You know how that proverb ends, right?
Yep--so do I.
(Note: this post was written over the space of three days. I started it Sunday; it is now just after midnight, which makes it Wednesday. I would say the three posts in a sequence--this one, the "OMFG..." post, and the "Disclaimer-ish" post--give a pretty accurate picture of the state of this house from Saturday evening til the present--to say nothing of the state of my mind.)
So Saturday evening, I get home from my first Saturday of work. I arrive with a 12-pack of beer, to find the house empty, and, expecting an evening of peace and quiet based on this fact, put the beer in the fridge and turn on the TV.
First problem: the cable is off. I calculate the date in my mind, then realize yeah, shoulda paid that one about 2 weeks ago. The bills in this house are in total disarray; basically, the squeakiest creditors get the cash, and anyone who can shut something off will be paid before someone who can't. Once we move, I will change that; I plan to be the...
pause.
This pause in my blog has been inserted because in light of the story I am about to relate, I need to add this interruption to show you all what I'm up against.
*************************************************************
(written Sunday night) I was writing this post, here in my living room where the computer desk is, at 11:00 PM--even though I have to be up for work before 6 this morning--because Tim and Squeaky had gone into their room at last and FINALLY, for the first time ALL FREAKING WEEKEND, I was reasonably assured of some privacy.
As I wrote the sentence just before the pause, they came out. Tim came over and whispered gibberish at me, to make it seem like he was talking about Squeaky. It's a game, I guess, that they play. Then, he went to the fridge for some ice cream. They sat down on the sofa, talking to me all the while. (Actually, Tim was mostly silent; Squeaky was yammering on about some TV show or something.) I listened for about three sentences and went back to reading whatever page I'd brought up when they came out--neither of them, as you might imagine, know about my blog.
After about ten minutes, Tim said to Squeaky, "Okay, leave her alone and let her read. She gets cranky if you don't let her read." (True enough.) After some more jabber, she followed him into the room, and I brought my page back up.
NOT TWO MINUTES LATER, from the room: "Gladys!!!"
I put my head in my hands. "What?"
"He called me fat!" Door opens. Squeaky and Tim emerge.
"Leave her alone," says Tim.
"I AM leaving her alone," she tells him. "He called me fat! Make him stop calling me fat!"
"Will you LEAVE HER ALONE!" Tim said.
"I AM leaving her alone!"
"Actually," I piped up, "you're really not. Actually you're sorta...still talking."
"I SAID, leave her the fuck alone!" Tim said. "I swear to God, I'm gonna smack you..." (He's not. We threaten horrible lingering death to each other a million times a day; I know of exactly one incident when Tim has hit a girl, and that was fifteen years ago and he was blackout drunk. So that threat, though it's obnoxious and dickheaded and all the rest, is not anywhere near as threatening as it seems--and what's more, Squeaky knows this.)
"I AM leaving her alone!!!!" To me: "Did you hear what he just said to me??? You're supposed to save me!!!"
I put my hands over my face again. "Okay, actually? No I'm not. That's what all that bullshit was about last night. I'm so totally NOT supposed to save you."
After some more squawking and yammering, and the background sound of a vein in my forehead throbbing, they finally went back into the room. The odds of them staying there long enough for me to complete this post are roughly nil.
end pause
****************************************************************
As I was saying:
Once we move, I plan to be the soul of order and punctuality as regards the payment of bills; now, however, it seems to be too Herculean a task to even contemplate the masses of unopened and opened mail which has accumulated on every available desk, much less to undertake to pay it all. I will continue to dwell on this shoestring, and take it as a lesson learned.
Anyhow.
As I was on the phone with the Automated System of the Damned, paying the Comcast bill, the door opened and in came Tim. Since my back was to the door, I didn't realize Squeaky was with him til she came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later.
Here's the thing, though: Tim wasn't speaking to her. He went into his room, leaving her in the living room, and slammed the door and turned his music up loud. She made several forays into the room, and every time emerged looking crestfallen.
As I heard the story from her: apparently she was supposed to be staying at her dad's house. (Not her stepdad the sexually-abusing asshole; her real dad, who I guess is a wee bit of a jerk but otherwise mostly harmless.) Tim apparently had a long talk with Squeaky's dad a week or so ago, affirming that they both care a lot about what happens to her, and making an agreement that she could alternate between staying at her dad's and staying here. (In case you're wondering--no one asked me, no.) And it was that agreement that touched off the whole conflagration.
Apparently she'd stayed a day or two at her dad's, then gone to visit a "friend" of hers on the South Side. "Friend" gets quotes because it's a guy, and because her choice of "friends" in the past has led her into all sorts of situations. This was no exception; apparently, as she got off the Red Line at 95th to meet him, she was followed by a guy she knew, a guy who had raped her in the past, who she'd seen several weeks ago in a public place and who she'd apparently told off, made brave by the fact that he couldn't do anything to her while there were people around.
Well, this time, she wasn't so lucky; he grabbed her and choked her, telling her "This is for last time--you think you're so tough?" According to her, that was all that happened; she has bruises all around her neck, so either she's telling the truth or something else happened that she isn't mentioning.
She didn't want to tell Tim about getting choked, allegedly because she was afraid Tim would get mad and insist on finding and killing this guy. (Do I believe this story? Not entirely.) All she told Tim was that she left her dad's and spent the weekend with "a friend".
That's HER story. Tim's story--which came out after four hours of the silent treatment, during which I was left to entertain Squeaky and listen to her kvetch about Tim's treatment of her, all while I would have MUCH rather been relaxing with my Coronas, my onions-and-beef over rice, and my NASCAR race--Tim's story was: she was supposed to be staying at her dad's, and then all of a sudden she calls him and leaves him a message that she's staying with a friend--a GIRL, in the original story. And then halfway through her story, that girl becomes a guy. She claims she has no recollection of telling him she would be staying with a girl. She claims she was stung by a bee and because she's allergic, she took Benadryl and it made her sleepy and she doesn't remember that phone call because she was half-asleep.
