but he turned the offer down. Mostly I'm trying to stay out of his way as much as possible, but that doesn't feel right either. It's an awkward time for everyone.
I, on the other hand, am NOT miserable. (Okay: I am not miserable for any reason other than the heat.) I hate the physical act of moving--dismantling, wrapping, taping, folding, packing, moving, unpacking. In this case it's going to be stickier because there will be several categories into which my stuff falls: The refrigerator--goes with me to Mom's. The stove, washer and dryer--into a storage space. The 10-year-old $20-garage-sale sofa--to the dumpster, with thanks for valorous service. The rummage-sale dresser that CR and I lugged six blocks on a hand-dolly back in 2001--Tim wants to take that. There's stuff in the closets, stuff in the basement, stuff in the garage. Some of it can go to the Salvation Army stores; some of it can go out to the alley. It's going to be a complicated move, which...okay, I guess ALL moves are complicated, but this one seems much worse.
I've done it before, and I can do it again--it's just that this time, I feel like I'm leaving something behind, instead of starting something new. I know that it's temporary; I know that once I start working, I'll be very grateful for how cheap it is to live at Mom's. I realize that in giving up this house, I'm paving the way for much better things in the future, and a bit more ease and peace of mind in the present. But I'm 37 years old, and I'm moving back to my mother's house, and there's no way to frame that where it doesn't turn out, on some level at least, to be a failure.
I'll be all right, I know that. I'm not devastated--just disappointed. And I certainly will miss this place, when the time comes.
Tim: I hate to say it, but I've already given up. Not that I doubt you, but that's just how things work out for me.
There comes a point where you have to just accept it: all the wishful thinking in the world isn't going to save us. There is no mysterious Lotto ticket from months ago, stored in a coat-pocket and waiting to be cashed in for millions. There's no unclaimed property in my name which would suddenly be sufficient to dig me out of this hole. We did--well, I did--everything that could be done, but it's time to fold the tent.
I'm calling the mortgage company tomorrow, to find out how long we've got.
I'm calling the We Buy Ugly Houses people tomorrow, to find out how much we can get.
I'm calling the movers tomorrow, to find out how much it will cost to move.
I started a list last night, which I will continue tonight, of what will stay with me/what will go to storage/what will get dumped.
I'll be buying boxes this week, and duct tape, in an effort to get ahead on packing.
I'll be spending a fair amount of time at Mom's, this week, to figure out what will go where in her basement.
LJ is back in town, for the moment; he came back to take the truck. He drove back to Wherever He's Staying Now, and then came back the next day. The plan is that he's going to park the truck til he can afford to repair it (he says) and meanwhile, he will send me the money to make the payments. While he's in town, he's looking for a car for me, which will be in my name and mine to drive. I would say I don't see the logic in this, but I can guarantee: that truck is about to do something ghastly and expensive, very very soon. We looked at some cars on Saturday, but nothing in our price range looked good.
Tim is miserable. I'd forgotten how difficult he gets under stress. I feel for him, but there's only a certain level of buttheadedness I'm going to take before I lose my temper. I'm under stress too, dammit! There's more to it than that; his job is shorting him on both hours and money, so his most recent check was much less than he expected; Nicolette is out of town, dealing with a traffic ticket in her home state; and one of his other friends is getting on his nerves. Oh, and it's 90+ degrees here in Chicago, and he's in a small flat-roofed, uninsulated, frame-walled bedroom with no air conditioning unit. I offered to let him sleep on the floor of my room, but he turned the offer down. Mostly I'm trying to stay out of his way as much as possible, but that doesn't feel right either. It's an awkward time for everyone.
I, on the other hand, am NOT miserable. (Okay: I am not miserable for any reason other than the heat.) I hate the physical act of moving--dismantling, wrapping, taping, folding, packing, moving, unpacking. In this case it's going to be stickier because there will be several categories into which my stuff falls: The refrigerator--goes with me to Mom's. The stove, washer and dryer--into a storage space. The 10-year-old $20-garage-sale sofa--to the dumpster, with thanks for valorous service. The rummage-sale dresser that CR and I lugged six blocks on a hand-dolly back in 2001--Tim wants to take that. There's stuff in the closets, stuff in the basement, stuff in the garage. Some of it can go to the Salvation Army stores; some of it can go out to the alley. It's going to be a complicated move, which...okay, I guess ALL moves are complicated, but this one seems much worse.
