Things I Totally Don't Understand

I have just discovered something, and it disturbs me.

Apparently, I am the only person I know who does not actively hate Hispanic people.

I know Tim has issues with them--it's a gang thing; I know a lot of other people who have problems with their existence in this country for economic reasons, legal reasons, reasons of percieved unfairness. And tonight, driving her to pick up a pizza and some cigarettes, I had to explain to Squeaky--several times, and rather emphatically--why I didn't want to hear her "really, really funny" Mexican joke.

My mom came back from a family gathering a few weeks back to report that my aunt Linda--not my least-favorite one, but definitely not a very nice person anyway--was up in arms because of something she'd heard. Apparently some friends from their former neighborhood, which is adjacent to the Catholic cemetery where my father and my grandparents, among various other relatives, are buried, told her that "the Mexicans have picnics by the graves!!!" They were absolutely horrified at this; my aunt, predictably, was also disgusted. "It's disrespectful!" she insisted. (Talk about the mourners weeping louder than the bereaved--this is my aunt by marriage, and it's her in-laws buried there, not her parents. And none of her blood relatives are buried there, nor will any of her family end up there when the time comes. Yet she was the one making the squawk about it, from what Mom said.)

And of course, because one group of individuals from a certain culture has done one thing that upsets you, that makes the entire culture morally suspect, and from Mom's report, the conversation moved on to a wholesale bashing of Hispanics in general. (Ever notice how such conversations, even if they don't descend as far as ethnic slurs, always refer to the people in question as "Mexicans"? Thousands of years of advanced and highly differentiated cultures, all summed up in one word that's almost no longer the name of a nationality--in the hands of these people, it's more a pejorative, full of subtexts and Frito-Bandito stereotypes.) To give her credit, Mom was more disgusted by Linda and her whining than about the alleged atrocity of "picnicking" at the graves. Frankly, I've seen way more Caucasians do that than Hispanics, anyway.

I understand immigration is a hot-button issue, though there are days I think I'm the only one who holds my particular view*; what I entirely fail to understand, though, is the degree of animosity towards a group of people who are only making the same effort that most of us are making every day: to create a good, comfortable, reasonably-easy life for themselves and their families. I don't understand the hate.

But then again, I rarely do. I may not be a "people person", and I can't say I'm too fond of humanity as a whole, but that's a general thing, brought on by my own love of solitude; breaking it down any further than that, I can think of maybe one group of people I can honestly say I despise. ** (Individuals, however, are a whole 'nother matter; there are plenty of them I can't stand to be in the same room with. But that's because they're annoying, or bigoted, or controlling--not because they're white, black, red, brown, or yellow. (Orange, however--now THAT's a problem, because: lay off the fake tanner, okay? I don't CARE what the box says: it does NOT look natural.))

Overall, though, this realization kinda makes me want to look for an apartment in Pilsen.*** (After all...it WOULD insure that Tim and Squeaky stayed away....)

_____________________________________________________________

*My view on immigration and the like: in my opinion, it's nothing to get up in arms about, since national boundaries should not be considered sacrosanct, since they're just man-made abstractions created by those in power at a given moment, carefully calculated to maintain their own best advantage without depriving the guys on the other side enough to instigate a conflict.

**In case you're interested? They're the ones who don't pull up close to the car in front of them, thus occupying TWO entire parking spaces and making it necessary for me to park nearly a mile from work under a viaduct with thirteen other cars, all of whose owners returned at the end of the day to find tickets attached to their windows, regardless of the fact that there was not a single, solitary sign or indicator that parking was not allowed there.

***A highly Hispanic neighborhood, with AWESOME food, on the near South Side of Chicago.

Cross...Everything!

Ladies and gentlemen--barring the intervention of a vengeful deity who would CLEARLY have to hate me--I am losing my roommates.

That’s a fairly-optimistic assessment of the situation, since they’ll still be around—but according to the arrangements discussed over the past few days, they will no longer be LIVING with me. Per those discussions, here’s how it’s gonna go:

1. Tim is going to talk to Betty about that condo. I’m pretty much over that idea—for one, I’m fairly sure it will be expensive as hell; and for another, I really don’t have time left to wait on Betty’s schedule.

2. If the condo thing fails, we’re going to see if Betty wants to get a different place with me. Again, not my absolutely favorite idea, but if it will cut costs, I’ll deal with it. She shouldn’t be difficult to live with…though I hope to hell that’s not Famous Last Words.