I wasn't sure who, if anyone, was telling the truth. I didn't like, though, the way Tim was talking to her--like the ONLY places she was permitted to stay were either here or at her dad's, like she had no say-so and she wasn't allowed to change her plans. That was MY main objection--that he was talking to her as though he owned her, and that regardless of how angry he was, it was NOT okay for him to bring someone to the house and ignore them, leaving them as MY responsibility. "She's not your responsibility, though, G!" he said. "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation."
He claimed, after the fact, that the sentence "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation," meant "please stop mediating the situation." I didn't take it that way. So when he started yelling at her about her "friends" and her changing stories and her general lack of trustworthiness and consistency, I tried to calm the waters.
Big mistake.
At one point, he said something about Squeaky having no job. Now, she had told me that she'd just gotten a job, at a coffee shop, and would be starting in a week or so. I mentioned this, and he scoffed. "What, after waiting around for six months for a job?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Tim," I said quietly, "You really shouldn't judge people for making the same kind of decisions you made." He wasn't listening; apparently something in my expression showed my amazement that he would even have the nerve to say such a thing, because his voice started getting louder as he started talking about jobs she'd apparently turned down.
I was running out of words, not to mention patience, and so I just pointed at him. And apparently, this was exactly the worst thing I could have done, judging from the explosion that followed. The sum of what he was yelling--in my face, at the top of his lungs--was that he could have three or four jobs, and yeah he'd turned down a job, because he was entitled to do whatever he wanted if he thought a job wasn't worth taking, and don't you point at me, and blah blah really loud and ineffectual and probably at least somewhat guilt-ridden blah.
And he'd been drinking, and I'd been drinking (and yes, you are all entitled to crawl up my ass for the decision I made immediately thereafter, but I was, SERIOUSLY, not drunk) and Squeaky was in the background talking about "fuck it, I'm getting out of here, I'm going back to my dad's" and Tim was yelling at her about "no you won't, if you leave this house you'll just go right back to the South Side to fuck around some more," and I had now officially had ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY ENOUGH, so I said "C'mon, Squeaky, I'll give you a ride to your dad's house." And I grabbed my bag and my car keys and walked out the door, got in the car and started the ignition.
And waited.
And waited.
No Squeaky.
About five minutes later, I called the house number on my cell phone. "Squeaky," I said. "I am outside in the car waiting for you. If you want a ride, you need to come outside, right now."
Five minutes after that, out came Squeaky.
"Tim says to tell you that no way are you driving and no way am I getting into a car with you in your condition. He wants you to come inside."
"Oh," I said, turning off the car and getting out. "So now I get to look like the idiot for stepping in and trying to help somebody else. Good. That's wonderful."
"I think he's gonna apologize," she said.
"I don't give a fuck either way," I replied, largely because I know Tim well enough to know that an apology was not forthcoming, at least not for an hour or so. As I walked in the door, I repeated that sentence, and added "I really have nothing to say.'
"Ohh," said Tim. "So if I don't want to talk, that's terrible, but if YOU don't want to..."
"I don't use it as an everyday strategy!" I said, walking up the stairs. " 'I don't wanna talk about it!' 'I just want to be by myself.' 'Leave me alone--I don't wanna talk,'" I said, doing my best (and, might I add, extremely childish) imitation of Tim whenever he's faced with some negative consequence to HIS actions. "Well, now it's MY turn: I don't want to talk."
I went upstairs and put a sign on my door: DO NOT KNOCK. I put another sign on a string at the top of the steps: I WOULDN'T. And I went into my room, got out my yarn, and sat down in front of the TV to crochet.
It took about half an hour, but Tim came upstairs, ignoring all notices to the contrary, and knocked on my door. And A Conversation was had; I explained to him that yelling at me was a very, very, VERY bad idea, for a myriad of reasons including but not limited to: if you're yelling at me, you're not hearing my point. (I managed, with Herculean effort, not to add "...and you'll never see another cigarette, can of beer, dollar added to your bus pass, dollar 'loaned' to you, meal shared, personal-care item purchased, cell-phone bill paid, or financial obligation ignored EVER AGAIN." Never let it be said that I have learned nothing from my mother's money-is-power issues.) "And my point WAS," I added, "that you shouldn't judge people for doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING YOU DID."
He conceded the issue, but added, "Yeah, but when you point your finger at me like that...."
"Yeah, I know. That was maybe not the best way of expressing myself," I told him.
We talked some more, and he did apologize; I told him that I really didn't appreciate a lot of the stuff that had been going on, and he told me that he would really, REALLY appreciate if, in the future, I didn't take it upon myself to mediate their arguments/bickering/complaining/disputes/whatever. "It's not your job," he said. "Don't put yourself in that position."
"I DON'T put MYSELF there," I reminded him. "SHE comes to ME when she wants to bitch about you."
"Well then, shut her down," he advised. "Tell her 'Look, I'm not going to put myself in the middle of this--if you have a problem with Tim, go talk to Tim.'"
"And then when you don't want to talk, and YOU shut her down TOO...?"
"That's between her and me, though." Which...okay, yeah, he's right, but it's tough to see a person with a problem, who's TRYING to talk to the other involved party about the problem, but the other person doesn't want to talk and so the wounded party is left with no recourse than to just deal--and it's very hard for me NOT to try to help, under the circumstances. Especially when I know that--for the most part--I can usually manage to remain objective...
...until people start yelling, and not listening to me, and claiming that true things are false, and the sky is green, and rain falls up, and they could have three or four jobs ANY TIME THEY WANTED THEM. Apparently that's my breaking point.
Anyhow, Tim and I worked it out, and had a hug, and the problem was mostly solved...
Mostly. As the other posts in this sequence will show.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Disclaimer-ish
No, don't worry. The last post was not as ominous as I'm sure it seemed.
I'm just frustrated.
Very, VERY frustrated.
The barbarian hordes of Squeakdom have returned, in all their loud and un-perceptive glory, and I am absolutely without hope of a moment of peace, quiet, and/or privacy.
I don't dislike Squeaky, really I don't. I just need my freaking SPACE, and space is the one thing it feels like I can't have.
