Since I'm Here....

...I shall mumble crankishly in print regarding my morning.

As I'm sure I've intimated more than once, my finances are currently inhabiting Le Crapper. This is largely the lingering aftereffects of supporting a large collection of campers, both human and feline, for quite a lot of time. (Grand total, not counting myself and the two cats I started with: Three humans, one human-under-construction, six felines.) However, there's a fair helping of my own personal financial dingbattery in there too; about mid-July, I got into an overdraft situation, and have been battling it ever since. Why? you ask. Well, if you overdraw an account at my bank, you get a $35 charge. I had a bunch of automatic payments and stuff which I had forgotten were coming up; and so one little overdraft turned into three, or six, or more, and pretty soon those $35's were eating up half my check...You see how these things happen. Since my party people left, I've been striving not to reach that point again, and this month seems like it could be the turning point.

However, it's a precarious time indeed, and so I was unsurprised, last night, to receive an e-mail from I-Go, my car-sharing service, announcing that they had been unable to charge my card for my November balance, and that until this was resolved, I would not be allowed to make new reservations for a car.

Well, that was fine, I thought, but there was one question. I had made a reservation earlier in the week to use a car this morning, so that I could go to the methadone clinic. Without going into addresses or anything, let's say my clinic is about six miles north and four miles west of here, and so it's not something I could walk to, even on a good day. So, wondering if I was going to have to make alternate plans, I called the I-Go people at about 9 last night.

"...and so I was wondering if my reservation for tomorrow is still going to be valid?" I finished, after explaining about the e-mail they'd sent. Well, this guy simply could NOT be arsed to do anything approaching "work". "Um, yeah, I would think so," he said. I let a couple of moments of silence lapse, tempting him to perhaps add something FACTUAL to that opinion, but he let that temptation pass. "Okay, then. Thanks," I said, and failed once again to add, Roxy Hart-style, "....fer NUTHIN'!" So I waited half an hour, called again, and got someone who actually seemed to care about her job a bit. "Hmmm," she said, "I do see it listed on your account, so that's a good sign, but I don't know what the actual policy is. I could have someone call you in the morning when they get in," she offered. Since that turned out to be after 9, I declined; my reservation was for 8:30. "Okay, well, it still IS on your account, but if you have any trouble accessing the car tomorrow morning, I think you can assume that that's the reason."

All this made a good deal of sense to me, and so this morning I put on a fleece jacket, a scarf over that, and my heavy long coat over that. (My mother, when I bought this coat, wanted me to return it; I'd bought a mens' 2x, and she said "It's just too big on you!" I just smiled; there was a method to my madness.) Then I put on my fleece hat, which is easily the dumbest-looking article of clothing EVER, and my heavy gloves, and trekked out to walk 3 blocks for the car.

When I arrived, I held my card against the transponder, and....nothing. I scraped a bit of frost away from the glass and tried again; nada. I said some very profane things, and walked back to 61st to wait for the bus. It took about 10 minutes for the bus to arrive, by which time I was thoroughly chilled despite my very-warm clothing. My second bus, on the other hand, was already at the corner, and only some frantic hand-waving and a slow jog over the street ice allowed me to catch it.

So, after my business at the clinic was complete, I caught the return bus--again, the main bus was at the corner already, and I had to cross against the light so it wouldn't leave without me--and rode to the corner where I was to pick up the bus that would take me the rest of the way home.

I'm not sure if any of you have lived all your lives in southern states, but the rest of you, I'm sure, are familiar with the concept of "wind chill". For the uninitiated, wind chill is the measure of how cold the air temperature actually FEELS on exposed skin, owing to the speed of the wind. This morning, before I left, the news said the wind chill was -15 degrees. Now, while this isn't bad for Chicago as a whole, when you're standing outside for 25 minutes, waiting for a bus which allegedly runs every 20 minutes...Let's just say at that point, the actual NUMBER of the wind chill measurement ceases to matter, and moves into that realm of "REALLY fucking COLD."

And so, eventually, I arrived home, and thawed, and fed the cats, and curled up in a blanket for a few minutes because it felt good. And I could end the story here, having vented appropriately, and it would seem perfectly fine, the story complete. But as you will see, my point in writing this was not solely to bitch about the cold and the CTA; the story goes on from here, because once I was properly re-warmed, I got up, and went to the phone to call I-Go.

Apparently, there is a world of difference between the day shift and the night shift at I-Go HQ. The guy I spoke to this afternoon was much more service-oriented, and apologized profusely for my inconvenience. "Well," I said, "it's not YOUR fault I couldn't pay my bill..."

"Oh, no ma'am," he said. "The problem you experienced this morning had nothing to do with non-payment; that was a technical issue we were experiencing for a couple of hours this morning. If you had called, we could have manually released the lock....".

I shook my head and laughed. Okay, then; so fine, I was frozen to death this morning thanks to a computer glitch, but whatever. I went on to my next question, which was about a refund for some incorrect fees that was supposedly posted to my bank account in mid-November, but which I hadn't yet seen. He went through my invoices and found the information. "I do show that the refund was posted to your account on November 12," he said, and gave me the confirmation number and everything. "This is something you'll need to check with your bank; we've had quite a lot of that lately, where banks get the information but it takes a long time to appear on the account...."

So next, I called my bank. And the nice man at the 800 number looked through my account, and agreed with me--the refunds weren't there.

And then I thought of something.

A couple of months back, while I was working downtown, I had gone into Chase to deposit a check. While I was there, the "personal banker" had talked me into "upgrading" my plain-vanilla debit card to a "rewards" card. I could earn all sorts of blah, blah, blah, yeah okay whatever, might come in handy someday. "You'll still be able to use your current debit card," she said, "but it won't earn you any points." And so when the card arrived in my mail one day, I stuffed it in my wallet and went on about my business.

Now, all my auto-payments, all my recurring charges, everything--all were set up with the old card number. And thinking about it, I realized that I -had- been getting quite a few notices to change my information, or to contact someplace where I'd had an account. Peapod had had a problem, and the CTA couldn't recarge my card, and....So on a whim, while I was on the phome with the Chase guy, waiting for him to finish looking something up, I went back to my I-Go page and entered the new debit card number instead of the old one. I clicked "Update Info" when I was done....

"Your payment has been recieved and your account has been reactivated."

Well I'll be damned, I thought. And when the Chase guy came back from hold, I told him the story: the old card, the "Personal Banker", the assurance that the old card would work...

"Ma'am," he said, once I read him the number of the old card, "I show that the card with that number was deleted from the system on November 16..."

So basically, I froze my ass off this morning because some ditzy little Trixie who works at a bank on Michigan Avenue wanted a commission for upgrading me to the higher-fee card, but couldn't be bothered to get her information right about how that would actually affect my account.

Should anyone wonder, THIS is why I hate "customer service"!!!

Also, It's Freakin' COLD.

So yes, I am alive and well, and I don't think I've gone this long without posting in a long, long time. Mostly this can be traced to our good friend Mr. Depression, who has been kicking my ass in a most unrepentant way for lo these many days now. (I took a week off work, planning to do all sorts of work around my apartment, clear out old clothes and books and whatnot--and all week long I didn't even get out of my pajamas. I slept pretty much the whole week. Feh.)

Fortunately, I have this job thing, where they expect me to show up five times a week or so; so eventually I had to get out of bed and take a shower. Yay for me, I guess. It made me feel a bit better to go to work, at least; not that there's anything much to do, since they still haven't adjusted to having me back after my long exile to Siberia (our other building, where they kept me for half the day for about four months). As much as I hate it, I think I need a routine of some sort, at least until I get myself put back together in some meaningful, semi-permanent way.

And that might actually happen, too, if all these people around me would just stop having kids at me. Squeaky, of course (oh, and it will surprise none of you that Tim is turning out to be exactly the sort of father you thought he would be; I got a call tonight from Squeaky complaining of having to always do everything for the baby, because when Tim's not at school or at his training program, he's out with his friends "thinking". I told her "I think you may be confusing that with another '-inking' word, but whatever.") So Squeaky has her baby, and the cat-abandoning girl has her baby, and Deb is due in February but will likely deliver long before that ("And after all," she said to me the other night on the phone, "who are THEY to tell me my cervix is 'incompetent'? How insulting!" I swear, if she goes into irrevocable Mommyland and we drift apart, I am going to be several MORE kinds of miserable than I already am.) And here is good ol' Gladys, six months shy of 40 and not even the possibility of a kid, even if I was sure I wanted one which I'm pretty sure I DON'T, but I would VERY much like to feel like a normal human being who hasn't COMPLETELY wasted her life. Because that's what it feels like, honestly; I look at where I was ten years ago and it looks a lot like where I am now. I look at where I was fifteen years ago and I would pretty much cut off a limb or two if I could have THAT life back. Regardless, what I have now is what I had at 29, only not really, because somewhere in the middle there I was actually doing reasonably well for myself. Now? Not so much. Not, in fact, at all; I'm aiming for ONE month in which I don't have to borrow money from my mom and/or overdraw my checking account. That's not how I want to live--and really there's no REASON for it. I don't live an extravagant life.

But anyway, that's where I've been; I think I shall stop here for now, as BadCat will not remove his tail from my field of vision for ANY reason, and no amount of persuasion will convince him that there's a better place to sleep than atop my monitor. (Which is how he killed my wireless router; rather than hop down to the floor to have his mighty hairball, he simply leaned over my poor router and let fly. It's past saving, alas.)

Happy (?) Endings

They're gone.

I didn't go into it over the past couple of weeks, since I didn't want to jinx myself; but everything went as planned and on Wednesday, Tim and Squeaky moved out.

And for some reason, I've been a big ol' ball of depressed ever since.

Now, if that's not the most ridiculous damn thing I've ever heard of, I don't know what is--but it's true. I can't even articulate what's making me so sad--am I jealous? am I just lonely? And yes, I DO know how ridiculous it is to be anything less than ecstatic about their departure, after eight MONTHS of having them living rent-free, having all their wants provided for, making little or no attempt to find useful employment. I should be happy just to have my space back!