3. If Betty doesn’t want to get a place, then I’ll get a studio or one-bedroom on my own. This is my favorite option.

4. And no matter what—Tim and Squeaky are getting THEIR OWN PLACE.
:::dance of unrestrained joy!!!:::

I’m sure they’ll still be a part of my life—Tim said as much, though I think he meant it in a good way, as in “we’re not abandoning you”—and he also made it very clear that this whole Squeaky interlude, while it has taken all our collective time and energy, does not mean that he’s abandoned all the plans we made before she showed up. (“Plans?” you ask. See, Tim and I had a long talk several months ago, probably a month or two after he moved in. We’ve pretty much accepted that we’re one of the world’s great celibate old married couple, and we’ve decided to just be happy with that, and work together on our assorted goals, and eventually be like, eighty years old, living in a little house in Wisconsin, still bickering about whether you should use a nonstick or a regular pan to make grilled cheese. I know I get frustrated with Tim, and a lot of people in my life question why I keep him around—well, in a nutshell, it’s because he’s good company. He has his quirks, but so do I, and our quirks seem to fit together well. As he said last night, up til the drama started, this was basically the best summer either of us had had in a long time.)

So Tim and I are still good friends...which doesn't mean I don't want to strangle him, at least three times a day. I can't believe the way he's doing things, and how much of it sounds like he's using ME as an excuse for all the stuff that he's not doing. He couldn't go out looking for work Saturday...because I had my bus pass and he can't find his. He hasn't been working hard on getting a job...because he knows how much help I'M going to need with getting things together for the move, and he's not comfortable taking a job under those circumstances. Jigga-WHAT? If he and Squeaky don't both have jobs within the next couple weeks or so, there's no way they're going to be able to get a place! Squeaky, at least, has a couple of good possibilities--Tim's got basically nuthin'. And basically, all they've both been doing for the better part of a week now has been sleeping all day and puttering around watching movies all night. I'm in NO way implying that I'm in any way superior--when I didn't have a job, that's largely what I did too--but the difference was, in my field, I could at least put in applications online during those middle-of-the-night rambles. Restaurant staff don't have that luxury--they need to pound the pavement. And for the most part, these two aren't doing that. They've even gone looking at apartments--again, jigga-WHAAAAT? And you were going to get these apartments with WHAT, exactly? Champagne wishes and caviar dreams?

Then there's the whole Betty debacle. (Keep in mind the following: Tim is not affected by the Betty situation--he already knows that if I DO live with Betty, there's ZERO chance she'll put up with Squeaky even temporarily; and if I DON'T live with Betty, I'll probably get a studio and there's ZERO chance of him and Squeaky staying with me, even temporarily. So it's not like putting it off benefits him in any way, nor does it hurt him. Also, Tim is the main one advocating this living-with-Betty idea; I've been willing to say "forget it" for WEEKS, and go find something for myself, but Tim keeps telling me to keep an open mind about it, because he knows she's having a hard time right now too--and I have, as a favor to him.) Tim is basically my main contact with Betty. We have each other's phone numbers, but for most of last week, Tim's and my cell phones were turned off for late payment. So all last week, I was asking Tim to go up to the bar where Betty works and find out what the situation was. Monday they didn't go anywhere because his shoulder hurt and his sleep schedule was messed up. Tuesday they didn't go because he and Squeaky were putting out applications, and they were too far from the bar, and anyway he couldn't just walk into the bar with no money. Wednesday, I left him $20 so he couldn't use THAT one anymore--and when I got home, the $20 was gone, but he hadn't gone to see Betty because they were dealing with Squeaky trying to get a job, and getting some clothes to wear if she gets one, and blah blah blah. And Betty only works thru Wednesday, apparently, so there would be no point of going on Thursday or Friday--and Thursday morning there was a note on the fridge, asking if I could leave him $8 for cigarettes.

Now, all this mess doesn't screw me up at all--aside from the $28, it doesn't cost me a damn thing--but it slows down my progress, makes it harder for me to plan, and annoys the holy crap out of me. I told Tim that if I don't have a concrete answer from Betty as far as housing plans by the end of this week, I'm considering the matter closed. I also texted Betty, telling her to call me as soon as she can so we can get things settled. That's all I can do--and to be honest, I'm really hoping I DON'T hear anything. I would honestly rather live by myself; I'm only going along with this because Betty seems like a decent person and Tim has asked me to consider it as an option. But we got a letter from the lawyers last week, and if that letter is to be believed, time is running VERY short. I can't control what Tim and Squeaky's situation will be when time runs out; I can only control MY situation, so that's what I'm going to do. But as I do so, I'm going to make it VERY VERY clear to Tim: I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I will not accept it if he, finding himself and his passenger in an uncomfortable situation in the future, attempts to put any sort of responsibility for that situation on ME. He has lived here for eleven months, and I have given him ample opportunity to improve his situation during that time; he chose not to take that opportunity, and that was HIS choice, not mine. If he and Squeaky find themselves homeless because they don't have jobs, or haven't had them long enough to save for an apartment, that's entirely not my fault, and entirely not my responsibility to rescue them again.