"Just TELL her when she's getting on your nerves," Tim advises. Okay, easier said than done, for one thing--remember who you're dealing with here? I'm Ms. Nonconfrontational--and more importantly: I've tried. Doesn't work.
Example. As I wrote this post:
She made a phone call to a friend on the house phone. (She did ask before using the phone. This is why I simply can't hate the kid; she's TRYING to be respectful and polite. She asks before she takes food, uses the phone, borrows anything, uses the washer. She clearly wants my good opinion, and she's clearly grateful for the accommodations.) She left a message, and a couple of minutes later the friend called back. She was pacing around the living-room as she talked, making it impossible for me to continue writing, and so I asked her if she could maybe go in Tim's room. Instead, she finished the conversation, handed me back the phone (with a "thank you"), and sat down on the couch to chat with me some more. It was only ten minutes later, when Tim came back downstairs from taking his shower, that she followed him back into the bedroom and they closed the door.
Squeaky doesn't like to be alone. She's said as much several times; for one, with the life she's led, I'm sure she's never learned the art of being good company for herself, and I'm sure she's got plenty of demons in her head that come out when she's left with no one but herself. I can understand that. And I know she's not TRYING to crowd me or piss me off--she's said she thinks of Tim and I as "family" and she's thankful that we're looking out for her best interests. She's not TRYING to step on my toes, but when it comes to the issue of personal space, I'm so fanatical that she simply hasn't got a chance of NOT stepping on them. I recognize this, and it's not her fault--but it doesn't make it any easier when I come home after a long day at work and want nothing more than dinner, a beer, and a chance to un-knot myself. I know it's up to me to be flexible, and to be direct yet gentle when I just can't stand it anymore--but part of this frustration is that at the moments I need my space the MOST, I have the LEAST ability to keep those things in mind. It's a thorny situation, and I realize that some of it, if not most of it, is of my making.
But knowing what the problem is, and owning it, doesn't SOLVE it. And I'm not sure what will do that.
She's looking for housing. And in the manner of bureaucracies everywhere, things are moving at roughly the pace of cold molasses, and no one's returning phone calls. I know she's frustrated too. I feel bad for her, and I'm glad I can help...
...but it does make me tired.
I'm just frustrated.
Very, VERY frustrated.
The barbarian hordes of Squeakdom have returned, in all their loud and un-perceptive glory, and I am absolutely without hope of a moment of peace, quiet, and/or privacy.
I don't dislike Squeaky, really I don't. I just need my freaking SPACE, and space is the one thing it feels like I can't have.
"Just TELL her when she's getting on your nerves," Tim advises. Okay, easier said than done, for one thing--remember who you're dealing with here? I'm Ms. Nonconfrontational--and more importantly: I've tried. Doesn't work.
Example. As I wrote this post:
She made a phone call to a friend on the house phone. (She did ask before using the phone. This is why I simply can't hate the kid; she's TRYING to be respectful and polite. She asks before she takes food, uses the phone, borrows anything, uses the washer. She clearly wants my good opinion, and she's clearly grateful for the accommodations.) She left a message, and a couple of minutes later the friend called back. She was pacing around the living-room as she talked, making it impossible for me to continue writing, and so I asked her if she could maybe go in Tim's room. Instead, she finished the conversation, handed me back the phone (with a "thank you"), and sat down on the couch to chat with me some more. It was only ten minutes later, when Tim came back downstairs from taking his shower, that she followed him back into the bedroom and they closed the door.
Squeaky doesn't like to be alone. She's said as much several times; for one, with the life she's led, I'm sure she's never learned the art of being good company for herself, and I'm sure she's got plenty of demons in her head that come out when she's left with no one but herself. I can understand that. And I know she's not TRYING to crowd me or piss me off--she's said she thinks of Tim and I as "family" and she's thankful that we're looking out for her best interests. She's not TRYING to step on my toes, but when it comes to the issue of personal space, I'm so fanatical that she simply hasn't got a chance of NOT stepping on them. I recognize this, and it's not her fault--but it doesn't make it any easier when I come home after a long day at work and want nothing more than dinner, a beer, and a chance to un-knot myself. I know it's up to me to be flexible, and to be direct yet gentle when I just can't stand it anymore--but part of this frustration is that at the moments I need my space the MOST, I have the LEAST ability to keep those things in mind. It's a thorny situation, and I realize that some of it, if not most of it, is of my making.
But knowing what the problem is, and owning it, doesn't SOLVE it. And I'm not sure what will do that.
She's looking for housing. And in the manner of bureaucracies everywhere, things are moving at roughly the pace of cold molasses, and no one's returning phone calls. I know she's frustrated too. I feel bad for her, and I'm glad I can help...
...but it does make me tired.
Monday, August 27, 2007
OMGZOICKSBBQWAFFLEPONIES!!!11!!ELEVEN
For the love of all that is good and holy,
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE HER SHUT UP AND LEEEEAAAVVVEEE?????????
My hai blood preshurez and tenshun heddakes--let me show u them.
More details to follow. Pray for me. :)
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE HER SHUT UP AND LEEEEAAAVVVEEE?????????
My hai blood preshurez and tenshun heddakes--let me show u them.
More details to follow. Pray for me. :)
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Dear Tim
Message left taped to my roommate's door this morning as I left for work:
Dear Tim...
Now, you know I love you to bits.
BUT.
There are very, VERY few messages which merit calling me after midnight on a work night.
1. "I am in jail"
2. "I have been (shot, stabbed, beaten) and am now hospitalized."
In fact, those are about the only two I can think of. (Please note that whatever-it-was you were attempting to communicate last night? Did not make the list.)
Further: Telling me "I'll call you back" does not help matters; not only am I now awake, but I am also unable to go back to sleep because I am waiting for the next call. Calling me back an hour later and saying "Nevermind"? Also does not work.
Since pretty much everything in this house depends on my ability to keep this job, and my ability to keep this job depends almost entirely on my ability to get enough sleep, I trust you will see the wisdom of NEVER...DOING...THAT....AGAIN.