And not only am I sad, which I don't understand, but I'm also pissed at Tim, which I understand perfectly. Here's a hint to everyone: If you ever have to thank someone for doing something extremely inconveniencing on your behalf, it's always best to NOT make it into a litany of every single solitary thing which annoyed you over that time period. (Seriously, that's what he did. It started out as "thanks" and ended up in the most aggravating conversation I'd had in years--at one point, I realized that in one case, he was annoyed because I HADN'T done something that would have annoyed him!! Now, I can handle a degree of illogic, but I mean, damn.) He apologized later, via e-mail, but I'm still too busy being flabbergasted to forgive him completely.

So Tim and Squeaky are in their new apartment up near the northernmost edge of the city, in a building where I used to live with Tim--I took Squeaky to my old landlord when all her other possibilities went to hell. He's a nice guy--kinda gruff, but good-hearted, and has a soft spot for people with bad credit or other liabilities. So now Squeaky's got an apartment in her name alone, and Tim just stays there--it's a tiny little place, but cute, and she's really excited about it. Maybe that's what makes me sad--that I have nothing at all to be excited about anymore. Since I've been 25, with a couple of exceptions, everything has been one disappointment after another, so much so that I've pretty much given up trying. Nothing's worth summoning emotion about, if it will all end in ruin. I wish I still believed in happiness.

And NO, she has NOT yet had the baby. The kid is hanging on for dear life; Squeaky's been in various configurations of early to mid-labor for about three weeks now, and last I heard, if she doesn't go into labor on her own by then, they're going to induce labor over the weekend.

And so THAT'S the news, my readers, and if anyone needs me I'm in my room, under my bed, playing Bingo on my netbook.

An Unfortunate Lack of Resistance

So...um...

Remember those other two kittens, the calico and the orangey, we weren't going to keep?

See.....What had happened was.....

Okay, what had REALLY happened was, they were too damn cute to let go of. Squeaky had totally bonded with the little orange one, and when Tim said something to the effect of "When he's adopted..." and Squeaky's face just crumpled up and she started BAWLING. After that, there was no way either Tim or I could take that cat away from her. And once she had her cat, Tim and I figured "in for a penny, in for a pound and a quarter of fluffy, longish calico fur". We've agreed to co-parent her, which is fine; I'll keep her for now, and then when Tim is in a better place, he can take her.

All four cats are still in my room, which is now a scene of kitten-induced madness. And Snickers is terribly upset with me; he's not allowed in my room because the kittens are still carrying some fleas around with them. (Tim and Squeaky are such a pair of drama queens..."Ewww. It's disGUSting. I can FEEL the fleas all built up on their skin." Okay, see, if that's ANYTHING flea-related? It's flea dirt. It washes off. And Tim is so damn particular about how things are to be done; he bought a flea dip and dipped them once, but now all flea control is on hold because the lady at the pet store convinced him that he could not in all good conscience consider himself a cat-lover unless he bought this particular out-of-stock flea powder which was supposed to be in Tuesday. It's Saturday, and it's still not in, and the cats still have fleas, and this whole problem could have been solved if we had just dipped them again, I think. But Tim will do it Tim's way.) My poor Snick just sits outside the door and tries to run in; one of the few times he succeeded, I grabbed him and he hissed at me. My baby--hissed at me!!! So needless to say I'm looking forward to letting him back in the room and letting him have his space back.

But the kittens...OMG, they are completely and utterly teh cyoot. My little calico (currently named Marigold, because in her early awkward days as the runt of the litter, she reminded me of this character....Now, not quite so much.) is so soft and fluffy....and has such WICKED pointy ends....my arms look like I've been juggling chainsaws. But these are the things we live with, when we have no defense against the utterly cute.

(What did Squeaky name her cat? You know, I think I'll make this a guessing game. The winner gets to be the one who wins, and will be applauded for their graspage of the very, very very obvious. I'll even post a pic, just so you can see who's being named.....)

New Post

Um.
Let's see.
Short version, for condensedness:
Spent a weekend with CR; he came in from Bunglepoot, HL (Hickland--it's a state!) I nearly cried when I saw him...he looked really, really bad. His health is probably way worse than he's telling me. But overall, the weekend was pretty good....

...until.

I got an e-mail from CR's sis-in-law, saying that she'd got an e-mail from CR's ex, claiming that CR's brother and I were holed up in a hotel together. This made her laugh, because the brother in question was at that moment in a hot tub with her, eleventythousand miles away. But CR had apparently told her that he was going to Chi to see his brother.....anyway, the tone of things changed markedly after that.

The tone STAYED changed, however, after CR left on Monday. In my infinite wisdom, I'd decided he was screwing me over and was back with the ex when he didn't call for a few days; where he WAS, however, was the Hickland bus station (overnight--his ride didn't show to pick him up and drive him the 90 minutes back to Bunglepoot); then, he was trying to keep his ACTUAL living situation from exploding, an effort which ended in failure when his friend beat the hell out of his wife, snatched their baby, and took off. When he finally got in touch, it was after I wrote him two really, REALLY nasty, fuck-you-lying-asshole e-mails....

...which I had to apologize for when he told me the whole story, and then informed me that he was on the way to the E.R. because his back was killing him. They kept him overnight and told him it's either kidney stones or something requiring back surgery. He finds out this week, and in the meantime he's on pain pills so strong that he can barely stay awake for a paragraph at a time.

And then....

....there were kittens.

Squeaky's friend Bella (also pregnant, and a couple years YOUNGER than Squeaky) and her family were moving to a new place last weekend. Unfortunately, they were leaving one apartment where there were no pet restrictions, for a place that said "One cat only. ONE. And we're watching you move in to make sure that's ALL." This, unfortunately, left Mamacat and her four kittens in the lurch. Mamacat was a stray, a brownish-calico they let into the house; Squeaky was the one who figured out she was having kittens. The kittens, three girls and a boy, were about eight weeks old when Bella informed Squeaky that because of the move, Mamacat and her brood would be turned loose to fend for themselves when moving day came around.

This was what Bella told Squeaky. The REAL mistake, though, was Squeaky telling ME. There are a few things I cannot tolerate, no matter what, and one of those is just discarding a living creature as though it were an empty wrapper or a torn shirt. That goes double for kittens, alas; it's pretty hypocritical of me to value certain creatures more because they're cute, but there it is. I got an I-Go car after work, and we drove up north to Bella's old place.

When we got there, we put Mamacat and three kittens into the carrier; kitten #4 was in the hands of Bella's stepdad, who was holding it like a baby and crooning to it in Spanish. In broken English, he explained that he had promised that one to a friend, but the way he was cuddling that kitten, I would bet the farm that the "friend" in question is imaginary. (And there is nothing cuter than a grown man playing with a little kitten--just nothing. Also, I think I may be adding "speaks Spanish" to my list of attributes for the perfect guy.) We drove home with Mamacat and the three kittens, then ensconced them in.....my bedroom closet. (Well...we had to keep them separated from our four, in case they had any illnesses; and mine is the only room other than the bathroom that closes off from the rest of the apartment. And I surely wasn't going to have them running amok through my room while I was trying to sleep!) The only one who seems to mind the confinement is Mamacat, who was apparently an indoor-outdoor dweller and who sees staying indoors as the ultimate insult.

Mamacat is a darkish calico, kind of a black background with an orange and brown foreground. The kittens are a motley bunch; a long-haired calico girl, an orange tabby boy, and a silver tabby girl. All four, including Mamacat, have a slight upper respiratory infection; all three of the kittens had pinkeye, but a couple days of eye ointment has tamed that rather nicely. Someone is coming over on Friday night to take a look at the kittens, with an eye towards adopting probably two of them, or maybe Mamacat and one kitten. Though Squeaky wants to keep the boy kitten, and Tim's grown attached to the gray, and the calico just charms the socks straight off of me...yeah, no. We really don't need to up the census any further, and Squeaky and Tim already have two cats they can barely take care of.

I'll stop here, since I promised everyone a new post; it's been bonkers around here, for those reasons and one more, job-related one; but all in all, everything's good. Now, if you're still jonesing for bloggage, how 'bout you go over to eatmisery's blog) and say "congratulations!!" twice...?

Coming Soon

Everyone please stop worrying; there's a new post coming tomorrow.

Mysteries of the Universe, Continued

Normally, faced with the statement that follows, I would immediately reply (at least inwardly) "What a frickin MORON." Because...well, here, let me give you the statement, and we'll go from there...

"I can tell you what (the current vampire craze in popular culture) is about...It's about EVIL! There are bands of vampires in New York City--LIVING in New York City!--and there are advertisers--no, I'm serious here!--who are just CATERING to them and...."

(I regret that I am unable to offer you the remainder of the quoted statement, or the replies of the rest of the group being addressed, as upon hearing the word "EVil", I was seized with a sudden violent urge to leave the room, an urge to which I succumbed instantly. Anyhow...)

I do not believe that I am stepping too far over the line in saying, "What a frickin MORON." Because in my opinion, that is a patently moronic statement, for several different values of moronicity. First of all--attempting to demonize a passing pop-culture fad is the hallmark of an uptight mind. In fact, attempting to claim that ANYTHING--any belief system, any lifestyle choice, any inborn quality, any random action--is based in EEEEEEEVil, should be the Godwin's Law of any discussion. "It comes from EEEEEEEEVIL," in my book, translates as "I don't like it, it scares/disturbs/disquiets me, and I cannot articulate the reason in a reasoned adult fashion because this is a reaction based purely in emotion, superstition, and a stunted sense of the workings of the universe. Therefore I pronounce it bad, and demonize it and all who are not as offended by it as I am."