I've done it before, and I can do it again--it's just that this time, I feel like I'm leaving something behind, instead of starting something new. I know that it's temporary; I know that once I start working, I'll be very grateful for how cheap it is to live at Mom's. I realize that in giving up this house, I'm paving the way for much better things in the future, and a bit more ease and peace of mind in the present. But I'm 37 years old, and I'm moving back to my mother's house, and there's no way to frame that where it doesn't turn out, on some level at least, to be a failure.
I'll be all right, I know that. I'm not devastated--just disappointed. And I certainly will miss this place, when the time comes.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Am I Crazy, Or...?
This is a story from this morning's Tribune.
The accident in question happened within a few blocks of my house; I saw the commotion around 6:30 AM, after returning from dropping Tim off at work. I could see the demolished car, but other than that there were no details available. There were, though, at least three traffic helicopters hovering over the scene for a long time--at least half an hour--to get pictures for the morning news.
It wasn't til I saw this story that I discovered the details:
Five teenagers--two 17-year-old boys, a 15-year-old boys, and two girls, aged 13 and 14--were driving eastbound "at a high rate of speed" at 3:30 in the morning.
I don't even HAVE kids, and I can already see about half-a-dozen things wrong with that sentence.
I even asked LJ, because I wanted to make sure I wasn't thinking like a puritanical idiot. I said, "You have a 13-year-old daughter, right?" "Yeah," he said. "Would you let her go out with two 17-year old boys at 3 in the morning?" He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "HELL no," he said.
SO:
1. Two VERY young teen girls out late...
2. ...in a car...
3. ...with two boys at least three years their senior...
4. ...at 3:30 in the morning...
5. ...speeding....
6. ...and not wearing seat-belts. (The story says the girls were ejected from the car.)
7. This is only my speculation, but I'll be really interested to hear the toxicology results on the driver.
I look back to when I was 14 years old. I had a crush on an older guy, true enough, but had I mentioned any intent of dating him, I feel sure that horsewhips would have been invoked, at the very least, as a possible consequence to any "older boy" who would dare to date my barely-teenaged self. And further, there was never any question of actually GOING anywhere with him; there was never any question of going ANYWHERE, in any car, driven by anyone other than a parent or a friend's parent. (As I remember, the one time my friend's 19-year-old sister was tapped to drive us to the mall, my parents freaked out so much that I ended up staying home. And SHE drove like someone's great-granny.)
Even had the unthinkable occurred and I HAD been allowed to associate with "older boys", there was no question, none at all, of whether or not I would have been out of the house at 3:30 AM. I would have been just as likely to have been on the moon, or playing wide-receiver in the SuperBowl, than to have been out after 10 PM--and it was a huge privilege, bestowed only on special occasions, to be allowed to stay down the block at Debbi's til 10. My parents knew where I was at all times; they had the numbers of all my friends' parents, and could call in a heartbeat to see if I had left on time, or if I was where I said I'd be. Knowing that, I never strayed; in fact, the worst thing I did in THAT line came long before my teenage years-- it was when I was in first grade and another little girl told me it was okay to come home to her house straight from school, without calling my mom first. I don't remember her logic, but it was very persuasive; the amount of trouble I got into, however, was FAR more persuasive.