(Firefly thinks it's going to go differently; she thinks I'm gonna end up with these two on my hands just the same as they are now. As I told her, I plan to get an apartment small enough to make that an impossibility; I'll gladly give up some space in exchange for peace, quiet, and an end to the eternal, hell-begotten SINGING.)

I love Tim to pieces, and in past times I've seen him act like a responsible, mature adult; I know it can happen because I've WITNESSED it. When he's on his own and not involved with anyone, he can work hard, save money, and pay his bills on time. That's why I took him in this last time, because I knew he COULD do it. And when Squeaky came into the picture, he'd just started at a job; he hadn't made much, but he was WORKING. Then comes the Squeakster, and poof-- Responsible Tim is replaced by this other guy, who's making no money, no progress, nothing but excuses. And this is the worst possible time for THAT Tim to show up.

I hope he makes it all work out for himself, but I have my own problems right now. I'll help him where I can, but I also have to take care of myself.

Heretic

Here's the thing, see:

I don't believe it.

Wow, I hear you say. That's really totally insensitive, isn't it? I mean, obviously something really bad happened to her, and obviously she's totally traumatized by it; isn't it petty to be getting all persnickety about details??

And yeah--yeah it is. But some details are a little more crucial than others, aren't they?

Aren't they?

Details like these, for instance:

1. You claim that the first time you noticed anything wrong was after, you say, someone put something in your drink. Except...You're supposedly sober for two months. So what were you doing drinking? Well, see, it wasn't my fault...someone put their cup down, and it was Hennessy, and they put it right next to my Sprite, and I picked it up and took a drink by mistake. And when I get a taste of alcohol, even a little taste, then I can't stop. Well, I said. If that's the case, and you'll pardon my assholeness here? But you might wanna pay closer attention to which cups you're picking up-- BEFORE you drink out of them.

2. You were at the hospital...Did they call the police? No. It was like...they were all part of the plot. Some of them, I don't think were even hospital people at all. So nobody called the police. Okay...Did you tell them you were raped? Yeah. Did they do a rape kit? No....I told you, I don't think they were all hospital people! They said....(insert threats that make no sense). But they didn't do a rape kit or call the police, even though you told them you were raped. Right.

3. Things inside my OWN head: It's funny, isn't it, that these catastrophes always seem to arise when she's NOT at our house? When she's at her dad's, or about to leave to go to her dad's, or staying somewhere OTHER than my residence....suddenly there are men out there trying to rape her, or succeeding in raping her, or planning to rape her...

Look. I've been there too. I had two situations in my earlier life which could have been construed as date rape. I'm not comparing that to any more-violent situation--I realize that mine was a mild situation, barely deserving of the word. And I recognize that there ARE women who have experienced violent sexual victimization, and I am the last person in the world who would want to be seen as a doubter.

BUT.

There are words that demand attention. The first time your four-year-old says that word she heard Daddy say when he was fixing the sink and dropped the pipe-wrench on his head, she gets attention. Immediate, highly-focused attention.

The undereducated white guy driving down the street when he gets cut off by a black female driver--he has some words that get attention too. Depending on the woman, they also get him a jack-handle through the side-view mirror, but that, too, is attention.

And women...we have a word too. Women who say it about famous men...they get all types of attention. Media attention...legal attention...attention from other women. All kinds of attention--positive and negative.

That's when you're famous. When you're NOT famous, though...well, you can still use that word to get attention...even if it's just from your semi-boyfriend, who may or may not still be considering whether or not you're really in a RELATIONSHIP or whether it's just a fling.

Or, as she put it...

"I think he's even more thinking about it since THIS happened."

The "it" he's supposedly thinking about, should you wonder? Apparently the two of them, unbeknownst to me, have been for some time discussing the possibility of getting an apartment together, when the moving day comes. (I'd asked Tim as much the other day: "So have you considered getting an apartment with Squeaky?" I asked him. "We talked about it," he admitted. I tried to repress my joy. But it's another thing to discover that this may have been in the works for QUITE a while before this incident.)

Strange, isn't it? that This would happen when she's just trying to convince Tim to get a place with her?

I don't want to be petty. I don't want to be a doubter.

But I don't completely believe this story.

"Weird" Is Not Even the Word

Aaaaaaand it gets weirder.

I'm having a difficult time wrapping my brain around this situation, so I'm going to relate the facts as I understand them.

At 6 this morning, I awoke to a tap on the leg from Tim. We'd both stayed up late last night, drinking beer and just generally relaxing; I'd finally fallen asleep around 4, so I was apparently pretty difficult to wake.