Also, I'm sorry...reality, anyone? Vampires living in New York, catered to by advertisers? What a frickin MORON. Those are idiot Hot Topic kids who've read one too many Twilight books. The only EEEEEEEEvil they represent is the EEEEEEEvil of unthinking consumerism, faddishness, and the well-marketed urge to "do your own thing" by buying exactly the same trend-item that everyone else buys to show that they're "doing their own thing". And that's not EEEEEEEVil, that's just STOOOOOOOOpid.

On a related note, how an evangelical Christian thinks that exhibiting this level of spiritual paranoia--or rather, announcing it in reply to another co-worker's perfectly innocuous Seinfeldian question of "And what's with these kids and the whole zombie/vampire thing?"--how he believes that this response is going to assist in his stated goal of converting me, I fail to grasp.

But because it was offered as a statement based in the speaker's religious beliefs, rather than a random chunk of crackpottery from the fringey set, I had to keep my mouth shut. Which is sad, because no matter where it comes from, it's the same moronic statement; having to ignore it and silence myself, because of what someone believes about their God, only legitimizes it in their eyes, even as it puts me further off the notion of belief as a whole.

And frankly, that's a notion that's already stretched a little thin around here these days. CR is coming to town in a couple of weeks; we've talked online quite a bit, and today he decided to tell me exactly how sick he really is. I knew a bit already, but the whole picture was much more grim. His list of ailments is extensive; high blood pressure, diabetes, vascular disease, sleep apnea, lung problems, kidney problems. Since I know him well enough to know he'll resist any changes to his diet or exercise habits, I've pretty well been forced to conclude that any attempt to plan a long-term future with him would be an exercise in futility. I know that's probably true for anyone--after all, anything can happen to any of us at any time--but in his case it's pretty much a certainty that I'll outlive him.

So here we are: he's had all these insights and totally turned around his view of relationships, of me, of what our life together could be--all well and good mentally, but physically it sounds like he's not in any sort of condition to join me in any of the things I want to do with the rest of my life. (Put it this way: we were discussing changes we both needed to make, and I mentioned, in the context of little things we could try, "taking a walk in the morning". His reply, after a series of large-font "ha ha ha ha ha"'s, was "not w this breathing--i would definitely die". After a while, he agreed, with a few stipulations--but...wow.) If a short morning walk is beyond his ability at this point, I don't think I'm exaggerating matters when I wonder just how long he's gonna be around.

And, as I told him, I'm not prepared to deal with losing ANOTHER partner. I told him I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep him around, but as I said: I know this man. He's a lot like me; we're both stubborn as hell, and we both like the things we like--full stop. Losing the fried foods and the sweets would be a good idea for both of us; but each of us needs to make that committment. I have--though right now I'm in a bit of a holding pattern til the Happy Campers leave--but I can't demand that CR do the same... and as stubborn as he is, I don't believe he will do it on his own.

I'm finding it a little hard to keep from being cynical here. I mean, let's recap, shall we? Let's for a moment assume the existence of God or someone like him...1991, I meet JP and each of us feels an instant connection, but various issues--pride, anger, miscommunication--keep us apart for nearly three years. We steal seven months sneaking around, then live together for eleven blissful months...whereupon he dies. 1997, I meet CR, and again each of us feels an instant connection to the other. But he's got a lot of baggage from his family and from past relationships, baggage that has accumulated to make him a giant asshole. Regardless, we keep together in an on-and-off relationship til 1999, when we move in together--but at no time does his assholeishness subside. He lies to me, he cheats on me, he emotionally abuses me; finally, in 2002, two months after we married, he leaves me for another woman, in a burst of emotional cruelty that destroys what little self-esteem I'd managed to keep til then. Six years later he calls me to apologize; we start to talk again, and he tells me all he's been through; he talks about all the revelations he's had about his past, his behavior, and the way he treated me. He apologizes, many many times, and tells me that he never wants to be without me again, for the rest of his life. But circumstances--largely financial, but also connected to the Happy Campers I'm harboring in the interim--keep us apart for several more months....Meanwhile, during the seven years apart, he's neglected his health to the point that, by the time he makes it back to me, he's got several potentially-lethal disease processes working; has no health insurance; and--being frank here--probably won't live another ten years without some serious medical intervention he can't afford. Somehow I don't see health-care reform progressing far enough to make possible the kind of interventions he'd need.

So once again, barring a miracle, I will very likely preside at the death of another man I love more than I can even describe. Someone, someday, is going to need to explain to me how this is even remotely fair. I've had, in my life, four major relationships (relationships where, at any point, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with that person). I broke off two--my first boyfriend and my first marriage--and in neither of the breakups was I at all proud of my actions. For a long time I considered JP's death to be some sort of celestial retaliation for the way I'd handled those breakups, or for loving him too much, perhaps--but now, thinking about the future, I find no explanation at all. I would like to believe that my old age will not be spent alone; I would like the luxury of believing that the man I love will be there on the front porch, side-by-side in our rocking chairs. In a way--and yes, I realize this is the same kind of childish, magical thinking I was railing against only a few paragraphs ago--but in a way I feel like losing JP should somehow be enough; that the universe or God or whoever, before it takes away another love of mine, should take into account what I've already been through. I know it doesn't work that way, but knowing how this relationship will likely play out, and the kind of grief that comes after, has a very good chance of making me really bitter.

And I know, I'm letting my worries about the future cloud the present; I'm robbing myself of the happiness I could have, even if it is for only a short time...but dammit, I feel completely powerless to help here. I can nudge him in the right direction, mainly by going in that same direction myself--but his health issues have gone much further than I'd guessed, and I don't think little nudges will be enough. Maybe seven years ago--before he'd spent half a decade living with a family he described as "like the Klumps from the Nutty Professor movies", eating what they ate, in the quantities they ate it...yeah, I'm angry there too; if he'd been here, or with someone responsible, when his health problems started to manifest, something could have been done, maybe. I'm not being fair, I know--but as I said before, how is this situation fair at all to me? How is it when many 39-year-old women are married and have kids, and have at least the possibility of spending their later years with the man they love, how is it fair at all that I've already lost one, and am pretty likely to lose another? How is it fair that I've done my damndest to make up for my past mistakes; that I've fought against all the pressure for "training" one's partner to behave in a female-approved way, which so many of my female acquaintances have subscribed to--in short, that I've done everything in my power to be a good girlfriend and to let my partner be exactly who he is, without trying to change him--and for all my effort, my great reward is to spend the rest of my life alone?

I have to say: I'm furious about all this. For one thing, CR doesn't deserve it; not that anybody does, but there's a lot he wanted out of life that he's not going to get to do. And for another thing--I've said this about losing JP, and I'll say it again about this--it's just not fair. And yeah, I know, "nobody said life was fair", and I know I've been infinitely luckier than most people, so I have no grounds to complain--but it feels even more unfair somehow that on the few occasions that my life HASN'T been completely charmed, the bad things have been bad in precisely the way I have always feared the most, and in precisely the way from which I can least recover.

My co-worker, he of the Eeeeevil New York vampire contingent, can talk all he wants about God's great Plan, and all those other things...but the older I get, and the more I live, the more I believe that one of two things is the case: either there is no "great plan", or if there IS a plan, great or otherwise, it's somewhere been decided that I am destined to spend my life alone. It's easier to accept randomness than to justify paranoia, so I'm leaning toward the no-Plan option; but in a way, that's almost worse, since it puts me in conflict with the beliefs of practically everyone....which, in its way, is the same as being alone.

(=.=)

(That title, incidentally, is a squinchy-face, such as normally accompanies the response "Oh you DO, do you.")

I am saying exactly this much on the subject, and no more.

It's very easy to say what you would, or wouldn't, do in a given set of circumstances. I'm fairly good at it, myself; when people tell me of an encounter with some rude individual, I immediately go into "Oh, man, if I'd have been there I'd have told that S.O.B. where to get off...", generally complete with illustrative uppercuts and chest-puffings-out--and when I run into the same style of rude person, I shrink like a violet, and benignly smile as I get the hell out of their way. It's easy to know what someone should do, when "someone" isn't you.

It's a little more difficult, though, when you have the actual PEOPLE in front of you; one person who, despite the current state of affairs, was once your friend; and the other, seven months pregnant and with nowhere to go (LITERALLY nowhere; that's not a rhetorical device). What each of them has or has not done really doesn't come into consideration when it comes to kicking people out of your home.

There is a deadline; at least one party is making an effort; and honestly, that's about all I feel comfortable saying right now. I'm going to confess that this is starting to feel less like my blog and more like an inquisition, and I don't like that feeling. I have enough inquisitors in real life.

Yawn

This is the third post I started today. Both of them got out of hand fairly fast; the first one bogged down by details, the second one just too damn hard to write, and the effort has worn me out.

I'm going to bed. It will probably seem strange to say it, but I am mostly happy right now; it's just that being happy is a tangly thing for me, and talking about my current happiness brings up memories that make me sad. So yes, I am okay; better than okay, really, but not in a way I can express at the moment.

More later.

Yupdates

8/31/09: Note: I thought I posted this, like, DAYS ago, and only the recent "Hey Gladys! New post?" alert from Miz made me realize that I hadn't. So here, in its incomplete entirety, is the Post You Didn't See...

Since there seem to be long strings trailing from a few of my recent posts, I figure I'll just toss out a couple of updates.

First things first: Eatmisery's blog is once again in the land of the living!!! Glad to have you back, Miz...I can't imagine losing six years of posts, so I can only guess how terrifying that had to have been for you, finding that message where your blog should have been. (Incidentally, short of printing it or publishing it to your own personal website, the only way to back up a blog is to use Blogger's "export" function, which sends an .xml copy of your stuff. Not ideal, IMHO; I think I'm going to start making a Word file out of this one, just in case.)