(Note: I am not mad. I was mad last night. I am not mad now. But I needed to make this point.) Love ya...--G
I am tired.
My head hurts.
I apparently slept the rest of the night with my jaw clenched, judging from the state of my neck muscles.
I feel like crap. (I almost typed "I feel like carp" which would have been no less appropriate. I can't imagine carp are happy fish.)
I want a NAP.
And a truncheon, with which to whack my darling roomie.
Suddenly, a studio apartment--with no phone!--sounds like a verrrrry enticing idea.
Dear Tim...
Now, you know I love you to bits.
BUT.
There are very, VERY few messages which merit calling me after midnight on a work night.
1. "I am in jail"
2. "I have been (shot, stabbed, beaten) and am now hospitalized."
In fact, those are about the only two I can think of. (Please note that whatever-it-was you were attempting to communicate last night? Did not make the list.)
Further: Telling me "I'll call you back" does not help matters; not only am I now awake, but I am also unable to go back to sleep because I am waiting for the next call. Calling me back an hour later and saying "Nevermind"? Also does not work.
Since pretty much everything in this house depends on my ability to keep this job, and my ability to keep this job depends almost entirely on my ability to get enough sleep, I trust you will see the wisdom of NEVER...DOING...THAT....AGAIN.
(Note: I am not mad. I was mad last night. I am not mad now. But I needed to make this point.) Love ya...--G
I am tired.
My head hurts.
I apparently slept the rest of the night with my jaw clenched, judging from the state of my neck muscles.
I feel like crap. (I almost typed "I feel like carp" which would have been no less appropriate. I can't imagine carp are happy fish.)
I want a NAP.
And a truncheon, with which to whack my darling roomie.
Suddenly, a studio apartment--with no phone!--sounds like a verrrrry enticing idea.
Monday, August 20, 2007
--enormous sigh of total relief--
Guys, really.
I'm trying.
I'm trying to be good, trying to be kind here. I know Squeaky's life can't be easy. I'm trying.
But today, after I'd dropped her and Tim off at the baseball game, after which Tim was going to the bar and Squeak was going to her dad's for the rest of the week at least....well, when I walked in the door I pretty much did the Dance of Total Joy.
I cannot stand hearing another off-key pop song.
I cannot stand to have the plot of another Disney-Channel movie related to me in excruciating detail.
I cannot stand to listen to another story about some almost-famous person whom she almost knows, or almost encountered, or whose brother's cousin's daughter's babydaddy's sister-in-law's auntie went to grade-school with.
I cannot stand to watch the same MadTV skit on YouTube again.
I cannot stand to hear her and Tim talking over each other, no one listening, each one getting louder and louder and louder.
I work hard. I come home at the end of a day, or at the end of a week, and I ask for exactly two things. One is a Pepsi. (Don't ever be the person to drink the last Pepsi at my house, friends; bad things happen to people who drink the last Pepsi.)
The other, though, is a reasonable interval of peace and/or quiet, during which I can recompose myself, wind down, unscrew my neck-muscles and relax. That is all. Not much to ask, is it? I mean, I don't THINK it's much to ask....No, really--IS it??
To walk in the front door and find the TV and the computer speakers both going at once, in two totally different sonic assaults--with Squeaky singing and dancing along to the computer while watching Whatever on TV, with Tim going through his music library at intense volume, all while the two of them bicker and the cats fight in the background...
I'm exaggerating, I'm sure.
What I'm NOT exaggerating, though, is that last night, for the first time in absolutely as long as I can remember in my adult life--I snapped. I yelled. Really yelled. (The last time I remember yelling AT someone? 1993. I was with my ex-husband, and I was PISSED.) I was attempting to convey necessary information to them--information I knew they would ask for within minutes, if they didn't hear me this time--and they were bickering on inconsequentially, and all the noise and clutter and sonic chaos of the past week just overwhelmed my filters, and I finally just lifted up my voice and yelled "HEY! STOP! I'M TALKING NOW!" They looked at me, Tim especially, as though I'd just lost my mind entirely. Tim has known me for so long, and has seen me angry so rarely, that he realized immediately the wisdom of shutting the hell up. That's the advantage of not having a noticeable temper; when you finally do lose it, people sit up and take notice.
And so I simply said what I was trying to say, apologized for snapping, and let them continue on with what they were doing. (Which was "bickering extensively", should you wonder.)
I'm trying, really. I've tried to be there, to listen to Squeaky when she needs someone to talk to. I've been less-charitable than I would like, I know...But it doesn't--does it?--make me a bad person, if I'm almost incapacitated with happiness at her departure??
I'm trying.
I'm trying to be good, trying to be kind here. I know Squeaky's life can't be easy. I'm trying.
But today, after I'd dropped her and Tim off at the baseball game, after which Tim was going to the bar and Squeak was going to her dad's for the rest of the week at least....well, when I walked in the door I pretty much did the Dance of Total Joy.
I cannot stand hearing another off-key pop song.
I cannot stand to have the plot of another Disney-Channel movie related to me in excruciating detail.
I cannot stand to listen to another story about some almost-famous person whom she almost knows, or almost encountered, or whose brother's cousin's daughter's babydaddy's sister-in-law's auntie went to grade-school with.
I cannot stand to watch the same MadTV skit on YouTube again.
I cannot stand to hear her and Tim talking over each other, no one listening, each one getting louder and louder and louder.
I work hard. I come home at the end of a day, or at the end of a week, and I ask for exactly two things. One is a Pepsi. (Don't ever be the person to drink the last Pepsi at my house, friends; bad things happen to people who drink the last Pepsi.)
The other, though, is a reasonable interval of peace and/or quiet, during which I can recompose myself, wind down, unscrew my neck-muscles and relax. That is all. Not much to ask, is it? I mean, I don't THINK it's much to ask....No, really--IS it??
To walk in the front door and find the TV and the computer speakers both going at once, in two totally different sonic assaults--with Squeaky singing and dancing along to the computer while watching Whatever on TV, with Tim going through his music library at intense volume, all while the two of them bicker and the cats fight in the background...
I'm exaggerating, I'm sure.