"Um, can you give me a ride? Squeaky's in the hospital again," he said.

We drove to the hospital--not the same one we'd taken her to the other night, but one a fair bit closer to home--and I dropped him off. We were both assuming it was Squeaky's stomach again.

I stopped at McDonalds and picked up some breakfast and came home. There were a couple of messages from Squeaky's dad, asking if she was here; just as I finished eating, he called again, and I told him what I knew--that she was in the E.R, probably with her stomach complaint again. He said she'd gone out last night with his upstairs neighbor--a woman he's apparently known for about a year--and that she hadn't come back. I assured him that I knew where she was, and that she'd probably call him soon. I sent a text message to Tim for him to call Squeaky's dad, and then about 8 AM, I went to bed. I set my alarm for 10:40, since I had a noon appointment with Dr. J on the north side of the city.

At a couple minutes after 9, the phone rang. "Hey, um..." said Tim. "Listen, I don't have my bus card, and anyway they wouldn't let Squeaky on the bus because she doesn't have any shoes, and they're gonna discharge her in a few minutes....she's really fucked up..."

"What, did they give her pain meds or something?"

"Nah," he said. "She got raped by them Kings over in Humboldt Park. They drugged her up, too. Drugged her up and raped her."

"Holy shit," I said. "Damn. Yeah, I'll be there in a little bit."

I pulled up to the hospital and Tim and Squeaky walked out. Or rather, Tim walked; Squeaky leaned on him. She was moving very slowly, obviously in pain. While we drove home, she made a couple of phone calls; from what I overheard, I gathered a little of what had happened. She told someone "Yeah, I relapsed last night," and made arrangements for her dad to pick up some of her belongings from a friend's house, which Tim was supposedly going to get later. I dropped them off--Squeaky needed substantial help from Tim to get out of the car and up the steps--and went to my appointment.

I came home, fixed a sandwich, and went straight to bed. I slept like a stone for quite a while, and came downstairs around 8 PM. Around 9, as I heated up some leftovers, Squeaky emerged from Tim's room, on her way to the bathroom.

"How you doin', lady?" I asked.
Her voice was hoarse. "I have bruises all over my body and I feel like shit," she said. She showed me her arms; they were covered with bruises, like big finger-marks, all the way from the upper arm to her hands. "And I can't use this hand because it hurts so much. Do you have some ice I could use?"

I fixed her an icepack, and she went back into Tim's room for a while. When she came out, she started telling me what had happened.

The story she told was so crazy-sounding, so fantastical, that she said she knew nobody would believe her. It started out normally enough--she had left her dad's place with his upstairs neighbor. "My dad trusted her, so I figured I could trust her too, right? He was okay for me to go out with her..."

At one point last night, around 10 or 11 PM, Squeaky had called and said she was on her way over--that this woman was going to give her a ride over here. Then that plan changed, and Tim said she wasn't coming after all because "the girl who's driving wants to go see her baby-daddy," Tim said.

What neither Tim nor Squeaky knew was that the baby-daddy in question lived in Humboldt Park. *note below When they arrived, Squeaky protested, repeating that she really, really wanted to come over here and see Tim instead. "No, no," the girl apparently told her. "These guys are cool."

This is the last point at which the story makes perfect sense. From here, it gets dodgy. Not that I disbelieve her--I want to make that clear. I don't doubt that she THINKS some of these things happened, but...

I'm ahead of myself.

There were apparently several people in this place the neighbor took her, and at one point one (possibly more) of the guys wanted Squeaky to come for a ride with him. She didn't want to go but the neighbor said he was okay, that she should go with him and just relax, and that nothing would happen because if anything happened, Squeaky's dad was going to blame HER (the neighbor). Squeaky resisted, saying she still would rather go to see Tim, but the neighbor was adamant and said that if she didn't go, it would mess up her (the neighbor's) relationship with the baby-daddy, and blah blah blah. So against her better judgement, Squeaky went with the guy.

ALSO against her better judgement (she claims), she was persuaded to have a couple of drinks. She says she really, really didn't want to drink--she's been sober for a couple of months now--but that the guy pressured her. She said that after the drinks, she started feeling really strange--like her limbs were going numb, and her brain was fogged, and all sorts of other uncomfortable sensations. (I'm thinking the guy slipped her something in her drink.)

THEN, she says, he started trying to make a move on her, and she told him not to touch her--that if her "man"--meaning Tim--found out that he'd done anything to her, Tim would kill him. She fought him off, she said. Later, she says, he stopped to get some weed, and she took two hits.

This was where things got really, REALLY weird.