In other news, I actually had a reasonably productive conversation on Facebook with the girl who posted the link to that racially-fraught blog. She started out the next day with a status message wondering "why is it that concern for out children is automatically labeled as racism". Needless to say, I called bullshit on THAT line of inquiry, and as the conversation went on, she explained that HER predominant concerns were: 1)the barbecuers were inside the fenced-in playlot area, which--along with being meant for KIDS, not grown people--is heavily posted with signs saying "No alcohol/no open flame"; 2) that the kids playing in the playlot were being engulfed in smoke clouds from the grills; and 3) that the adults were drinking in the playlot (illegal), acting like drunken d-bags, and generally NOT being good examples. She also explained that the park renovation had been paid for with a special tax levy, directly by the residents of that area, and that it seemed unfair that their kids couldn't even play there, due to misbehavior from people who didn't even pay for it. I came back with a reply, agreeing with all those points--but then pointed out that neither the "officer's" quotes from the original blog, nor the responses posted in the comment section, made any mention of ANY of the VALID points. I took up a sequence of five Facebook comments to explain that what I was reading indicated less of a problem with WHAT was happening in the park, and much more concern regarding WHO was in the park.

At this point, one of her other friends--someone I don't know, mercifully--came back with words to the effect of "I DO have a problem with WHO, and I don't care who knows it--at least I'm being honest! Now go ahead and call me ignorant or whatever--I don't care." I replied that I had no plans to call her ANYTHING (well, not out loud--my thoughts are my own) and that we were each entitled to our own opinions, and no harm done. Normally, that would be that--right?

Well, apparently this person didn't get the memo, because she just kept going. "I think I'll take a bunch of MY friends, a grill, and a cooler to THEIR park this weekend. I'm sure NOTHING will happen to me..." As far as I can tell, she's the only one among the people I talk to who is actively celebrating her own narrowmindedness in this way; I do wonder, though, how many agree with her and just say nothing.

And Furthermore, Bugger All MY Problems...

...because one of the Frequent Flyers of my comments section is in some SERIOUS hot water, entirely through ZERO fault of her own!!

Eatmisery's blog, Comments From the Peanut Gallery, has been unfairly labelled by Google/Blogger as an "attack site". (Link to the particulars here...) Apparently, she has a gadget or a link on her page to a geneology site, a bloglink site, and (what I am assuming to be) some sort of ad for SOMETHING. And apparently, by placing these PERFECTLY FREAKING INNOCENT LINKS on her blog, she has been marked with the scarlet letter of "MALWARE PROVIDER!! ATTACK! BADSITE! BADSITE!! DANGER! DANGER! WOOP WOOP WOOP!" Click on the link to her blog above, if you want to see how scary they make it sound.

BUT: That's not the worst of it.

NOT ONLY have they put a big scary red thing at her blog's link...
NOT ONLY has Google/Blogger been AB-SO-EFFING-GODDANG-LUTELY --ZERO TO THE INFINITE POWER-- worth of help with this issue (I've seen her increasingly-panicked posts all over the Google/Blogger support forums today)...
BUT: When you click on the "ignore this warning" link to go to her blog?

IT TELLS YOU THAT HER BLOG DOES NOT EXIST.

Now, here's the thing. Miz is expecting twins any day. She's at the end of a high-risk pregnancy, and she's been using her blog to keep distant friends and family up to date on what's going on. And suddenly, with NO warning, and with NO kind of instruction, advice, or support on how to solve this issue, her perfectly innocent, no-malware-involved blog has been, as the activists of several foreign countries phrase it, "disappeared". FOR NO GOOD REASON. And no one from Google or Blogger will answer her questions--despite their presence on the VERY THREADS she's asking for help in.

I am reasonably sure that her blog has not been deleted for good and for all--after all, how many times have we now been warned that "everything is eternal on the Internet"? But seriously--nobody, least of all a pregnant woman, should have to go through THAT kind of bullshit, then have it compounded by an unresponsive corporation. When Blogger was small, without Google's hand all up its backside, their response times were INFINITELY better--not that it would be difficult, since she's now going on several DAYS with no response.

HEY GOOGLE! We're watching this, and you're really not looking very good right now.
I know I'll be backing up every word of this blog; I'm in no way prepared to have almost six years of my past and history chewed up and spat out by a faceless monolith with a cute logo. Hell no, not for me. I'll go to Wordpress and take my OWN chances, if that's how this place is headed.

I Don't Even Have a Title For This One.

In the course of one of their "status updates", I was referred, by one of my various FaceSpaceFriends, to this blog: www.inandaround60655.blogspot.com . This is the post in question; reading the comments will be especially instructive (and/or bring you to the point of reverse digestion, as it very nearly did for me). And the fact that the original diatribe was written by someone who refers to himself as "Det. Shaved Longcock" gives it an extra air of insight and maturity.

I have, as usual, gotten ahead of myself.

Mount Greenwood Park is a fairly-large park at 111th Street and Central Park Ave, or thereabouts, in the neighborhood of the same name. This is very near the area in which I grew up; not quite the same district, but close. It's known as a stronghold of city workers (To you non-Chicagoans: All employees of the City of Chicago--police, firefighters, teachers, sanitation workers, anybody with a City job--must live within the boundaries of the city. Click here: Community Map Now go down near the bottom, to the leftmost part of the colored area. See that green chunk, with like a little stem hanging it onto the rest of the city? That's Mount Greenwood)...a stronghold of city workers and, not to put too fine a point on it, white people who don't want to be bothered with all those minority-types. Needless to say, as soon as I could get away from there, I did; the few times I've had to go back have been unmixed Hell. For most of my adult life I've had nothing even remotely positive to say about the neighborhood or the people who live there, and that includes the people I grew up with. My anger was based on my memories of being picked on, being teased, boys who didn't like me and girls who snickered at me behind my back; and even once I was old enough to realize that I was operating from the "victim" point-of-view in that case, by that time there was JP, and The Race Thing, to focus my anger onto. It was fairly easy to hate everybody; they were a faceless "Them" attached to bad memories and ugly politics.

With the advent of technology, though, I reconnected with quite a few of my grade-school friends. I've IMed with many of them, read their updates, and generally been pretty happy to discover that even some people I really didn't like very much when I was growing up, have turned into decent, reasonably-cool people. It's much harder to hate people when you know their day-to-day stuff, even if you DO have bad memories of them left from long ago, and so my attitude toward the old neighborhood had softened quite a bit, really, without me even noticing.

Well, as you might imagine, that opinion took a very LARGE hit this morning when I realized that one of the people I actually LIKED was pointing people toward this site and talking about "Save Mt. Greenwood Park!" I posted a status update that expressed my sadness at discovering that this kind of attitude still exists. That was about as far as I was comfortable letting myself go with it; it was a compromise wording, at best, from what I was REALLY feeling.

A few minutes later, I got an IM from another of these friends. "Everything OK? What's wrong?" I asked her if she'd read the blog the first girl had linked to, and she said yes, she had. "It just makes me really sad that people I LIKE are advocating this view," I said.

Long pause. "Well, they need to stay in their own parks and bbq there. Everybody's afraid to say anything because then they'll be called a racist, but that's bull."

Um....hm. O.....kay.....? Am I crazy, or....?

"Well, i mean, everybody has their own views," I replied.

The conversation went on for a while--a very short while, since it was evident we were discussing from two very, very different places. Then she got booted off, and I sent her a little e-mail where I finished "And I don't live there anymore, so I probably ought to stay out of it." Which is true.

But here's the thing: My mom has, for quite a while now, been agitating for me to keep her house when the inevitable day comes that her time on Earth is over. (Yeah, that's a squeamish, Irish-Catholic way of phrasing it; though she drives me bonkers sometimes, I love my mom, and don't like to think about this.) After my long-drawn saga with the Catastrophe, I've learned to appreciate a well-constructed, well-maintained building, and slowly I had begun to consider the possibility that yes, I might take over my mom's house after all, when the time came to make that decision.

Now? No. Hell no. There are houses all over the city, in places where people don't think in terms of "Us" vs. "Them", nor talk about the "fall" of a park just because some people of a different skin color have set out their lawn chairs there. They can say all they want about "liberals" and everything else--I knew what was coming when I read that sentence!!--but the fact of the matter is, THEY are the ones with the position based in fear and in lack of knowledge. "No, we don't think ANYONE of ANY race should be barbequing there..." Yeah. Okay. But if the picnickers were white, you would only notice them if they were being d-bags; because they're Those People, you just decide they don't belong, and nevermind if they're the most polite people on Earth.

I guess the real core of the matter, which reflects on me more than on them, is this: I hadn't thought about it for a while, and so it had sort of faded into the back of my mind. When you don't run into an issue, it's easier to pretend it's gone away, I guess; easier to think "hey, maybe it's not like that anymore." Well, it's "like that". It's very, very much "like that", and I don't think I'll be forgetting that any time soon.

It WAS Gonna Be a Comment, But Now It's A Post.

Well...Regarding "charity" vs "enabling", I'm going to have to say one thing first: It's become apparent here that I'm dealing with two entirely separate but grievously interlinked situations. While Tim is absolutely irreedeemable in terms of work ethic, Squeaky is a whoooole different critter. She has unfortunately chosen to hitch her wagon to ENTIRELY the wrong horse, but that's her problem and no concern of mine....

Here's the thing. She has put in many, many, many apps for jobs, and for the most part, the "no" answers have been fairly reluctant and given with a side-glance at the extremely prominent Belly. Who's gonna hire a pregnant woman, knowing she'll take off days for dr appointments, pukiness, labor, delivery, and all the rest?? Of course they never SAY as much, but still. My points: a) at least SOMEONE is trying, and has the chance to potentially have a decent job once she's not so obviously preggo; and b)at least SOMEONE is TRYING. She has actually lined up people willing to rent to her--even knowing her situation, finances, and all--if only she could get a cosigner with good credit--which fortunately leaves me RIGHT out. She's working her ass off to find a workable situation for her, the kid, and MAYBE Tim. I am beginning to believe that, aside from being young and possibly a wee bit silly and/or naive, Squeaky may have the tools to survive in this world. Right now she's just in a real, REAL bad place.