But that was me, and that was almost 25 years ago. Apparently my life was a million miles different than those two little girls--for that's what they were, underneath all their 13-year-old sophistication--little girls. They were little girls who nobody, apparently, was watching out for; not in any way that matters, anyway. You can say what people always say, with stories like this: They were good kids; they just made a mistake. But thinking back to my own life: someone had seen to it, from very early on, that I would be far too terrified of my parents' wrath to even consider the actions that would lead me into such a "mistake". And nobody, apparently, did that for these girls, nor for the boys who survived. Nobody threatened, if those boys weren't back by 11:00 at night, to eat their drivers' licenses; nobody told them that the first time they got a speeding ticket would be the LAST time they saw a car until they were 30. (I got so hysterical, leading up to telling my mom about the first speeding ticket I'd received, that she said afterwards "God, is that all? I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant.") Nobody told those girls that if they got caught hanging around high-school boys, they'd be locked in their rooms, with no phone and no TV, til their hair turned gray. Nobody sat them down and told them Look, I know you don't think it will happen to you, but that's what everyone thinks--so please, PLEASE wear your seatbelt. No one ever said to them Please, PLEASE, if you're in a situation you're not comfortable with, call us for a ride. I might not be happy about it, but I won't punish you for trying to stay safe.
I feel bad for these families. I don't know them, though the girls live close enough that they've probably walked down my street before; I've probably passed them on the sidewalk, or driven past them. They were way too young to be out that late, way too young to be in a car with high-school boys...way too young to die. I feel bad for these families, yeah--but I wonder, too, how it ever got this far. No parent should ever bury their child, true enough; but no parent should let the rules be unspoken, or leave their kids to fend for themselves. Maybe 25 years ago, but surely not in THIS world--not anymore.
Friday, July 6, 2007
NASCAR, That Wasn't Nice.
Now, I understand the rain-out rule: if the qualifying run can't be completed because of inclement weather, the entire qualifying up to that point is erased and the field is determined by owner points/current standings. I get that; I understand why it's needed.
BUT.
Since Boris Said had posted the fastest time with 15 cars left to qualify, and Michael Waltrip had qualified solidly within the top-10; since Kirk Shelmerdine, who hasn't made a race since last year, and the Wallace brothers were both clearly in the realm of those who WOULD have qualified even if the last 15 cars had posted awesome and excellent times--since all those things were true, it seems HIGHLY unfair to THIS fan that their awesome qualifying runs were totally disregarded and they were sent to the DNQ pile. This irks me especially in the case of Boris and Mikey; even if EVERY SINGLE CAR remaining had posted times ahead of them, they STILL would have qualified solidly and there would have been NO question of whether or not they would be starting on Saturday. Now they're back to the trailer-coach, and that just doesn't seem right to me.
(/nascar rant)
BUT.
Since Boris Said had posted the fastest time with 15 cars left to qualify, and Michael Waltrip had qualified solidly within the top-10; since Kirk Shelmerdine, who hasn't made a race since last year, and the Wallace brothers were both clearly in the realm of those who WOULD have qualified even if the last 15 cars had posted awesome and excellent times--since all those things were true, it seems HIGHLY unfair to THIS fan that their awesome qualifying runs were totally disregarded and they were sent to the DNQ pile. This irks me especially in the case of Boris and Mikey; even if EVERY SINGLE CAR remaining had posted times ahead of them, they STILL would have qualified solidly and there would have been NO question of whether or not they would be starting on Saturday. Now they're back to the trailer-coach, and that just doesn't seem right to me.
(/nascar rant)
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Friends Don't Let Friends Blog Drunk
Fortunately, all my friends live far enough away to avoid their intervention.
So Tim is listening to Tripping Daisy, I Am An Elastic Firecracker. If you ever want to hear what 1995 sounds like in my head, listen to this album top to bottom. It's not only awesome, but it's awesome in a particular way which makes my stomach all butterfly-y. I can't explain it any better than that, but if you listen to "Motivation", which to me is the essence of the summer of 1995, you'll understand it. The funniest part is that I didn't even HEAR that album, other than two cuts, til at least 1998 when Tim and I first lived together.
I suppose it's time to hop on THAT bus, in honor of Firefly who sent me the following e-mail last week:
hey, did you hear about the princess diana concert ?
you know what that means?
that means i moved to CA 10 years ago
we quit teaching 10 "f"in years ago
can you believe that?
yeah. I can believe that.