What I'm NOT exaggerating, though, is that last night, for the first time in absolutely as long as I can remember in my adult life--I snapped. I yelled. Really yelled. (The last time I remember yelling AT someone? 1993. I was with my ex-husband, and I was PISSED.) I was attempting to convey necessary information to them--information I knew they would ask for within minutes, if they didn't hear me this time--and they were bickering on inconsequentially, and all the noise and clutter and sonic chaos of the past week just overwhelmed my filters, and I finally just lifted up my voice and yelled "HEY! STOP! I'M TALKING NOW!" They looked at me, Tim especially, as though I'd just lost my mind entirely. Tim has known me for so long, and has seen me angry so rarely, that he realized immediately the wisdom of shutting the hell up. That's the advantage of not having a noticeable temper; when you finally do lose it, people sit up and take notice.
And so I simply said what I was trying to say, apologized for snapping, and let them continue on with what they were doing. (Which was "bickering extensively", should you wonder.)
I'm trying, really. I've tried to be there, to listen to Squeaky when she needs someone to talk to. I've been less-charitable than I would like, I know...But it doesn't--does it?--make me a bad person, if I'm almost incapacitated with happiness at her departure??
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Strays
So, Squeaky is back.
She has been back, in fact, for more than a week now. Apparently her AA-evangelist friend refused to accept her assertion that she hadn't been drinking for the two days she spent here last weekend. (Which she hadn't, and I know that for a fact. I'm the beer-purchaser around here; I'm the one with money; and I COUNT my beers. Squeaky was perfectly innocent, in this case. But tell that to 12-Stepper.) Because she didn't believe Squeaky, Squeaky was told she would not be staying at 12-Stepper's house; because all the other places she could stay were out of range of public transportation, Tim went and met her and brought her back here. She's been doing very well here--even though Tim and I have had beer in the house almost constantly, she hasn't drunk any, and since there's no other type of intoxicant available, she's been relentlessly sober. She's....not so bad, I guess. She sings a lot, and dances a lot, and has more energy than I would even WANT to have; she's loud and aggravating, but she's also sweet and very considerate and very grateful to be allowed to stay here. And she loves the hell out of Tim, unfortunately; he's still pining for Nicolette, and makes no bones about Squeaky's role in his life. He cares about her; he just doesn't plan to be her guy permanently, is all. It's a hard state of affairs for everyone concerned, really.
She's told me more of her history; if even five percent of it is true, she's had a life no one deserves. If all of it is true, or even the half of it, she's lucky to be alive, mostly sane, and mentally-functioning at all. As I said to her, after her recitation of the things her stepfather did to her: "There's a special circle of hell for some people, you know? I have to believe that, because if I didn't I'd jump off a bridge at the injustice of it all." She broke down crying at one point; I gave her a hug. It was the best I could do. "You're the only one who listens to me," she told me. "Tim doesn't want to hear it." I happen to know that Tim doesn't want to hear it because he's EXTREMELY sensitive about his friends being hurt; if he hears about it, man-like, he feels an obligation to act, and if he can't solve the problem....well, it just eats at him. I know there's nothing I can do; the past is the past, and sometimes it helps just to talk. And if I can listen, at least that's something. (But it doesn't mean she's not driving me completely bat-shit crazy...)
LJ, unexpectedly enough, showed up at the front door Thursday night. Apparently he's been in town for a couple of days; he's been staying at his mother's.
"So...was that your girl?" I asked him. "One of them, yeah," he replied coolly. "She's a headache, though...always tryin' to control my life, all 'where you goin' and 'when you comin back' and all that...And she HATES it that I still keep in touch with you," he added. "I told her ain't nothin' goin on...I told her that truck is like our kid. I let her know...'Gladys an' me are probly gonna be friends for life,' I told her," he said, which I thought was nice. He hung around for a while; he and I and Squeaky and Tim talked for a few minutes. We laughed, had a beer, talked about the situation. I told him we'd lost the house; he agreed to come back and get what little stuff was left here, which he did last night. Those twenty or thirty minutes were more comfortable than the relationship ever was.
That's not to say that everything's perfect. I'm still behind on a lot of bills, though I'm chipping away at it; we still don't have a place to go when we have to move. We haven't heard anything from Betty about her friend's amazing condo; if that doesn't work out, I'm thinking I might just get a one-bedroom or a studio closer to work. It's a little bit stressful, this not-knowing--but only a little. Really, things are good. I'm back in the groove of having a job; getting up in the morning, coming home at night, being exhausted--but in a good way. I really love my job.
In fact, I love my job so much that at the moment, I'd be happier THERE than I currently am at home. At least, it would be more peaceful. Who was that, who made the comparison between houseguests and fish? Yeah. DEFinitely. I'm weary unto death of hearing about whatever TV show or movie she just finished watching, or hearing her singing various pop songs and demanding that people watch her dance, or watching the same MadTV skit on YouTube eight times a day. Between that, and the constant married-couple bickering between her and Tim, I'll be very glad tomorrow when this little arrangement comes to an end...at least for a couple of days. I'm driving the two of them to the Cubs game, and then I guess she's going....somewhere. I'm concerned, but not terribly concerned.
I know, I know--I should be more compassionate, but seriously, I can only be so good for so long; I'm rapidly approaching the moment when I'll finally put my head through the wall in total irritation. There was a REASON I didn't have kids; and honestly, if I'd wanted a 19-year-old in my life when I was 37, I'd have had a baby at 18.
She has been back, in fact, for more than a week now. Apparently her AA-evangelist friend refused to accept her assertion that she hadn't been drinking for the two days she spent here last weekend. (Which she hadn't, and I know that for a fact. I'm the beer-purchaser around here; I'm the one with money; and I COUNT my beers. Squeaky was perfectly innocent, in this case. But tell that to 12-Stepper.) Because she didn't believe Squeaky, Squeaky was told she would not be staying at 12-Stepper's house; because all the other places she could stay were out of range of public transportation, Tim went and met her and brought her back here. She's been doing very well here--even though Tim and I have had beer in the house almost constantly, she hasn't drunk any, and since there's no other type of intoxicant available, she's been relentlessly sober. She's....not so bad, I guess. She sings a lot, and dances a lot, and has more energy than I would even WANT to have; she's loud and aggravating, but she's also sweet and very considerate and very grateful to be allowed to stay here. And she loves the hell out of Tim, unfortunately; he's still pining for Nicolette, and makes no bones about Squeaky's role in his life. He cares about her; he just doesn't plan to be her guy permanently, is all. It's a hard state of affairs for everyone concerned, really.