So, re: charity/enabling: I am absolutely ENABLING Tim. I told him as much, in fact. "I think we're now past the point where allowing you to stay here is doing you ANY good whatsoever," I said one night. "I don't think I'm helping you anymore by doing this." He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean." Doesn't CHANGE anything, but at least I know, and he knows that I know, and I know that he knows that I know. If it were just him, I think I'd have been able to put him out at that point.

BUT: I do NOT believe I am enabling Squeaky. If I told her "Sure, bring the baby here when you get out of the hospital--what's one more squalling, eating, crapping mouth to feed?"--now THAT would be enabling. But I have made the line very bright indeed: No way is a newborn coming here. Nuh-uh, no way, no how, no ma'am. Have you ever SEEN an apartment burst at the seams??? Me neither, and I really have no desire to. Plus there's the extra added issue: None of them--not Tim, not Squeaky, not the Timlet, not the kitters--are on the lease for this place. You know who is? Me. Me, and Snick, and BadCat. THREE organisms--not EIGHT. So there's that, as well. The really cool building manager who would overlook anything as long as it was quiet and non-pyrogenic? He's gone now. So this is a dangerous game, and I've made the whole crew (well, other than the cats) aware of that. The first peep from the management, and --> out the door you must go.

So what I have here is a situation where (as I see it, anyway) I am helping the one party who's trying to make something of her life, and part of that (at the moment) unfortunately includes accepting the fact that I am enabling her albatross to continue his dangling. I am also clear on the fact that allowing them to stay here after the baby is born would put me very much over the line into "enabling EVERYBODY". So in essence, it's a self-limiting situation; they've got less than two months to work something out. She knows this; he knows this. It has spurred her to greater effort, and him to greater indolence. That's their little dynamic and--again--not my concern. I don't care WHO solves the problem; I care only that the problem is solved.

And yes, I have said all this, in not-so-many words; but to hear Squeaky talk, she's very much aware of the situation. She is pissed, should you wonder, at Tim's inaction, even as she extols his perceived "excitement" over the approaching Timlet. In this, Squeaky and I are very much alike: we've both fallen for sub-prime men. (Yes, that's EXACTLY the connotation I intended.)I've had my congenitally-unemployables, my "I don't WANNA go to work" types, my own versions of Tim. My situations were mitigated for the most part by my ability to support myself; she's trying, I think, to make sure hers are the same. The only difference is, I didn't get pregnant--which made my road a much simpler one than hers will be. But then again, she'll probably learn much more from her life than I have from mine, so there's that.

But--lest anyone think I'm keeping them here intentionally!--the only thing that keeps me from just chucking them out the door, bag and baggage (and stealing their littlest cat into the bargain--god, I LOVE this CAT!) is the ever-increasing presence of the Timlet. Were Squeaky not pregnant, this whole situation would be well and truly behind me by now; in fact, had it not been for that #**#@*^@ girl downstate's boyfriend's sister's whatever-it-was, I would be writing from an empty apartment for the first time in months--and in fact, if they weren't here, I wouldn't be writing this at all; I'd probably be doing something ridiculous like filling the bathtub with fudge-ripple ice cream and wallowing in it til I was wearing a shake.*

*not an actual plan--in fact, not an image anyone should even attempt to register. Brain bleach is available at the exits.

Believe me: I want them to go. The problem of making them go is the same problem that led me to take them in: I don't have the heart to leave a pregnant barely-21-year-old, with limited life skills, out on the street. But I can definitely set and enforce a deadline: they have til labor strikes. After that, they're on they're own--and unless I'm wrong, the irrevocable presence of a small hostage to fortune will light a fire under SOMEBODY's ass. And no, I'm not going to be soft-hearted about it either; I didn't have the fun of getting pregnant, so I shouldn't have to contend with the squalling, pooping outcome. (See, what you all don't know about me, which is the thing that makes the birth of the Timlet the Ultimate Line In The Sand: There are several lines in my world which shall not be crossed, circumstances be damned. Bumpy protrusions under the skin are one of them--all those people who are like "Here! Feel this dislodged bone in my broken leg as it wiggles around inside my shin--doesn't that feel coooooool???" are invariably met with HELL no, I ain't touchin' that shit!--oh, yeah, and "Hey--the baby's kicking! Here--feel that!" gets the same reaction. Stuff shouldn't be MOVING in there, is how I see it....Anyway, one of my other BIIIIG hell-no-I-ain'ts is poop. I had to wipe my grandmother's behind when she lived with my mom, and despite the fact that I loved my grandma dearly, if I could have performed that action from a separate building, in another zip code, and with a remote-controlled robot arm, I would have done so without a second thought. I don't do poop. I can barely deal with my OWN, let alone anyone else's. Page Dr. Freud if you'd like, but I don't care--NO. POOP. EVER. Even when I walk into the ladies' room and somebody hasn't flushed, my gag reflex instantly goes into overdrive. This is yet another of the many and varied reasons I've decided I'm not suited for motherhood--and it makes it reeeeeal easy indeed to say "Nope. No baby allowed. Sorry, guys--don't care how cute he is--he poops, therefore he's gone." And it's an indelible line, as well: no matter how soft may be my heart, my stomach of jello rules the day.)

See? Problem will solve itself.

This Is Why I Don't...

This is why I don't post about exciting news until after it's an accomplished fact.

For the past two weeks, Squeaky has been over the moon about an old friend of hers and how this girl was "saving her life", how she now "has (her) life together" and all the rest. The source of all this excitement was to happen on Monday, when she and Tim were to board a bus to the southern part of the state, where said friend lives. There, she had been assured, there were jobs, cheap housing, assistance for poor pregnant families, and the rest--a veritable land of milk and honey (or Cheetos and barbeque sauce, if you're Tim and Squeak.) They had been assured that the wait for public housing was negligible--less than a month--and that in the meantime, they could stay at the house of this friend of Squeaky's, who she hadn't seen in a while but who she'd run into on Facebook and reconnected with.

And so for the past two weeks I have been subjected to hours upon hours of "Is Tim going or isn't he?" and "I can't wait to get there" and "Should we take Megabus or Amtrak or should my friend come up and get us, or...?" Hours and hours and hours. And yes, I have been INTENSELY interested in the outcome--not so much the planning, just the point on Monday night when, for the first time since EARLY APRIL, I would come through the front door to a home that belonged--entirely and completely--to ONLY ME. I was looking forward to that. I was looking forward to a large number of things at least partially contingent upon that, as well. (Yes, CR figures in a couple of them. I'm only human, for god's sake.)

Well, as of about noon today, all of them are dust. Squeaky sent me a message on Facebook: "I just got fucked over again. My friend totally backed out on me."

I called her at home and talked to her for about half an hour about this. Apparently, the friend's boyfriend something something her brother, whose girlfriend was crazy and wanted to kill him but is now also staying there with her kids, something something not enough space blah blah sorry. ("So what did you write back?" I asked. "Nothing--I was just totally in shock," she said. I don't normally interfere in other people's friendships, but I would give my right pinkie-finger right about now for that woman's e-mail addy. Even if Squeaky doesn't have the ability to say anything in the face of this situation, please feel free to bet your ENTIRE GLUTEAL REGION on the fact that I would retain no such compunction. Squeaky's life is not the ONLY one that's been fucked with by this decision.)

"I'm not talking to any of these people anymore," says Squeaky tearfully, then goes on to enumerate all the other friends she's going to call to see if she can get housing space from them. "Or we could get an apartment"--the "we" in this case does not include me, as I've already signed my lease for the year and I have no intention of leaving. That ship has sailed--"I only need a co-signer," she says, "since I don't make enough money." Or have a job, or have a man with a job, or have anyone giving you any sort of financial assistance whatsoever... so where this mythical apartment-for-free is coming from is a whole 'nother question.

In the meantime: Squeaky is "depressed". Up until yesterday, Tim had not spoken more than three words to me over the previous ten days; he "just doesn't feel like talking", evidently, and this apparently includes talking to the person who has been giving him free floor space nearly full-time since 2008. Civility is a BITCH, I tell ya. So that's two in the "depressed" column.

Meanwhile, my job has given me a right-proper screwing--wait, let's find a better metaphor, since "a right-proper screwing" would be on the short list of things that might actually IMPROVE my temperament. (There's a CR story that fits in here, but in the interest of "not jinxing it", I'll forbear. However: man, if 10% of what he says is valid, real, anything--if he really means even 10% of what he says, I will have found the biggest turnaround of a human life since I quit heroin in '99. Seriously. I've got so much to tell on this subject, but in some ways I'm reluctant to expose it to skeptics. Not because skepticism will change my opinion of him, or of what he's claiming--only time and experience could do that, and if they do, it will officially mark the end of my belief that people really can change--but because every possible thing anyone could say against him is something I've already said to him directly, or thought to myself--mostly said to him directly, really. The first day he called me after being gone for six years, I promised myself that the days of staying silent and choking on my rage were over. If I had anything to say to him I was going to say it, all guns blazing if necessary. So far, we've talked on and off for a year, and there's not been any time I've broken that promise to myself. It's been his reactions which have startled me--acceptance, apology, a total lack of defensiveness or excuses or ANYTHING. "I did that. I was wrong, and I realize now what the consequences were." That's been the bulk of his reactions....I'm going off track here, but...Yeah.Short form: I am ready to be hurt again, or not to. Neither of these outcomes will upscuttle my life in any serious way; if it goes bad, then it's just a case of the leopard not changing his spots. In fact, it might actually upheave me more if it DOES work out well.)