On September 1, 1997, I called my mother and asked her for a ride back to her house, with my cats. I was in full-scale dopesickness and had just received a call from a friend of Lou, my roommate/lover/drug-buddy, telling me that Lou had just called her to let her know he'd been picked up at our favorite drug spot, driving my car, which I had given him, along with our last $20, to go score us some dope. Fortunately he'd been on foot when the cops picked him up, so my car wasn't impounded; unfortunately, he had the keys on him, so my car was stuck on the West Side til they let Lou go. I was broke and sick and I'd had enough; I called my mother and had her pick me up, along with my two cats, and let her take me back to her house and put me to bed.
It was the worst dopesickness I'd endured up til that point. I'd been through the skin-crawly feeling, the hot and cold sweats, the high-speed marathon carousel brains singing cartoon songs in my ear at warped-record pitches; I hadn't, though, yet experienced the puke-puke-puke anti-digestional imperative which demanded that--even though nothing was in my stomach--it would come out, whatever it was. (Watching the hot-dog eating contest today, I was half-tempted to feel pity for Kobayashi--but then again, his "reversal" ended in a minute or two. Imagine that for a WEEK and you'd have a grasp of what those first days of September 1997 were like for me.) The first or second night home, I remember Mom moving the TV into my room. One of the worst parts of dopesickness is not being able to sleep, and so I was in the middle of some late-night TV crap when the news broke that there had been an accident; that Princess Diana was involved; that she was injured; that she was dead. I envied her, a little, right then.
The media circus continued, and I watched most of it; in the end, I ended up in the emergency room--I can't even tell you WHICH emergency room, which hospital I went to--with an IV and a psych referral. We brushed off the psych referral--I had no insurance, and there was no way I would ever ask my mom to stake her home on my recovery, not then--and I went home with a sedative patch to take the edge off my symptoms, which only made me dizzy.
Ten years. That's a long-ass time, you know? And in many ways I've come a long way; about eight years, aggregated, of sobriety, interrupted by that little "issue" back in the winter of 2005; some long-term jobs, some professional credibility, a house. Yet in many other ways...I don't ever wish to be back then, you know--it was a horrible time, and I wouldn't repeat it for anything--but there are some things for which I'd like a "do-over". Remember do-overs? When you threw the ball and it went someplace you weren't expecting, and you'd call for a second chance because, after all, nobody had said "no do-overs"? There are some things for which I'd like a do-over, in the past ten years.
I'd like a do-over for any moment in which I trusted CR, especially that point in 2002 when I trusted him enough to marry him. In fact, I'd like a do-over for every moment starting with the one where I noticed him in rehab, back in October of 97, until the moment he left my life in May of 2002. But from that, I'd like to exclude the moments with Tim, the moments where I met the person who's become one of my closest friends. I have to give CR credit for that; I would never know Tim if it wasn't for CR, and frankly I can see Tim and I being roomies for the rest of our lives. I joke with him about our little house in Wisconsin when we're 80 years old; he says he doesn't plan to live that long, but I can tell he finds the idea entertaining. Being with Tim is like having a boyfriend, without all the expectations and landmines and crap of a Big Relationship; we talked about it some more the other night, and we both concluded that Yeah, we COULD go down that road--but it would screw up more than it helped, and we're both happy with things as they are.
I'd like a do-over for every dollar I gave to LJ, every moment I told him it was okay for him not to pay his way, every time I paid for something that was his responsibility. It's not that I hate him, but when I think back, I think that this house could have been saved if LJ had only pulled his weight--or if he had only never been a part of my life. I'm glad to have known him, and I learned quite a bit from him, but I don't think the learning was worth what I'm about to lose.
I'd like a do-over, if we're going to be honest here, for my entire life starting at age 16--and not for the reasons one would expect. I look back at that girl and I think to myself Baby, you don't know what your assets are. I look back and I think Somebody better tell that kid how amazing she is, how brilliant, how talented, how special--before she throws it all away somehow. And while we're at it, would someone please tell her that--despite all evidence to the contrary--in this one case her daddy is full of crap, because even though she's 16 and doesn't have any life experience nor any formal training, she is STILL an excellent writer, or at least has the beginnings of an excellent writer, and if she lets her daddy's stupid offhand sarcastic remark control her life until she's--oh, I dunno, THIRTY-SEVEN--she's going to waste a lot of energy and a lot of talent and a LOT a lot of time hating herself and doubting her abilities. Now THAT's a do-over I'd like, you know?