She's told me more of her history; if even five percent of it is true, she's had a life no one deserves. If all of it is true, or even the half of it, she's lucky to be alive, mostly sane, and mentally-functioning at all. As I said to her, after her recitation of the things her stepfather did to her: "There's a special circle of hell for some people, you know? I have to believe that, because if I didn't I'd jump off a bridge at the injustice of it all." She broke down crying at one point; I gave her a hug. It was the best I could do. "You're the only one who listens to me," she told me. "Tim doesn't want to hear it." I happen to know that Tim doesn't want to hear it because he's EXTREMELY sensitive about his friends being hurt; if he hears about it, man-like, he feels an obligation to act, and if he can't solve the problem....well, it just eats at him. I know there's nothing I can do; the past is the past, and sometimes it helps just to talk. And if I can listen, at least that's something. (But it doesn't mean she's not driving me completely bat-shit crazy...)
LJ, unexpectedly enough, showed up at the front door Thursday night. Apparently he's been in town for a couple of days; he's been staying at his mother's.
"So...was that your girl?" I asked him. "One of them, yeah," he replied coolly. "She's a headache, though...always tryin' to control my life, all 'where you goin' and 'when you comin back' and all that...And she HATES it that I still keep in touch with you," he added. "I told her ain't nothin' goin on...I told her that truck is like our kid. I let her know...'Gladys an' me are probly gonna be friends for life,' I told her," he said, which I thought was nice. He hung around for a while; he and I and Squeaky and Tim talked for a few minutes. We laughed, had a beer, talked about the situation. I told him we'd lost the house; he agreed to come back and get what little stuff was left here, which he did last night. Those twenty or thirty minutes were more comfortable than the relationship ever was.
That's not to say that everything's perfect. I'm still behind on a lot of bills, though I'm chipping away at it; we still don't have a place to go when we have to move. We haven't heard anything from Betty about her friend's amazing condo; if that doesn't work out, I'm thinking I might just get a one-bedroom or a studio closer to work. It's a little bit stressful, this not-knowing--but only a little. Really, things are good. I'm back in the groove of having a job; getting up in the morning, coming home at night, being exhausted--but in a good way. I really love my job.
In fact, I love my job so much that at the moment, I'd be happier THERE than I currently am at home. At least, it would be more peaceful. Who was that, who made the comparison between houseguests and fish? Yeah. DEFinitely. I'm weary unto death of hearing about whatever TV show or movie she just finished watching, or hearing her singing various pop songs and demanding that people watch her dance, or watching the same MadTV skit on YouTube eight times a day. Between that, and the constant married-couple bickering between her and Tim, I'll be very glad tomorrow when this little arrangement comes to an end...at least for a couple of days. I'm driving the two of them to the Cubs game, and then I guess she's going....somewhere. I'm concerned, but not terribly concerned.
I know, I know--I should be more compassionate, but seriously, I can only be so good for so long; I'm rapidly approaching the moment when I'll finally put my head through the wall in total irritation. There was a REASON I didn't have kids; and honestly, if I'd wanted a 19-year-old in my life when I was 37, I'd have had a baby at 18.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Infinitely Long List, Item One
Reasons There Is No Possible Earthly Chance That I Will Move To My Mother's House, No Matter How Financially Beneficial It Might Be For Me To Do So:
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Something That Makes Me Very Happy Indeed...
MEERKATS!!!
I loooooove me some Meerkat Manor--and FINALLY, the new season starts tonight.
(damn. those were some BIG-ass meerkats. sorry 'bout that. blogger seems to think that when I type 200%, I mean 200 POINT. Or 200 PICA, or 200 GINORMOUS UNITS. Not so much.)
I loooooove me some Meerkat Manor--and FINALLY, the new season starts tonight.
(damn. those were some BIG-ass meerkats. sorry 'bout that. blogger seems to think that when I type 200%, I mean 200 POINT. Or 200 PICA, or 200 GINORMOUS UNITS. Not so much.)
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
And I Thought Saturday Night Was Weird.
I am linking to this comment because it is easily the most fuxxored-up thing I have ever, ever, ever seen. And it comes from California. (Ooh. Shocker.)
:::shaking head:::
These people live among us. And people wonder why I have no fear of death.
************************************************************
In other news, as of today, I am officially No Longer A Homeowner.
I don't know exactly what comes next--from everything I've read, they can't put me out in the street for at least a little while--and so I'm not fretting myself about it. Seething, yes, because this didn't have to happen and it could have been stopped and the person who could have stopped it chose instead to use money as a source of control, all the while claiming it was "for the best"--yeah, for HER best--but I'm not worrying.
It's only a house. My life doesn't go with it. I am losing walls, a roof, and a floor.
I've lost many, many harder things before.
But this loss didn't have to happen. That's what galls me. That may be petty and childish, but in my heart of hearts I know WHY my mother made the decision she made, and it had nothing to do with any of her stated concerns, and everything to do with the statement I've heard at least a thousand times in the three years and ten months I've owned this building: "I wish you didn't live in That Neighborhood." THAT's what it was about, plain and simple, and I know this all the way down to my bones.
THAT's why I'm angry.
:::shaking head:::
These people live among us. And people wonder why I have no fear of death.
************************************************************
In other news, as of today, I am officially No Longer A Homeowner.
I don't know exactly what comes next--from everything I've read, they can't put me out in the street for at least a little while--and so I'm not fretting myself about it. Seething, yes, because this didn't have to happen and it could have been stopped and the person who could have stopped it chose instead to use money as a source of control, all the while claiming it was "for the best"--yeah, for HER best--but I'm not worrying.