She claims she jumped out of the car at a stop sign, because she had called the neighbor to tell her to come rescue her, and when she asked the guy where they were, his answer didn't match the street signs she could see, so she got out of the car to check for herself. She claims she passed a cop car, but when she told them she was in trouble they said "I don't give a shit" and "Don't make me shoot you" and such; that they were in marked police cars but wouldn't show her a badge and wouldn't help her....

The story went on like this for a long time. At one point she was in a church that wasn't a church, because there was one white person speaking English and a lot of black people speaking in tongues, and they tied her down and put some sort of liquid on her which made her skin numb, and some guy made her repeat something after him...and there was an ambulance, except the people driving it weren't paramedics, and she said they were going to set it on fire...and on and on.

My suspicion here is that either her drink, or the weed, or both, contained some sort of hallucinogens--PCP, maybe, is Tim's guess. I'm pretty sure that all sorts of seriously-disturbing things happened to her, but that the cult/church and the fake cops and fake paramedics and being chained to the rails inside the ambulance...that all of that was the result of her seriously-altered perceptions. (Even when she was staying here before, I'd commented to Tim on her seeming inability to tell fact from fiction and reality from unreality; I'm sure THAT little quirk of personality is involved here as well.) She swears up and down that all of these things happened, and I'm sure, in her mind, that they did.

What is NOT called into dispute, though: the girl is COVERED in bruises. She was clearly hurt, and she clearly gave a good fight. She said she was combative in the hospital when she finally woke up, even to the point of yelling at Tim, when he arrived, that HE was part of this big conspiracy too. (She had convinced herself, at some point, that there was a small group of people who were in on this plan to hurt her; she says that the people she saw at the house when she arrived were the same people who were supposedly paramedics and police; that this same group was in the "church" and on the streets in the area. I don't know WHAT to make of that.) I'm sure some of the bruises were from the medical personnel trying to keep her from hurting herself or anyone else. She also says it took them a couple of hours to get her name and contact info out of her, because she was convinced that the people in the hospital were part of the plot as well. She says she thought they were going to kill her, and that she also thought they were going kill Tim, and she begged them not to kill Tim, to kill her instead.

She's absolutely devastated, to say the least. She's scared to be alone, and claims she's never going anywhere alone again, ever. She's very obviously been traumatized--there's not the slightest sense that she's faking. I don't know how much of what she says is true; the bulk of the story, as far as I can see, is the result of horribly-distorted perceptions caused by whatever these assholes spiked her drink or her weed with. She swears they're not--she is absolutely SURE that everything happened exactly as she remembers--which, to me, would be enough reason to be traumatized all on its own! But it's very obvious that she was victimized in some manner. I didn't press for info about the rape--whether the hospital had done a rape kit or anything--but I did ask if the police were called, and she said no. She has no recollection of how she even got to the hospital; my guess is that the "fake" ambulance, supposedly part of the plot, was actually real.

The hell of this? According to Squeaky, her father is still defending the upstairs neighbor--the one who brought her into this situation. Tim, of course, is livid. I'm hoping HE doesn't do something stupid as "revenge".

I told her I'd give her a ride up to her dad's tomorrow, so she can collect her stuff; before this happened, Tim had approached me with a request: that Squeaky be allowed to stay here til we move, to make it easier for her to get to the job that's waiting for her (downtown) and so that she can give a Chicago address to the social-services agencies; apparently some programs are only available to city residents, and her dad's address is in the suburbs. I told him yes, but SOLELY ON THE CONDITION THAT her residency with us ends the moment we move, and that any attempt to extend it beyond that point will be considered a dealbreaker as regards the continuation of our roommate-ship. He agreed to that condition--and several others, such as "she has to bring her own toiletries, because I'm tired of her using all my shampoo".

This new development, as I told Dr. J today, will not shake my resolve. (I was proceeding on very sketchy reports of what had happened, but I'd seen enough to know, even before I got the story, that something bad had clearly taken place.) She can stay til we move--which will be happening by the end of October at the VERY latest--but once we move, if Tim wants to live with her he'll have to get them an apartment together, because I'm not going down that road. That's what I told him in the first place, and that doesn't change because of what happened to her.

But oh, my god, do I feel bad for that poor girl. All my animosity towards her has gone; I just feel really, really bad for her. Nobody should have to live the life she's had; no matter what percentage of the bad decisions have been hers, that doesn't excuse the bastards who have taken advantage of her. Like everyone else, when she said "No" that should have been respected; like everyone else, no matter if she'd made a bad decision, she's still a human being and should have been treated as such. I can't begin to describe how sad her story makes me, or how angry--or how lucky I feel, to have had the life I've had, because no matter what has happened in my life, it's mostly stuff I've brought on myself--not stuff that other people have inflicted on me.