I'd like a do-over for the eight months I spent at my mother's house after JP died and before I left for North Carolina. Not that I would have done any better on my own--in fact, it's pretty much a given that I'd have done WORSE--but if I'd stayed out on my own-- if I'd avoided the terror that led me to call her from that hospital phone, the terror that led me to answer her worried "Hello?" with "...Mommy?"--I think there are pieces of my real, true, honest self which could have been saved if I'd surmounted that temptation. I was not strong enough. I know there are those who say it was the smartest thing I could have done for myself, but in some ways I have to think that those are the people who never knew me when I was with JP. All I know is that when I walked in that door I was proud--sick, shocked, horrified, bereaved, but PROUD of who I was inside--and by the time I came back to Chicago after my year in Charlotte, I was an entirely different person--deferential,fearful, "straightened-out" in all the wrong ways. It's taken me nearly ten years to get myself back to where I want to be--all my little quirks and kinks back to nearly where they belong--and it's frustrating to know that after all that work, there's a fair chance I'm going to end up back in EXACTLY the same place I started out. I mean, I can understand the need of it, and even see its potential benefits--but there's an irony there I can't get past. I fought for eight years to get back to the place I felt I belonged--to the West Side, to a neighborhood in which I felt comfortable--and now, through nearly-no fault of my own, I find myself being forced back to The Absolute Last Place On Earth I Should Be. Tim and I talked about it today in the car; to leave this house will be to renounce at least half of my identity. I LIKE being "That One"; I like the inquisitive look I get in interviews, where employers read my address back to me and say "And where is that, exactly?" I like that the answer to that question speaks volumes about me, challenges all the preconceived notions of a long-haired fat woman wearing no makeup who turns up in their office, all submission and deference, looking for a job. I'm more than you see, that address tells them; I'm far from the simple soul you're expecting. It's going to be very hard to give that up; it's going to be even harder because there are so few people who understand it. My mother certainly doesn't; she'll be glad to get this "phase" behind me. When I talk about my future, I talk about a better house, something closer to what I had planned on back in 2003; she counters that with "What's wrong with right here?" I cannot begin to explain it; there's nothing "wrong" with it, per se, but it is NOT ME; it is the opposite of who I am, writ large. Just because there is no longer JP to throw it into sharp relief, just because I'm no longer driven night and day by a rage that leads me to walk for blocks and miles just to be MOVING somewhere--just because I am a "settled" 37-year-old instead of the 24-year-old I used to be--none of that means that I am fundamentally changed. Quieter; more wounded; softer, a little, perhaps. But when I stand in front of that house, it is as little like my true self as it ever was. I don't belong there. I can't say why, because I don't know, but I don't fit in and never have.
Underlined, eleven times, with asterisks and bold-faced type and bleeding-daggers, in 94-point type to make the point:
I DO NOT WANT TO LOSE MY HOUSE.
And yet it looks like that's what's going to happen; if this job doesn't come through by Saturday, I'm going to heave a heavy sigh and drive over to the U-Haul store on Cermak, and buy myself a mess of packing boxes so I can pack up my kitchen and bedroom, my books and knick-knacks, my pots and pans and little bits of life. I will pack them up and label them with all the wisdom that comes of twenty moves in fifteen years, and hire a mover and take them to my mother's basement. And from there we will see what becomes of me; what becomes of Tim; what becomes of any of us. I know I, personally, will be fine; I know I have a roof over my head as long as I want one, me and BadCat and Snickers; I worry more about Tim. He MIGHT be okay, but I would rather have things stay the way they are, where I can keep an eye on him and help him be calm and reasonable. I'm glad Nicolette can watch out for him, but there are moments I question how long she's going to put up with him; I, on the other hand, not being his girlfriend and having a 10-year history, will stick with him as long as possible. I hate that on some level, this will let him down.