It's only a house. My life doesn't go with it. I am losing walls, a roof, and a floor.
I've lost many, many harder things before.
But this loss didn't have to happen. That's what galls me. That may be petty and childish, but in my heart of hearts I know WHY my mother made the decision she made, and it had nothing to do with any of her stated concerns, and everything to do with the statement I've heard at least a thousand times in the three years and ten months I've owned this building: "I wish you didn't live in That Neighborhood." THAT's what it was about, plain and simple, and I know this all the way down to my bones.
THAT's why I'm angry.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
I Just Remembered Why, Part One
I just remembered why I stay home on Saturday nights.
So when last you heard from your intrepid blogger (other than a momentary interlude of NASCAR-related angst), she was leaving for the night to go take the bus to Tim's favorite bar, to catch up with Tim and a potential roomie.
The first inkling that perhaps staying home might have been a good idea: the RFK project.
The RFK project has taken over downtown--mysterious signage everywhere, odd street closures, random helicopters--and it's only if you've read the paper, watched the news or otherwise related to the city of Chicago in the past few weeks that you would know what RFK is.
RFK--abbreviation for "Rory's First Kiss"--is the code name being used for the filming of the latest "Batman" movie. The official title of this film is "The Dark Knight", but to many Chicagoans I suspect it will forever be known as "...Fucking 'Batman'".
I am now one of those Chicagoans. After a long wait while something was filmed in the path of my bus, I finally gave up and started walking. The walk eventually led me to the Red Line subway station at Jackson, which experience I shall shortly contribute to http://www.ctatattler.com/ as "When Busking Goes Wrong".
I first heard the singer as I descended the stairs. He had a very good voice--something along the lines of R.Kelly--and he was singing freestyle lyrics over R&B instrumentals. And that's where things started going bad...The lyrics were, to put it bluntly, cliched R&B dreck of the worst sort. Now you all know me by now; I loooooove me some hip-hop and some R&B--but oh, man. Many many repetitions of "she's my queeeeeen" and "she gets me...Poppin...." (lifted directly from the Chris Brown song of the same name), and lots of references to "we gotta stop hatin'" and name-drops of everyone from Michael Jackson to WGCI-FM to (of course) Jesus. All strung together with no regard for lyrical coherence or fluidity...though again, to give credit where it's due, the singer had an EXCELLENT voice. It's just his lyricist that needed killing.
And then things went from bad to....Well, to SOMETHING, anyhow.
In the midst of this string of lyrical free-association, somewhere into the song insinuated the idea of "callin' my baby". And he inserted the requisite "ring....ring...." sound effects, to convey the idea all the more thoroughly...
And the instrumental stopped.
What follows is my best recollection of what came next.
"Rrrriiiinng.......rrrrriiing.....(click noise, falsetto voice) Hello?" (pause)"Hello?"
(raspy evil voice) "I know what you did last summer!"
(pause, then falsetto) "Um.....uh.....You do?"
(raspy evil voice) "Yes...yes i do. And you wanna know what?"
(falsetto) "What?"
(r.e.v) "I've got a girl in my car, and her mouth is taped shut with duct tape, and I've got her tied up and I'm gonna drive my car into the river!"
There was more, but I was laughing too hard by this point to adequately follow. The raspy-versus-falsetto conversation went on for ten or twelve more sentences, and finally the raspy evil voice finished off with "And you know what else? I'm gonna finish singing my song now."
The instrumental resumed, and back we went to "she's my queen....she gets me poppin..."
Later--it took twenty-five eternal minutes before the train arrived--there was another "phone interlude", this one conducted with the background music still playing, in which Disinterested Manly Thug Voice informed Falsetto Hopeful "Female" Voice that no, she could NOT come to his house, because she had "bumps all around her mouth". "Don't be talkin' about me," Hopeful "Female" Voice warned Disinterested Manly Thug Voice, to which DMTV replied "You talked about me first. I gotta go." (click)
Fortunately, it was around this time that the train appeared in the distance.
Part Two, and possibly Three, to follow. It was a seriously long, weird night.
So when last you heard from your intrepid blogger (other than a momentary interlude of NASCAR-related angst), she was leaving for the night to go take the bus to Tim's favorite bar, to catch up with Tim and a potential roomie.
The first inkling that perhaps staying home might have been a good idea: the RFK project.
The RFK project has taken over downtown--mysterious signage everywhere, odd street closures, random helicopters--and it's only if you've read the paper, watched the news or otherwise related to the city of Chicago in the past few weeks that you would know what RFK is.
RFK--abbreviation for "Rory's First Kiss"--is the code name being used for the filming of the latest "Batman" movie. The official title of this film is "The Dark Knight", but to many Chicagoans I suspect it will forever be known as "...Fucking 'Batman'".
I am now one of those Chicagoans. After a long wait while something was filmed in the path of my bus, I finally gave up and started walking. The walk eventually led me to the Red Line subway station at Jackson, which experience I shall shortly contribute to http://www.ctatattler.com/ as "When Busking Goes Wrong".
I first heard the singer as I descended the stairs. He had a very good voice--something along the lines of R.Kelly--and he was singing freestyle lyrics over R&B instrumentals. And that's where things started going bad...The lyrics were, to put it bluntly, cliched R&B dreck of the worst sort. Now you all know me by now; I loooooove me some hip-hop and some R&B--but oh, man. Many many repetitions of "she's my queeeeeen" and "she gets me...Poppin...." (lifted directly from the Chris Brown song of the same name), and lots of references to "we gotta stop hatin'" and name-drops of everyone from Michael Jackson to WGCI-FM to (of course) Jesus. All strung together with no regard for lyrical coherence or fluidity...though again, to give credit where it's due, the singer had an EXCELLENT voice. It's just his lyricist that needed killing.
And then things went from bad to....Well, to SOMETHING, anyhow.
In the midst of this string of lyrical free-association, somewhere into the song insinuated the idea of "callin' my baby". And he inserted the requisite "ring....ring...." sound effects, to convey the idea all the more thoroughly...