Anyway, as I was saying: Job. So in the last post I told you about my new, "temporary" location...well, I've finished my first week there, and the verdict is in: please, send help, for I am dying here. The trip to the new place now adds 2 hours of commuting time to my day, each day, and changes my schedule drastically. Where before, I could get up at 9:15 and be at work at 10:00 as scheduled, I now start work at 8:30 and need to get out the door by 7:00 or risk lateness. And I arrive home only half an hour earlier, despite getting off work a full 90 minutes sooner each day. Supposedly, it's just temporary, but--and I don't know if I have ever mentioned this?--I am not a morning person. At. All. Not even a little bit. So getting up at that hour--admittedly not quite the ass-crack of dawn, but definitely beneath dawn's waist somewhere--It's not improving me, is what I'm saying. And then today--admittedly, a day I'd be working anyhow--I had to catch the bus early, and it was really crowded but I was lucky enough to get a seat--but then an old guy sat next to me and like, LEANED on me the whole ride, which wouldn't have been NEARLY as awful if he'd showered or changed his shirt since 1982. So all day long I have been smelling--whether it's real or imagined--Old Man Funk. I have actually been going out of my way to stand away from civilized folk so they can't smell what I smell. I believe I shall BURN this shirt when I get home.

Later:
It's hard to be here and know they're not going anywhere any time soon. I've been reading back over the past couple of years, and I've realized: this is not the first time I've had quite enough of these two, or even just of Tim himself. (He DID, however, manage a conversation when I got home; later translation from Squeaky explained that he really hadn't wanted to move, that he was happy they weren't moving because he knew he'd hate it, and thus his silence for the last...whenever.) I think this friendship is effectively over, once they leave; I really don't want that to be the case, but it really has been one-sided for quite a while now. And then I wonder if I'm really being fair; after all, I -am- the one who has the resources, the education and the easy employability; maybe this is just my role in this friendship, to be the one who's there for Tim when he needs me. But all the same, there's something wrong; I could live with the financial unbalance in our friendship, but lately he's just been a butthead, and the butthead differential can be a killer in ANY friendship. I don't know; time will tell. But in a year or two, when Tim comes back at me with a list of Ways In Which Gladys Failed As A Friend: Squeaky's Pregnancy Edition, I don't think I'll be as willing to accept the blame as I have been in the past.

Time For A New Post...

Yup. Sure is!!

And in a few days, I may have actual concrete news to put in one (hint: it involves a drastic reduction in the head-count here in Gladystopia--but since it's not an accomplished fact yet, I refuse to get my hopes up. We've been down THIS road before!)

In other news:

My delightful employers (may a trillion centipedes take up residence in their sock-drawer) have decided, as a "temporary" solution to a problem they themselves created, to move me to the downtown building, changing my start time from 10 AM to 8 AM, til further notice.

Have I mentioned that my current building is TWO BLOCKS AWAY from where I live?
Have I also mentioned that I LOVE my schedule? Or that I am NOT a morning person??

Well, I know I mentioned the first two to D-Bag, the boss from the last post; I also asked him flat-out if this was a further instance of Punishment for the Remedial Tech--they've already implemented this theory twice before, both times as "response" to some mistake or inefficiency on my part. (Sidebar: If you were a manager, and one of your employees had a difficult time accomplishing something as quickly as the others--for whatever reason, or possibly for no reason at all other than that she's not as well-educated in what she's doing as some of the others--but if you had an employee who had a hard time doing something quickly, what would be your response? (pauses for everyone to think about it) Okay. Did any of you say "Take that responsibility away from her, thus making it harder on all her co-workers, while making it perfectly clear to all why she no longer has this responsibility"?? What?? You DIDN'T think of that? You think that's a pretty effing cockamamie damn way to run a railroad?? Well, my friends, THIS is why you don't work where I do--because apparently YOU are in possession of some common sense. Incidentally--having thought long and hard about this myself, for reasons which I'm sure are apparent--my answer was "Give her a smaller number of tasks of this kind, while working closely with her to see what the problem areas are and to improve her speed in performing this task." Which just shows why I'M not suitable for management either.)

There's actually a lot more going on--not all of it great--but it's going to have to wait til I have definite confirmation on the other news, since it all ties in one way or another.

Profanity Approaching...

My boss needs to eat a box of dicks and die.

If I knew for certain that another job was waiting; if I knew for certain that I could live on my own for long enough to get another job; if the benefits weren't so good and all those other things that people say when they're eating their own guts out but can't summon the courage to just make the fucking leap...if all those things weren't true, I would absolutely, with no question, have quit this job in a firestorm of cursing and accusations today.

I do not remember ever having been so angry--at least, not within the scope of my severely-compromised memory.

The details are too long to relate; short version is: When I tell you I am upset and want to discuss something, and you e-mail me back a message that is, in essence, "You have no right to be upset, because you did this unrelated thing, that unrelated thing, and a third similarly-unrelated thing wrong, and so instead of listening to YOU, instead -I- will be snotty and juvenile and utterly unprofessional, list a group of things YOU need to do, and finish it with the completely compassion-free snide 'Correct??'" ...if that is your response to "I am upset about the way you handled X situation and would like to discuss it on Monday," then you need to eat an entire LARGE bag of dicks and die. And that is exactly what my boss did.

(No, he didn't eat the dicks. I mean, I don't know what his personal life is like--although you can DAMN FINE BET that he doesn't pull bullshit like the above with his WIFE, unless she's a similar flavor of goddamn idiot...anyway, I was going somewhere with this, I think. Oh yeah...eat, die, needs to.)

I had to write FOUR SEPARATE responses to his e-mail before I could calm myself enough to come up with one that was even in the same ZIP CODE as "appropriate and professional". Writing is the one skill I truly believe I have, and I know for a fact that I share a great talent of my father's: the murderously polite letter. My dad, when people pissed him off, would write them letters which would shred the skin off their bodies and leave them saying "thank you" for the shredding. I mean, he was GOOD. I'm not QUITE as good as him--I let emotion get in my way sometimes--but I'm pretty good at it. But today--again, it took four tries before I managed not to cuss him out six ways to Sunday.

Put it this way: this is what I started with. (Anything in brackets should be taken as an improvised flight of verbiage, and not what I sent to him.)

(Reply to Douchebag:)

You know, perhaps this exchange doesn’t show either of us at our best moments. Let me start this over:
I apologize if the tone of that last message seemed brusque; as I wrote that message, I was a)trying to complete the work I had promised, and b) upset because even though I had assured you in no uncertain terms that I would get the work done by the end of the day, you felt it was necessary to add assignments for xxxxxxx to both tickets while we were on the phone discussing it. I felt that you were completely dismissing my assurance that xxxxxxxxxxx would be complete before I left for the day, which they were (with the exception of two details that couldn’t be completed without xxxxxxxxxxxxx.)

And this was the end:

(Incidentally: whatever your intention might have been as you wrote it, the tone of your reply below conveys many things, but “concern” is not among them. As I said, my prior message may have been open to interpretation, so I’ll just assume you were responding to the frustrated and angry tone, for which I again apologize. As for the tickets you mentioned, we can discuss those further on Monday.)

And honestly, I wish I cared more about what he might do to me. I am serious. If they fire me, at least I can get unemployment--and believe me, Human Resources will get an earful. I was so tempted to just leave the whole thing where it stood and just call HR and set up an appointment--God knows I wouldn't be the first, not by a long shot!--but I decided to at least make an attempt to act like a grownup. The rest of the letter was very polite and professional; I used all "I" statements, didn't accuse him of being the troglodytic, male-chauvinist, underevolved ass-munch which I wholeheartedly consider him to be; and managed to finish the letter with "Thank you for taking the time to read this," instead of "If I leave this job before I see you crouching ignominiously over a rain-soaked cardboard box spilling your pitiful worldly possessions onto the concrete as you take the long, shame-faced walk from your office to your car for the last time, I will consider my time on this earth as having been completely wasted, for my ultimate moment of happiness will have eluded me for eternity. Incidentally, kindly go fuck yourself with a chainsaw." In short, I was as polite and as professional as I could be while wishing great personal misfortune and possible bodily harm on a fellow human being--but again: Douche. Bag. Seriously.

If my e-mail doesn't de-escalate the situation--I know, the last bit quoted up there may not be the most de-escalationary thing I've ever written, but it's loads better than the first three drafts would have been, and the main body of the letter was much less poisonous--but if my e-mail doesn't de-escalate this, and if it ends up with Human Resources, I will go in there with all guns blazing, starting with his strange habit of listening to ideas only when they come from men, or rolling his eyes when my one female colleague says anything, and a few other little tidbits besides. He would not have DARED to reply to a man like he replied to me, and it galls me because I am the last person in the world who plays the gender card, ESPECIALLY at work. But I know where this guy grew up, because it's right near where I grew up, and I know the mindset that gets set into many of the males--and in him, it's right up at the surface. So that's where I'll take it first; second, I'll go into his flaws as a manager (not least of which is "You DON'T reply like that to an angry employee, no matter how much you want to.") He was on vacation a couple of weeks ago; it was amazing how much more smoothly things went in his absence. I'd noticed the same thing last year when he was gone, but it was definitely confirmed this year: The Crazy is not the source of most of the problems in our department. I mean, some decisions she makes contribute to the chaos, but for the most part, I think HE is the problem, not The Crazy.

I am now completely exhausted. I have been so angry and so worked-up all day, and now I'm just tired--and when I leave here at 9:30, I have to be back tomorrow at 8 AM. I am going to just pass out the minute my head hits the pillow, I think...and dream of chainsaws.

I Am Not Handling This World Very Well

...and for the first time in a long time, it's got nothing to do with my darling roommates. (My darling roommates are themselves a topic, but we have been down that road so thoroughly and so often that even I am weary of the discussion. I did, however, reiterate to Tim this afternoon that there was simply no way that a newborn was coming here, so he and Squeaky--separately or together--needed to have other arrangements made by that time. I don't know if he was listening, but that's not my problem.)