And again: she's only nineteen years old. I know some EIGHTY-year-olds, and not ONE of them has had HALF the bad things happen to them that have happened to Squeaky in those nineteen years. No matter what part she's played by making bad decisions--nobody, NOBODY, deserves the things that have happened to her.


*Non-Chicagoans--Humboldt Park is a neighborhood in Chicago, about a mile to three miles north and two to four miles east of where we live. It's predominantly Hispanic; though it's been in the process of gentrifying for about fifteen years now, there are still very rough patches here and there. JP lived in Humboldt Park when he and I first started seeing each other, back in 1994, and when my ex found out where I'd been going every night, he referred to it as "a demilitarized zone". Tim has an instinctive fear of H.P., because it's predominantly Latin Kings territory and Tim affiliates himself with a rival organization.

Long Story Short

Squeaky Liberation Day, as EZ has so neatly phrased it, actually happened a few hours early.

Remember the "shooting pains" and "exploding" internal organs? Well, we ended up spending the wee hours of Monday morning in the emergency room of Hospital Not Even Remotely Near Here, Which She Had To Go To For Reasons Which Were Never Made Clear. After a couple of hours of watching a Lifetime movie on the waiting-room screen, I was set free and told by Tim to go home and get some rest--I had an eye appointment at 10 the next morning, with an hour to hour-fifteen commute to get there.

Tim stayed with Squeaky. At first they said it was her gallbladder, but the test results nixed that; then they said her appendix, which (from what little I know of medicine) was pretty much anatomically impossible, judging from where the pain was, though my mom says sometimes it travels; then they said her white blood cell count was very high, and thought maybe it was her pancreas...

...and then they sent her home and told her not to eat spicy foods. No antibiotics, nothin'--they just sent her home (which in this case was her dad's place, thank all the gods) and told her to rest. From what Tim says, she apparently feels a little better, but still--who sees a diagnosis of "elevated white cell count" and says "too many burritos"?? Tim wasn't very impressed with the hospital either, but what can you do??

Anyway, she's there. And Tim and I had a very long talk last night, and I'm hopeful that he got the point. We shall see--but the important thing is, the Catastrophe is now Squeak-less. And it's wonderful!

I don't hate the kid. I really, truly don't. I feel sorry for her, which isn't the best position from which to approach a fellow human being--she's survived this long, after all, and she doesn't need my pity!--but her life so far has been so awful that I can't HELP but feel bad. I don't dislike her.

But I DO dislike her presence, and what it does to the dynamic of the house, and what it does to my routine, and my peace and quiet, and my normal way of living, and...You get the point. If she would just sit down somewhere and be quiet for an hour or two at a time, it would go a long way towards ameliorating my annoyance. But it's not going to happen--and I understand she can't really help it, but that doesn't make it any better. In fact, it makes it WORSE, because not only am I annoyed, but I also feel GUILTY for feeling annoyed, knowing that it's not really her FAULT that I'm annoyed.

Which is why it is such a priceless relief to have her not be here anymore.

Crossing All My Fingers

Barring an unforeseen catastrophe, Squeaky will be leaving tomorrow and will be gone for "at least two weeks". (I place that in quotes because if I have anything at all to say about it--and I should, what with it being MY FRACKING HOUSE AND EVERYTHING--that "two weeks" will stretch to approximately "the end of time".) I'm dropping her off at her dad's house, on the way to my opthalmologist appointment. And then, dilated pupils and all, I'm going to come home and fix myself a big celebratory meal, of all the things I denied myself while she was here (because I didn't feel like buying/paying for/cooking three of them. There's a steak with my name on it, somewhere.)

(Oddly enough, as I typed this: Tim came out of their room and told me that she's not feeling well; that she has a pain just below her ribs, that she felt "a pressure" and then "like something exploded". I have heard about every...single....solitary ache and pain that this child has experienced: stuffy sinuses and a head cold ($30-plus for Benadryl--the drowsy AND the non-drowsy--and Mucinex), sore foot, a boil on her butt (yeah, really)--and it's tempting not to take this seriously, but I don't want to be cruel, either, if she really IS in pain. I'm in a wait-and-see posture, at the moment. But if this child doesn't get out of my house and out of my life, post-haste, I'm going to lose what fragments of my sanity remain.)

Memos to the World

Dear World:

It has come to my attention that there are some issues we need to address. Please read this memo carefully, as you will be held responsible for the contents.