Mostly, though, it's this simple: I WANT TO KEEP MY HOUSE. I want my cats to have gigantic windows to sun in; I want myself to have morning sunlight to wake me up. I want to feel as though I've accomplished something, in my thirty-seven years on this earth, and not to feel as though I'm living in my mother's basement, jobless and useless and economically unwanted.....
Foreclosure sucks. Unemployment sucks. Not having someone to bail you out--sucks. Yeah, I KNOW--that's how 99.9999999999999999% of the world lives. It's just hard, to have your first encounter with Real Life come at the expense of the most important material possession you've got.
(the next morning)
I wanted to hold this post til I was awake and beerless. I only like beer in the summer, and the only alcohol I really like is beer, so I don't think there's any raging danger of incipient alcoholism here. (Also, I'm a lightweight--hey, at least I'm SOME kind of lightweight, you know?) I will say, though, that I write differently when I'm drinking; more loosely, more relaxed, more playful-with-words. Not BETTER, necessarily; just different.
I woke up this morning at 5:30 and drove Tim to work, then went for a Krispy Kreme donut run. At that hour, the expressways were nearly empty, and it felt just SO awesome to be driving fast through the cool air, with my windows open and the radio on and the sun behind me...
I would have to say, even with the joblessness and the threat of losing the house and everything else, that this has been one of the best summers of my life; certainly, it's been the best summer since JP died. It reminds me a lot of that last summer with him--minus the heroin, of course--but irresponsible and free and entirely self-willed. I know all summers like this one have to end--I learned that in 1995--but I'll be sad to see this one go.
Now I'm gonna go eat a donut and watch cartoons. It's good to be me.
So Tim is listening to Tripping Daisy, I Am An Elastic Firecracker. If you ever want to hear what 1995 sounds like in my head, listen to this album top to bottom. It's not only awesome, but it's awesome in a particular way which makes my stomach all butterfly-y. I can't explain it any better than that, but if you listen to "Motivation", which to me is the essence of the summer of 1995, you'll understand it. The funniest part is that I didn't even HEAR that album, other than two cuts, til at least 1998 when Tim and I first lived together.
I suppose it's time to hop on THAT bus, in honor of Firefly who sent me the following e-mail last week:
hey, did you hear about the princess diana concert ?
you know what that means?
that means i moved to CA 10 years ago
we quit teaching 10 "f"in years ago
can you believe that?
yeah. I can believe that.
On September 1, 1997, I called my mother and asked her for a ride back to her house, with my cats. I was in full-scale dopesickness and had just received a call from a friend of Lou, my roommate/lover/drug-buddy, telling me that Lou had just called her to let her know he'd been picked up at our favorite drug spot, driving my car, which I had given him, along with our last $20, to go score us some dope. Fortunately he'd been on foot when the cops picked him up, so my car wasn't impounded; unfortunately, he had the keys on him, so my car was stuck on the West Side til they let Lou go. I was broke and sick and I'd had enough; I called my mother and had her pick me up, along with my two cats, and let her take me back to her house and put me to bed.
It was the worst dopesickness I'd endured up til that point. I'd been through the skin-crawly feeling, the hot and cold sweats, the high-speed marathon carousel brains singing cartoon songs in my ear at warped-record pitches; I hadn't, though, yet experienced the puke-puke-puke anti-digestional imperative which demanded that--even though nothing was in my stomach--it would come out, whatever it was. (Watching the hot-dog eating contest today, I was half-tempted to feel pity for Kobayashi--but then again, his "reversal" ended in a minute or two. Imagine that for a WEEK and you'd have a grasp of what those first days of September 1997 were like for me.) The first or second night home, I remember Mom moving the TV into my room. One of the worst parts of dopesickness is not being able to sleep, and so I was in the middle of some late-night TV crap when the news broke that there had been an accident; that Princess Diana was involved; that she was injured; that she was dead. I envied her, a little, right then.
The media circus continued, and I watched most of it; in the end, I ended up in the emergency room--I can't even tell you WHICH emergency room, which hospital I went to--with an IV and a psych referral. We brushed off the psych referral--I had no insurance, and there was no way I would ever ask my mom to stake her home on my recovery, not then--and I went home with a sedative patch to take the edge off my symptoms, which only made me dizzy.