No, what is currently playing havoc with my already-compromised emotion-regulation mechanism is this story. The local news here in Chicago is talking of almost nothing else, but for those of you who live elsewhere: Out on the southern edge of Chicago, near where my mom lives, there are many cemeteries. One of them is Burr Oak, which is historic because for a very long time, it was the only place where African-Americans were allowed to be buried. Dinah Washington is buried there, and quite a few African-American sports legends of the 50's and 60's; most well-known, however, Emmett Till is buried there. For years there have been occasional remarks about the grounds looking shabby, but nothing concrete, nothing serious...

...until this week. Apparently, during the investigation of possible embezzlement, the Cook County Sheriff's Office discovered something far worse: empty graves, bodies stacked two in a grave, bodies in graves other than where they were supposed to be...and in the far back of the cemetery, in an area full of scrubby plants and tall grasses, they found a pile of broken concrete grave-liners, smashed caskets...and bones. Human remains, dug from their graves using heavy machinery, shoveled up with their casket, their grave-liner, and with no regard for names, or for the fact that they were once someone's mother, someone's father, someone's husband or wife, brother or sister, son or daughter. Thrown together in anonymous dumpsters, or left on the ground for the rain and the sun and anything else to act upon.

There are, at last count, at least 300 graves involved. A thousand people, family members of people once buried there, came to the gates today, searching for answers. Some brought notes, funeral programs, family Bibles full of dates and names and anything that might provide a clue, if one were needed, as to where their family member had been buried. Most of them came away with nothing. There were people who were looking for five, seven, ten, fifteen relatives, all of whom had been laid to rest in Burr Oak. Some family members admitted that they'd thought the place was shabby, but they had kept burying their family members there so that they could all be together in death.

Tonight, Tom Dart, the Cook County Sheriff, closed the cemetery and declared the entire grounds a crime scene. As family members had walked the lanes and plots, some of them had stumbled across more bones; and later in the day a second dumping ground was discovered, bigger than the first. In an interview, Dart said that the cemetery's "Baby Land" area, once devoted to the graves of infants, was completely gone. Mothers had searched without success for the gravesites of their babies.

In a final indignity, on Friday morning, investigators entered a dilapidated shed on the cemetery premises and discovered the original coffin of Emmett Till. It had been stowed there and allowed to deteriorate after Till's 2005 disinterment and re-burial; one of the perpetrators of this crime had allegedly been collecting money for a proposed Emmett Till Memorial--money which she then pocketed. The casket, according to surviving members of the Till family, was to have been a part of the memorial; when the sheriff's staff opened it Friday morning, they found a family of possums living inside.

Four people have been arrested: Carolyn Towns, the former manager (fired in March for suspected financial irregularities); Keith Nicks, a foreman; Terrence Nicks, who operated a dump truck; and Maurice Dailey, who drove a back-hoe. Each was charged with dismembering a human body, a Class X felony; if convicted, they could receive as much as 30 years in prison. They are all being held in Cook County Jail in protective custody, for fear that other inmates would harm them. Towns, who was apparently the ring-leader, is being held in the psych unit of the jail after an evaluation showed "cause for concern" regarding her psychological well-being.

I know why this story just horrifies me so completely; the whole issue of what happens after death is a common turning-point for my thoughts. My realistic side understands that the body is just a shell, that after death there is nothing there but material matter; my hopeless-romantic magical thinking side, when I ponder the thought of the afterlife, always visualizes the afterlife as an eventual reunion with the people who went before us, as we remember them--including their physical selves. And my skeptical side refuses to invest that kind of hope in any daydream outcome, because the real me, down at my core, can't stand the thought that even after death I will never see JP again. (Of course it all comes back to him; you were expecting differently?)

But there's more to it, as well. One of my colleagues realized today, after talking with some family members, that he's got about seven or eight relatives interred in that cemetery--and that most of them are in exactly the sort of situation that was targeted: older graves, graves which weren't visited as often, where no one would be as likely to find out what had happened. Between that story and the tearful women on the news, clutching sepia-toned pictures of mothers, husbands, grandmothers...

There are just some things my brain cannot accept, cannot process. There is an enormity to the story that is unfolding: first it was 30 graves, then 100, then on Friday it was 300. Tonight, as they announced the closing, the sheriff admitted that there are 5000 graves which need to be examined. Five thousand restless dead, five thousand heart-sore families...And it could be any one of us--that's the other thing. Every family has its dead; every family has buried at least one or two members; even if the rest of the family believes in cremation, there will always be one or two dissenters. Every one of us will lose a loved one; most of us will see that loved one's casket lowered into the earth. Any one of us could be one of those weeping, picture-clutching family members.

In fact, any of us could be a victim here as well. After all, we all will die; who's to say that any of us would be lucky enough to escape a fate like this? Who's to guarantee that no matter what any of us do--no matter what kind of plans we make for our eventual resting place--who's to guarantee that we might not be found one day in a wooded back-lot, in a pile of cement, and shattered metal, and the mixed remains of our fellow travellers? It makes me reconsider what my last wishes might be, I'll tell you that.

My wishes for the people who did this, on the other hand, require no further consideration; I would like them consigned to a separate section of Hell all their own, away from the decent damned, so that even if I end up in Hades when I die, I won't in any way be forced to associate with their kind. Their Hell will need "protective custody", just as much as their earthly prison does.

A Response To Eatmisery

Background info: I came across this comment tonight, from one of my longest-time readers, Eatmisery. She's a blogger I respect, and a fellow Chicagoan as well, and I take her words seriously because, for the most part, she's generally on the mark with what she says. In this case, though I understand her thinking, I felt I had to reply in such a way that I could, hopefully, show how "this time is different". Which makes even me think: bleargh.

Her comment is below; my reply follows afterward.

eatmisery said...

I'm betting that you're the one who actually leaves when the lease is up, not them. They'll just latch onto you wherever you go and you'll let them because you're so kind. The only way to get rid of them is to break off contact completely, which includes changing your cell phone number and moving. As long as they can reach you, they've got you right where they want you...every single time.

This is very sad. I feel for you, Gladys. You're the only one who can make the changes you need happen.

Miz...I can completely understand why you would expect that to be the outcome (I leave, they stay in the apt.) but in this case, I'm going to have to say I don't think that's likely. See, in the past, when I've thought about what to do about this situation--at whatever stage the situation was in--I was always worrying about two things at once: one, my own best interests; and two, everyone else's welfare/needs/opinion of me. And that, of course, is where they've got me in the past--as I'm trying to be nice to everyone and take care of everyone, one person gets left out of the equation.

In making THIS decision, however, my process was dominated largely by hard, cold realities: my goals for myself, the ways in which staying in this apartment benefits me, and the ways in which moving to a bigger place with them would actually move me farther AWAY from my goals. When I look at my goals, I don't mind standing still; it's moving backwards that I won't accept, not anymore.

In making this decision, I assumed three options; there are probably more, but I really haven't got any patience with dithering at this late date. So the options I considered were:

a)I stay in my current apartment, while Tim and Squeaky leave;
b)I stay in my current apartment; Tim and Squeaky also stay, and the baby joins us;
c)The three of us move to a larger apartment in preparation for the baby.

I have chosen Option A. Option B is a non-starter on several levels; foremost among them is, as I have explained to Tim, that there is no possible way that another human being, no matter how small, can be added to the population of this apartment without severing the final thread in the fabric of civility here, a fabric which is already paper-thin and strained most exceedingly. Especially in light of recent developments, this apartment is already a ticking time-bomb--when Squeaky figures out that not only did Tim mean what he said about continuing their relationship only in a platonic state, and only for the benefit of the baby--when she discovers that not only did he mean it, but that he has already begun to behave as though it were an accomplished fact--well, put it this way: I fully expect that the police will need to be involved. Squeaky is absolutely certain at the core of her being that not only is Tim secretly thrilled about the baby, but that beneath the surface, he is avidly preparing for their life together, complete with Disney-princess ending and a future devoid of strife. Some of this may be excused by her gravid state, perhaps, but most of it, I believe, is just the magical thinking of a very lonely child who really never grew up. When Squeaky is forced to face reality, there will be no peace for anyone unfortunate enough to be living with her at that time. And even if that day never comes, the fact remains: There is absolutely no room in this apartment for all the accoutrements that go with a baby. It's not a question of making room; the hard truth is, there is no room to be made. Therefore, even if I wanted them and the baby to stay, Option B would not be a possibility.

This leaves Option A and Option C. I will tell you that for the last few weeks of winter and the greater part of spring, Option C was actually my preferred option--to the point that we had discussed it among the three of us, had defined possible locations and price ranges, and had scouted out some preliminary rental advertisements. In considering the plans, I had thought long and hard about what I wanted. I wanted, first and foremost, to get out of Hyde Park. I wanted to move to the North Side, around Logan Square or Humboldt Park--somewhere with coffee shops and grocery stores and bars, someplace more dynamic than here. I also wanted more space; given my choice, I wanted a second bedroom where I could keep all my art supplies, where I could work on complex projects without feline assistance. I was even willing, since I was to be the main beneficiary of the increase in space, to take a greater share of the financial responsibility; I told Tim and Squeaky that instead of each of us paying 1/3, I would consider them as a unit, and split the rent 50-50.

And then I thought about it for a while longer.

First of all: My lease ends at the end of October--four months from now. Taking things by a general estimate, let's say rent would be $1500 for a three-bedroom apartment. Most leases involve a security deposit equal to one month's rent, along with payment for the first month due upon move-in. Therefore, on November first, we would currently need to come up with $3000, plus moving expenses. Moving expenses would be considerable, as my furnishings have long ago expanded beyond the "U-Haul and a couple of guy friends" status; when I moved in here from Casa De Gladys, the movers' bill was nearly $2000. Figuring that half the stuff got moved to Mom's, let's say a move from here would cost, say, $900. This means that I would have to come up with $900 (movers) plus $750 (my half of the security deposit) plus $750 (my half of the first month's rent). This means I would need to save $600/month over the next four months, which is largely outside the realm of MY possibility--to say nothing of the $375/month which THEY would have to save. Between the two of them, they don't even MAKE $375 a month! So realistically, I would end up paying the whole shebang--and there's no way in hell I could amass an extra four grand by Halloween. Then, too, assuming their joblessness continues (which I have no reason to doubt!)I would then end up paying more than twice my current rent, once utilities and the like are factored in. And I would want to do this WHY? For WHAT reason?