1. Regarding your attire: No matter what "fashion" appears to dictate or condone, any article of clothing tight enough to EMPHASIZE your fat-rolls is unacceptable. This includes t-shirts three sizes too small and made of spandex, especially when worn with jeans so tight as to cause the aforementioned fat rolls to hang over the waistband and under the hem of the shirt. (Teenage girl on the corner of 55th and Racine, I'm speaking to you especially. Seldom have I felt such a nearly-irresistable desire to stop a moving vehicle and remonstrate with a fellow human being regarding their choice of apparel, but...Honey, that was the biggest mess I've ever seen. Don't you own a MIRROR? And furthermore, WHERE is your mama, or any other sane human being with functioning eyeballs, who should have stopped you from walking out the HOUSE like that???)

2. Regarding the upcoming television season: Anyone caught watching that "Caveman" show will be subject to immediate and severe ostracism of undetermined duration. (The show is based on a freaking INSURANCE COMMERCIAL for G*d's sweet sake. I know Hollywood has supposedly reached the bottom of the barrel, but seriously: do we need such blatant evidence? Also, those things scare me.)

3. Regarding cuisine: A new benchmarking system has been adopted, as regards who will be allowed to prepare food. It is a very simple system, as it contains exactly one rule: If you cannot cook rice properly, you need to put DOWN your spoon and back AWAY from the kitchen. We are willing to concede that there are two schools of thought as to whether rice should be sticky or separate; however, the following rules are agreed-upon by most thinking peoples the world over: 1. Cooked rice is not CRUNCHY. 2. Cooked rice contains SALT. The amount of salt is open for discussion, but there must be at least a LITTLE. (Cafeteria at Wonderful-Place-Where-I-Work, I am looking directly at you. What you did to those enchiladas a couple of weeks ago was bad enough, but that rice on Friday was simply inhumane.)

The preceding policies take effect immediately, and will be added to as circumstances demand. Thank you for your cooperation.

Sincerely,
Gladys J Cortez, Ruler of This Blog.

This Has Got To End.

From a conversation that occurred at 5:00 this morning, roughly:

Tim seems to think that he is to Squeaky what I am to him: he sees himself as the person who looks out for her, the one who cares about her when nobody else does--the way I do for him.

Okay, fine. Admirable, even. If you've got something to teach her that you think will help her handle her life better, then by all means go for it, and good luck to you.

But then don't go getting blotto-drunk and traumatizing the poor kid by doing stupid shit like threatening to kill yourself and/or cutting your wrists with a steak knife.

And then don't get pissed at her for being scared and waking me up because she doesn't have any idea how to deal with it. Or defend it as an attempt to make a point. You don't make a point by cutting yourself. (unless the point is "I am absolutely batshit crazy, and also very drunk." If that was the point? You've made it admirably.) You don't make a point by scaring the hell out of someone. So don't get pissed at her for dealing with it in the only way she could...

Then ESPECIALLY don't get pissed at ME for being pissed at YOU instead of Squeaky--"she shouldn't have woke you up!" Well yeah--and she wouldn't have, if you hadn't scared her half to death (and apparently opened up some old psychic wounds, as well.)

And Squeaky? When the situation is calming down? The sarcastic remarks calculated to piss Tim off? They don't help. Really. Shutting up--THAT helps. Rule #1: Do NOT poke the crazy.

Once the merriment and festivities had died down, the following facts were explained to Tim:

1. It is my FUCKING DAY OFF. This drama was not appreciated. This drama WILL NOT RECUR. That is a declarative sentence--not a request.

2. The day we move out of this house--no matter where we move to, no matter whether we move by ourselves or whether there are other roomies involved--is the LAST day that Squeaky will be living with us. Once we're in the new place, I am not putting up with this.

3. Any attempt to ignore #2 will be considered a total dealbreaker. Regardless of our friendship, regardless of our history, if you insist on poisoning my personal space with this ridiculous situation, I will GLADLY live on my own rather than put up with this childish crap. I understand that you are trying to help, but this Sid-and-Nancy-Lite shit is not helping anyone, least of all ME.

4. Your attempts to emulate me, by helping someone obviously in need of it, are appreciated. Your methods, however, are at times misguided (and at other times, COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE and inappropriate) and you might think about how the potential outcomes.

5. Did I mention about it being my day off? Have we not, for some time now, maintained an understanding about my personal space? Then stop setting off the drama. It's every bit as much your doing as Squeaky's--more, really, since you're the one who knows better.

I don't know how thoroughly my statements sunk in--for one thing, they were percolating through a thick layer of Miller High Life, and were probably garbled on the trip--but at least I've said my piece. If necessary, I will repeat it.