Ten years. That's a long-ass time, you know? And in many ways I've come a long way; about eight years, aggregated, of sobriety, interrupted by that little "issue" back in the winter of 2005; some long-term jobs, some professional credibility, a house. Yet in many other ways...I don't ever wish to be back then, you know--it was a horrible time, and I wouldn't repeat it for anything--but there are some things for which I'd like a "do-over". Remember do-overs? When you threw the ball and it went someplace you weren't expecting, and you'd call for a second chance because, after all, nobody had said "no do-overs"? There are some things for which I'd like a do-over, in the past ten years.
I'd like a do-over for any moment in which I trusted CR, especially that point in 2002 when I trusted him enough to marry him. In fact, I'd like a do-over for every moment starting with the one where I noticed him in rehab, back in October of 97, until the moment he left my life in May of 2002. But from that, I'd like to exclude the moments with Tim, the moments where I met the person who's become one of my closest friends. I have to give CR credit for that; I would never know Tim if it wasn't for CR, and frankly I can see Tim and I being roomies for the rest of our lives. I joke with him about our little house in Wisconsin when we're 80 years old; he says he doesn't plan to live that long, but I can tell he finds the idea entertaining. Being with Tim is like having a boyfriend, without all the expectations and landmines and crap of a Big Relationship; we talked about it some more the other night, and we both concluded that Yeah, we COULD go down that road--but it would screw up more than it helped, and we're both happy with things as they are.
I'd like a do-over for every dollar I gave to LJ, every moment I told him it was okay for him not to pay his way, every time I paid for something that was his responsibility. It's not that I hate him, but when I think back, I think that this house could have been saved if LJ had only pulled his weight--or if he had only never been a part of my life. I'm glad to have known him, and I learned quite a bit from him, but I don't think the learning was worth what I'm about to lose.
I'd like a do-over, if we're going to be honest here, for my entire life starting at age 16--and not for the reasons one would expect. I look back at that girl and I think to myself Baby, you don't know what your assets are. I look back and I think Somebody better tell that kid how amazing she is, how brilliant, how talented, how special--before she throws it all away somehow. And while we're at it, would someone please tell her that--despite all evidence to the contrary--in this one case her daddy is full of crap, because even though she's 16 and doesn't have any life experience nor any formal training, she is STILL an excellent writer, or at least has the beginnings of an excellent writer, and if she lets her daddy's stupid offhand sarcastic remark control her life until she's--oh, I dunno, THIRTY-SEVEN--she's going to waste a lot of energy and a lot of talent and a LOT a lot of time hating herself and doubting her abilities. Now THAT's a do-over I'd like, you know?
I'd like a do-over for the eight months I spent at my mother's house after JP died and before I left for North Carolina. Not that I would have done any better on my own--in fact, it's pretty much a given that I'd have done WORSE--but if I'd stayed out on my own-- if I'd avoided the terror that led me to call her from that hospital phone, the terror that led me to answer her worried "Hello?" with "...Mommy?"--I think there are pieces of my real, true, honest self which could have been saved if I'd surmounted that temptation. I was not strong enough. I know there are those who say it was the smartest thing I could have done for myself, but in some ways I have to think that those are the people who never knew me when I was with JP. All I know is that when I walked in that door I was proud--sick, shocked, horrified, bereaved, but PROUD of who I was inside--and by the time I came back to Chicago after my year in Charlotte, I was an entirely different person--deferential,fearful, "straightened-out" in all the wrong ways. It's taken me nearly ten years to get myself back to where I want to be--all my little quirks and kinks back to nearly where they belong--and it's frustrating to know that after all that work, there's a fair chance I'm going to end up back in EXACTLY the same place I started out. I mean, I can understand the need of it, and even see its potential benefits--but there's an irony there I can't get past. I fought for eight years to get back to the place I felt I belonged--to the West Side, to a neighborhood in which I felt comfortable--and now, through nearly-no fault of my own, I find myself being forced back to The Absolute Last Place On Earth I Should Be. Tim