And the instrumental stopped.
What follows is my best recollection of what came next.
"Rrrriiiinng.......rrrrriiing.....(click noise, falsetto voice) Hello?" (pause)"Hello?"
(raspy evil voice) "I know what you did last summer!"
(pause, then falsetto) "Um.....uh.....You do?"
(raspy evil voice) "Yes...yes i do. And you wanna know what?"
(falsetto) "What?"
(r.e.v) "I've got a girl in my car, and her mouth is taped shut with duct tape, and I've got her tied up and I'm gonna drive my car into the river!"
There was more, but I was laughing too hard by this point to adequately follow. The raspy-versus-falsetto conversation went on for ten or twelve more sentences, and finally the raspy evil voice finished off with "And you know what else? I'm gonna finish singing my song now."
The instrumental resumed, and back we went to "she's my queen....she gets me poppin..."
Later--it took twenty-five eternal minutes before the train arrived--there was another "phone interlude", this one conducted with the background music still playing, in which Disinterested Manly Thug Voice informed Falsetto Hopeful "Female" Voice that no, she could NOT come to his house, because she had "bumps all around her mouth". "Don't be talkin' about me," Hopeful "Female" Voice warned Disinterested Manly Thug Voice, to which DMTV replied "You talked about me first. I gotta go." (click)
Fortunately, it was around this time that the train appeared in the distance.
Part Two, and possibly Three, to follow. It was a seriously long, weird night.
Circles of Hell and the People Who Live There
There is a special circle in hell for people who use publically-available information (i.e. foreclosure listings) to hassle and harass individuals who already have enough worries on their plate, thank you very much.
I have now received two letters--one I could tell was a possible lie, but the other of which looked very legal in nature, with a "docket number" and everything--which both indicated sale dates on my house. The legal one convinced me, and I assumed that all was lost on July 31st. A couple days later, Tim called me at work to let me know that "the appraisers from the bank" were here to take pictures of the house. Since no one had told him anything, Tim did not allow them in; since no one had notified me they were coming, I told him to tell them that they could come back when proper arrangements had been made with me. I assumed the house had been sold, based on this info.
It hadn't. Had I known, I would have spent those few days exploring options.
In an effort to find out WHO had bought my house, I called my mortgage company. They told me the sale date had NOT passed; it had, however, been set for August 7th. This Tuesday. I found this out Friday at about 4:30 PM.
I'd already accepted the inevitable; it just burns me that I was misled to believe that it was MORE inevitable than it actually was. And apparently all this crap is legal--phone calls and letters from people "interested in the property"--Those "interested" parties --better known as VULTURES--have not only called my number, but also my mother's. Whenever my mother gets a call about any financial matter of mine, it sends her into a tizzy. Not enough of a tizzy to help me save the house, of course; enough of a tizzy to give me a thorough questioning about my personal affairs. I have begun to believe that my reckless impulse to help people regardless of my OWN condition may very well spring from my mother's over-cautiousness in this regard. She will give me enough financial assistance to keep me functional; she will not help me enough to keep me INDEPENDENT, regardless of the fact that I have addressed all her concerns about "I don't want to get stuck with the mortgage if something happened to you." Yeah, see, that's why I signed up at my job for life insurance worth about twice the value of the house... Long and short of it--she wants me HOME. HER home, not mine.
I'm off now to Tim's favorite bar, to meet one of the bartenders who's a friend of his, a girl who needs a potential roomie. I may be back on the North Side soon...not the worst idea, by any stretch of the imagination.
The job, by the way, continues to go splendidly. I've already had my first Really Bad Day Where Everything Went Wrong, and I think I handled it well; I just went to my boss and confessed my screw-up, and we talked about it and decided how to handle it and then it was pretty much forgotten. It's nice to be treated as an adult...
...which is why I'd pretty much rather chew off my limbs, at this moment, than go to live at Mom's.
I have now received two letters--one I could tell was a possible lie, but the other of which looked very legal in nature, with a "docket number" and everything--which both indicated sale dates on my house. The legal one convinced me, and I assumed that all was lost on July 31st. A couple days later, Tim called me at work to let me know that "the appraisers from the bank" were here to take pictures of the house. Since no one had told him anything, Tim did not allow them in; since no one had notified me they were coming, I told him to tell them that they could come back when proper arrangements had been made with me. I assumed the house had been sold, based on this info.
It hadn't. Had I known, I would have spent those few days exploring options.
In an effort to find out WHO had bought my house, I called my mortgage company. They told me the sale date had NOT passed; it had, however, been set for August 7th. This Tuesday. I found this out Friday at about 4:30 PM.
I'd already accepted the inevitable; it just burns me that I was misled to believe that it was MORE inevitable than it actually was. And apparently all this crap is legal--phone calls and letters from people "interested in the property"--Those "interested" parties --better known as VULTURES--have not only called my number, but also my mother's. Whenever my mother gets a call about any financial matter of mine, it sends her into a tizzy. Not enough of a tizzy to help me save the house, of course; enough of a tizzy to give me a thorough questioning about my personal affairs. I have begun to believe that my reckless impulse to help people regardless of my OWN condition may very well spring from my mother's over-cautiousness in this regard. She will give me enough financial assistance to keep me functional; she will not help me enough to keep me INDEPENDENT, regardless of the fact that I have addressed all her concerns about "I don't want to get stuck with the mortgage if something happened to you." Yeah, see, that's why I signed up at my job for life insurance worth about twice the value of the house... Long and short of it--she wants me HOME. HER home, not mine.
I'm off now to Tim's favorite bar, to meet one of the bartenders who's a friend of his, a girl who needs a potential roomie. I may be back on the North Side soon...not the worst idea, by any stretch of the imagination.
The job, by the way, continues to go splendidly. I've already had my first Really Bad Day Where Everything Went Wrong, and I think I handled it well; I just went to my boss and confessed my screw-up, and we talked about it and decided how to handle it and then it was pretty much forgotten. It's nice to be treated as an adult...
...which is why I'd pretty much rather chew off my limbs, at this moment, than go to live at Mom's.
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