It has also become obvious that I cannot have beer (or any other alcohol) in this house. Not that it's such a great loss for me--summer's almost over anyway, and that's the only time I ever really drink--but it's become apparent to me that for Tim, beer is like rocket-fuel for his inner butthead. This is the third or fourth time I've had to involve myself in their little interpersonal crises, and each time there was alcohol involved. It's like in the I Has A Sweet Potato story: "WE JUST WON'T HAVE ANY ROOT VEGETABLES ANYMORE. THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY?" Except in this case, it's beer. (I only WISH it was root vegetables. I've never heard of anyone becoming a jerk after an overdose of yams.) Like I said--beerlessness is no great hardship for me. I just happen to enjoy a couple of Coronas after a hard day's work; I'll just have to find something else to enjoy after a hard day's work instead. (Breyers' Caramel Pretzel ice cream is looking like a good candidate. In the words of lolcats everywhere, nom nom nom.)

So all in all, this so-called "long weekend" has been a total loss: Friday night I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well; Saturday I worked from 8:00-4:30; and today was spent either babysitting my roommates and their domestic disputes, or sleeping in the aftermath of same. And then tomorrow, it's off to Mom's--where I will no doubt be treated, along with a delicious meal, to a running commentary about how much weight I need to lose. (But at least there won't be any drama. It's hard to believe it--I'm faced with a lecture about my weight, my hair, or my beliefs, and yet those lectures actually seem PREFERABLE to staying at home--because if I go where the lectures are, I won't have to deal with the silly childish crap going on HERE...Yeah, that's a sad state of affairs if ever I've heard one.)

All things considered, I'll be glad to get back to work on Tuesday.

Busy Little...Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

I cannot believe they're actually PAYING me to be here.

It is Saturday, approximately 1 PM.

My workplace has two buildings. (Actually, that's a pure lie. My workplace has approximately a zillion buildings, but they are largely concentrated in two locations. Which is ALSO inaccurate, since we also have an international presence, but--Okay. Let's try this again: In the United States, my workplace has two major Chicago locations. There. That works.) On Saturdays, I work in the "other" workplace--the one I don't normally work at during the week.

This is my second Saturday here.
On my first Saturday, last weekend, I had exactly ONE request for support.
Today, so far, I have had ZERO.
Subtracting the parking costs for both days, I've been paid probably somewhere in the area of $300, gross, for doing absolutely BEANS.

Now, granted, I make up for it during the week--holy cow, do I ever!--and ALSO granted, I've been told that the "busy season" is impending (possibly as soon as next weekend) and that once it arrives, it certainly won't be anywhere NEAR as peaceful...but still, I almost feel guilty taking money for what I'm doing: sitting in my closed office, doodling, blogging, playing on SketchFu, etc. I even brought my crochet work, in case the computer got boring. (The one thing I forgot: my MP3 player. I downloaded a crapload of music recently, and pillaged Tim's library for a bunch of obscure stuff he only plays when he's emotional; but what with Tim and Squeaky never leaving the house, I haven't had a chance to enjoy any of my new musical loot.)

I love my job. Not so much this part of it--the sitting-in-an-office-on-Saturday part--but during the week, when I have a million things to do--THAT part of it, I love. I'm not sure if it's the WORK I love so much--really, it's no different than any other tech-support job--but the way the operation is run is EXACTLY up my alley. We don't answer the phone calls; the phone calls get answered at a front desk, and then the things that can't immediately be resolved, get assigned to me or one of the other techs. We have a mandated time-frame in which we are supposed to resolve the situations; we can ask each other for all the help we need (which is REALLY nice, considering there are a lot of policy issues I don't yet know about--you know "for this department, we install this software, except if they're management or their last name has a B in it"--all the little details that make bosses crazy if you don't learn them.)

My boss is a great guy, too. He gets mad, but not loudly and not often; mostly he's extremely laid-back, a reformed hippie/party guy who spends, as he admits, WAY too much money on guitars. He's very helpful, and yet he's extremely rigorous as well--every day, he goes over my tickets with me and if I can't tell him what I'm doing or why it's not done yet, he lets me know: that's not how he expects us to work. He wants his ship to run smoothly, and he treats everyone well enough that WE want it to run smoothly too. He ALSO has a boss--and she's enough of a beast that we don't want to bring her wrath down on his head! Fortunately, he acts as a buffer zone between his techs and the Beast. All in all, it's an ideal situation for me--it fits in perfectly with all my little workplace issues. I don't like authority figures who are condescending or vindictive or power-happy; he's not. I like to have very clear expectations of what I'm supposed to do, how I'm supposed to do it, and when it's supposed to get done, all without being micromanaged into insanity. Give me a task and a deadline, and some basic information about procedures and policies I need to know to do it right, then leave me alone and let me DO it--and I'm the happiest little worker in the world!!

And so far, in this job, I'm pretty much the happiest little worker in the world. (But seriously--they REALLY hafta find something for me to do on Saturdays. Because this? Is really, REALLY boring!)