and I talked about it today in the car; to leave this house will be to renounce at least half of my identity. I LIKE being "That One"; I like the inquisitive look I get in interviews, where employers read my address back to me and say "And where is that, exactly?" I like that the answer to that question speaks volumes about me, challenges all the preconceived notions of a long-haired fat woman wearing no makeup who turns up in their office, all submission and deference, looking for a job. I'm more than you see, that address tells them; I'm far from the simple soul you're expecting. It's going to be very hard to give that up; it's going to be even harder because there are so few people who understand it. My mother certainly doesn't; she'll be glad to get this "phase" behind me. When I talk about my future, I talk about a better house, something closer to what I had planned on back in 2003; she counters that with "What's wrong with right here?" I cannot begin to explain it; there's nothing "wrong" with it, per se, but it is NOT ME; it is the opposite of who I am, writ large. Just because there is no longer JP to throw it into sharp relief, just because I'm no longer driven night and day by a rage that leads me to walk for blocks and miles just to be MOVING somewhere--just because I am a "settled" 37-year-old instead of the 24-year-old I used to be--none of that means that I am fundamentally changed. Quieter; more wounded; softer, a little, perhaps. But when I stand in front of that house, it is as little like my true self as it ever was. I don't belong there. I can't say why, because I don't know, but I don't fit in and never have.
Underlined, eleven times, with asterisks and bold-faced type and bleeding-daggers, in 94-point type to make the point:
I DO NOT WANT TO LOSE MY HOUSE.
And yet it looks like that's what's going to happen; if this job doesn't come through by Saturday, I'm going to heave a heavy sigh and drive over to the U-Haul store on Cermak, and buy myself a mess of packing boxes so I can pack up my kitchen and bedroom, my books and knick-knacks, my pots and pans and little bits of life. I will pack them up and label them with all the wisdom that comes of twenty moves in fifteen years, and hire a mover and take them to my mother's basement. And from there we will see what becomes of me; what becomes of Tim; what becomes of any of us. I know I, personally, will be fine; I know I have a roof over my head as long as I want one, me and BadCat and Snickers; I worry more about Tim. He MIGHT be okay, but I would rather have things stay the way they are, where I can keep an eye on him and help him be calm and reasonable. I'm glad Nicolette can watch out for him, but there are moments I question how long she's going to put up with him; I, on the other hand, not being his girlfriend and having a 10-year history, will stick with him as long as possible. I hate that on some level, this will let him down.
Mostly, though, it's this simple: I WANT TO KEEP MY HOUSE. I want my cats to have gigantic windows to sun in; I want myself to have morning sunlight to wake me up. I want to feel as though I've accomplished something, in my thirty-seven years on this earth, and not to feel as though I'm living in my mother's basement, jobless and useless and economically unwanted.....
Foreclosure sucks. Unemployment sucks. Not having someone to bail you out--sucks. Yeah, I KNOW--that's how 99.9999999999999999% of the world lives. It's just hard, to have your first encounter with Real Life come at the expense of the most important material possession you've got.
(the next morning)
I wanted to hold this post til I was awake and beerless. I only like beer in the summer, and the only alcohol I really like is beer, so I don't think there's any raging danger of incipient alcoholism here. (Also, I'm a lightweight--hey, at least I'm SOME kind of lightweight, you know?) I will say, though, that I write differently when I'm drinking; more loosely, more relaxed, more playful-with-words. Not BETTER, necessarily; just different.
I woke up this morning at 5:30 and drove Tim to work, then went for a Krispy Kreme donut run. At that hour, the expressways were nearly empty, and it felt just SO awesome to be driving fast through the cool air, with my windows open and the radio on and the sun behind me...
I would have to say, even with the joblessness and the threat of losing the house and everything else, that this has been one of the best summers of my life; certainly, it's been the best summer since JP died. It reminds me a lot of that last summer with him--minus the heroin, of course--but irresponsible and free and entirely self-willed. I know all summers like this one have to end--I learned that in 1995--but I'll be sad to see this one go.
Now I'm gonna go eat a donut and watch cartoons. It's good to be me.
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