No, Miz, this isn't going to become a squishy, cuddly, world-saving expedition. I realize it HAS been so far, but until now, there hasn't been a concrete, calculable argument AGAINST it on which to hang my hat...well, now I've got one. So far, there was nothing anyone could physically POINT to and say "Do you see what you're LOSING by helping these two?"--or if there was, I could always say "But I can afford to give it, so I'm okay with it." Well, I am NOT okay with losing four grand before Thanksgiving, and I'm NOT okay with the prospect of losing an extra $600-ish per month afterwards because "our" apartment has become "my" financial albatross. So Option C is right out.

This leaves Option A: I stay here, they leave. Again: there is no way that three other people can stay here, even if--ESPECIALLY if--one is a newborn baby. If the baby can't stay, obviously Squeaky can't stay...besides which, I doubt she'll even WANT to, once Tim explains in detail what he's been up to lately. I'm sure the truth will come out, and as I said: I'm pretty sure the police will be involved whenever THAT happens. So there's a possibility that all three will have to go, regardless of ANYONE's wishes.

And while I wouldn't mind if Tim stayed, there are three factors which argue against his continued tenancy. One, which I've heard reflected to me more than once: letting him stay here ALSO allows him to continue his inertia. As long as he has a roof over his head, and can bum a beer and a cigarette from somewhere, he's perfectly content to sleep til noon, then stay up all night flirting with girls on Facebook...which is, I realize, doing him no favors. Secondly, as long as HE's here, there's always the possibility that Squeaky could pull the "you don't want your child and her mother to be HOMELESS, do you? Ask Gladys if we can stay...It'll just be for a couple of nights..." And we've ALL seen how well THAT has turned out in the past.

The third thing, I realize, could (amd probably will) be construed as a case of "out of the frying pan, into the sulfurous, reeking, magma-bubbling mouth of the active volcano" but I don't believe it will: as long as Tim is here, I need to keep CR at a reasonable distance. I'm tired of their feud, and I'm tired of getting a skunk-eye when the caller ID shows his number. I would like, perhaps, even to be able to have CR come over once in a while for a pizza, or to let him use the computer for job-hunting if he needs it, or whatever. (The jury is cautioned to withhold further commentary re: the nature of activities encompassed by "whatever".) In short, I would like my place back, AS mine, where I can do anything I choose to do without having to hasten to change my actions to compensate for someone else's long-ago fights.

Since this post is mercilessly long (AGAIN), I want to end by saying this: I don't mean to sound defensive or bitchy in any way (ESPECIALLY not to eatmisery; she's one of my favorite Chicago bloggers!) And I do understand everyone's concerns about me; I've put my foot down so many times re:Tim & Squeak in this blog, it's starting to get a dent in the floor. But in all seriousness, I have taken these concerns seriously, and I appreciate that you all care enough to speak your minds. Thank you for that; it's easier, sometimes, to see your flaws when other people can point out your positives too, and when they mention them in a concerned and compassionate way.

Finally Pinned It Down

I have now realized what it is about Squeaky that drives me MOST batshit crazy-go-nuts.

There are, as I think you all can agree, two possible classes of response to the question "How are you?" We have Group One, which is "I'm fine, and how are you?" There are, of course, many variants and degrees of this answer, trending all the way up to "I'm blessed and hope you are the same," and all the way down to my personal favorite, "I'd be better if it was Friday." Different as these are, however, they are all part of one continuum of information.

Then there's Group Two. While a Group One reply can often be given while passing a colleague in the hall, the Group Two answer requires the colleague not only to slow their pace, but to STOP, completely, in order to take in the answer without appearing callous and uncaring. The Group Two answer: "Oh, I'm okay, I guess. I mean, my stomach muscles really hurt, but the doctor says that's okay because the baby's expanding and pushing all the internal organs around. And besides, I've already gained eleven pounds, although the doctor says I should gain more because....Oh, and I have a blister on my foot. Well, it's not really a blister; ir started OUT as a blister but it turned into more of a..."

I'm guessing, my dear readers, that you're getting a notion as to which group our dear Squeaky falls into?

And I'm losing my everlovin' marbles, is my point. Last night, she came into and out of my bedroom every five to ten minutes for about four hours. Each time, she disturbed me in my effort to relax after a long--a REALLY long--day. Each time, she told me the same bits of pregnancy-related information I've now been hearing for nearly four and a half months. Finally, after she stretched her shirt over her belly for the eighth time and said "Look--it keeps getting bigger! I think it just grew some more!" I replied. "That may be, but I'm pretty sure it's NOT any bigger than the last time you said that, fifteen minutes ago."

I'm TRYING to be nice, but I mean: my god.

And it's not just the pregnancy stuff, either. Sunday, she went to Taste of Chicago with one of her friends. She came into my room Sunday night to ask me to look at her foot, because she thought she had a piece of glass or something but she couldn't see from that angle whether there was anything in her foot or not. I told her all I saw was a blister--a really nasty-looking one, but just a blister--and that the best thing she could do was to stay off it and wash it with warm water and my antibacterial wash stuff from when I had my attack of the Itchy Whatever-It-Was. Throughout the next 24 hours, every conversation involved the condition of her foot: the fact that it hurt, that it hurt to stand on it, that it was now throbbing; that she had washed it, that she wondered if putting Neosporin on it would help, whether I had any Neosporin; that the Neosporin had helped a little but it still hurt, that if it hurt later she was going to the doctor, that it was turning purple and was that a good thing? Monday evening, when I returned from work, I was informed that she had gone to the doctor and the doctor said it was because of her shoes (who the HELL wears open shoes to the Taste of Chicago?? DUH...) and that she should throw them away; that it wasn't a blister exactly, but it had started out as a blister and then because (something something) it turned into a knot UNDER the blister, and she should keep it clean and covered (did I have a bandaid?) and eventually it would turn into a callus under the skin, but that was no big deal.

Still reading?
Hey.
WAKE UP!
Seriously, if I have to deal with this, the least you can do is READ it.

Imagine every little incident elaborated into so great a detail. Imagine hearing every infinitesimal rendering of every minuscule ache, pain, twinge, or sensation.

Imagine the part where I want to jump off a freakin' BRIDGE. Further, imagine how bad the constant litany is likely to become over the next few months, and you will understand that Tim and I have had a fairly-emphatic conversation, to wit:

I am not moving.
I am staying here.
There is absolutely, positively, no possible Earthly way that this living situation can continue past the end of my lease in October; under NO circumstances will this be the "home" to which the baby is eventually brought. That is not going to happen. The CURRENT living situation borders on "completely untenable"; the addition of a newborn to the mix would send it catapulting over the edge of "untenable", past "impossible", and well into the boundaries of "you've gotta be fucking KIDDING me, right???"
I have no animosity toward anyone, and I am not judging anyone for their actions; however, I am not going to allow the quality of my life to be compromised by my wish to help the two of them.

And that was before I knew how bad the REAL situation was.

See, Tim has a girlfriend.
No, not Squeaky; a different girlfriend.
Tim has told Squeaky repeatedly that he is not "in love" with her, no matter how much he does love her and the baby.
Squeaky has steadfastly refused to hear anything other than "...and we'll live happily ever after, and all the unicorns will poop rainbows and twenty-dollar bills, and everyone will love each other just to pieces."
This is NOT how it's going to happen.

I have told Tim that I won't judge his actions, but that I will state for the record that even if they ARE understandable, they are also extraordinarily shitty, and definitely not the sort of thing I agree with. (So in fact, I -am- judging his actions; but seriously, dude. The degrees of "totally, insanely WRONG" here are pretty comprehensive, you know? Not to mention that you are doing E.X.A.C.T.L.Y the same thing you castigate CR for--you're treating Squeaky just how CR treated me, lying and fucking around and maintaining your relationships on the computer and etc., except the way you're doing it is actually WORSE, since at no time during that whole eighteen-month nightmare was I ever PREGNANT WITH HIS CHILD. So--yeah, I'm judging. I'm not going to repeat my judgement ad nauseam, but it's there, and someday we'll have to discuss it.)

Oh...yeah. About CR. He's still where he is, with no cell phone anymore; with no job, no money, no nothing. He stays with friends--sometimes in the house, other times in the garage. He scrambles for food and for gas money. He wants to come back to Chicago, but there are no jobs; he has a friend in Virginia or somewhere who will give him a manual-labor job, if he can get the gas money to get that far, that is. He is completely, utterly miserable.

I miss him. I'll admit it; he's fun to talk to. Do I want to live with him again? HELL no; the seven years we've been apart have been seven years in which I've learned a lot about myself, and it makes me happy to realize that--I am ME, and I am not willing to give that up to live with anyone.

(Now, if we could work out some kind of situation where he could rent out the apartment next door, I could live with THAT...)

And one more great development: Remember Debbi, of Debbi and Cowgirl fame? I think I mentioned that she got married back in the winter, and that Cowgirl hasn't spoken to her since; she was hurt by Cowgirl's rejection, but being happy can take the edge off a whole lot of stuff...and make no mistake, Debbi is happy. In fact, as of last week she's even HAPPIER; she went in to the doctor for what she THOUGHT was a recurrence of a uterine cyst, and discovered that in about eighteen years, that cyst is gonna need college money...Debbi is now about two months pregnant. I was--I AM--thrilled for her; I even managed to display that happiness and excitement til I hung up the phone, whereupon I bawled my eyes out, and spent the next few days in a funk of "I'm 39, I'm alone, I'm wasting my life, and everyone around me is having babies." I'm solid in my decision not to have kids of my own--I realize I'm not cut out for parenthood...but oh, sometimes I really wish I was more like everybody else.