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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Important Facts, June 2009
1. Birthdays are alternately sucky and awesome. The "pondering the passage of time, the wasted years and my own eventual death" part = sucky. The "really awesome present from Mom, upon which this blog entry is being written from the privacy of my own room AND wirelessly" = awesome. Also, not being in the hospital for my birthday, a la 2005 = also awesome.
2. My boss is a....no, don't want to be QUITE that profane.
My boss is a....no, I'd probably get sent straight to hell just for TYPING that.
My boss is...Okay, look. My boss is a FU----G B---H, is the point I'm heading towards here. (In fact, I'll even go back and redact the middle letters there, just so no one can go tut-tut at me. But she IS that, and worse, to the uttermost degree.) Today was the Office Picnic. It was moved inside due to an infestation of mud in the usual picnic ground; otherwise, though, it was a repeat of last year...in all aspects but one. See, last year, the picnic ended at 2, and afterwards everyone could go home. THIS year, however, Ms BossLady decided to buttonhole a departing Help Desk staffer and question his decision to leave. When my immediate boss objected, saying "that's not what happened last year," she insisted that it WAS. So while EVERY DEPARTMENT BUT OURS left to go home for the day, my colleagues and I labored on--even though we are a technical-support department and there was no one to support but ourselves! AND--to add icing to this crapcake--Ms BossLady left at 5, my immediate boss left at 4:15, and I? Had to stay til 6:30, just like every day. What a crock of crap.
3. I am not moving in November. I have told Tim this; I am not moving. It is not in my best interests to move. He and Squeaky are welcome to stay and work out what they're doing next, but the baby will not be brought "home" to here in December. We all have limits. Tim understands this and thinks it's fine, and he says he's grateful for my straightforwardness. Despite his many flaws, I will not be shaken from my opinion: Tim is a good guy, with bad judgement and worse luck, who's gotten himself in waaaaaaaaaaaaay over his head in life. He isn't trying to take advantage; if it does come out that way sometimes, it's unintentional. I fully expect that Tim and I will end up as roomies in the old-age home, if his liver makes it that long.
4. Squeaky, though, I can take or leave, and would prefer to leave. She spent Mother's Day with me at my mom's house--a last-minute invite for dinner, since Tim had gone all Asshole-Boy and went off to hang with his friends--and even my MOM said Squeak is extremely self-centered. Every conversation came back around to "I'm pregnant!" She's not a bad person--in fact, I think the thing that disturbs me most about her is that I see in her a lot of who I might have easily become, had my life not turned in the direction that it had. If I had continued on the pampered-darling path I was heading down when I was 18 or 19 or 20, I could very well have remained unconscious, invested my entire energy, heart, and soul into a Man, and been somebody's little shadow, someone's mouthpiece, for the rest of my days. I can't pinpoint the moment my life turned--it was before I met JP, probably, but not LONG before--but I thank X every day for it.
4a. "You thank WHO? Who's 'X'?" Okay, look. I know some of you might be religious, and I begrudge no one their deity, but seriously: if people do not stop whacking me upside the head with their Lord and Savior, I'm gonna get REAL heathenish, REAL quick. Yesterday I left work early with a bad stomach; before I left, my cubemate PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER (big no-no--I'm practically Asperger-y about unsolicited touch) and PRAYED that I would be HEALED in the name of JESUS. (And no, there was NO irony intended at all--he was dead serious.) Today, when he brought his wife and kids in for the picnic, he announced to them "I prayed for Gladys yesterday when she was sick, and she got better." I WANTED to say, "I was gonna get better ANYWAY, nimbot--this happens pretty much EVERY month for a day or two," but I figured, if it made him happy to believe that he'd "cured" my monthly case of premenstrual bubbleguts, who was I to harsh his God-buzz? But seriously: between him, Mom, and random kindly strangers who take entirely too much interest in the condition of my alleged immortal soul, I am distancing myself ENTIRELY from this whole Judeo-Christian-normativity complex. In other words: please remove your higher power from my grill. He is not happy there; it's not the kind of 'hood He wants to inhabit. K, thx, BAI!!!
5. Summary: I'm good. Not great--sometimes not even functioning, alas--but taking things on the balance, I'm doing okay. A few improvements could be made, but that will come in time, I hope.
(but my boss is still a bitch...)
2. My boss is a....no, don't want to be QUITE that profane.
My boss is a....no, I'd probably get sent straight to hell just for TYPING that.
My boss is...Okay, look. My boss is a FU----G B---H, is the point I'm heading towards here. (In fact, I'll even go back and redact the middle letters there, just so no one can go tut-tut at me. But she IS that, and worse, to the uttermost degree.) Today was the Office Picnic. It was moved inside due to an infestation of mud in the usual picnic ground; otherwise, though, it was a repeat of last year...in all aspects but one. See, last year, the picnic ended at 2, and afterwards everyone could go home. THIS year, however, Ms BossLady decided to buttonhole a departing Help Desk staffer and question his decision to leave. When my immediate boss objected, saying "that's not what happened last year," she insisted that it WAS. So while EVERY DEPARTMENT BUT OURS left to go home for the day, my colleagues and I labored on--even though we are a technical-support department and there was no one to support but ourselves! AND--to add icing to this crapcake--Ms BossLady left at 5, my immediate boss left at 4:15, and I? Had to stay til 6:30, just like every day. What a crock of crap.
3. I am not moving in November. I have told Tim this; I am not moving. It is not in my best interests to move. He and Squeaky are welcome to stay and work out what they're doing next, but the baby will not be brought "home" to here in December. We all have limits. Tim understands this and thinks it's fine, and he says he's grateful for my straightforwardness. Despite his many flaws, I will not be shaken from my opinion: Tim is a good guy, with bad judgement and worse luck, who's gotten himself in waaaaaaaaaaaaay over his head in life. He isn't trying to take advantage; if it does come out that way sometimes, it's unintentional. I fully expect that Tim and I will end up as roomies in the old-age home, if his liver makes it that long.
4. Squeaky, though, I can take or leave, and would prefer to leave. She spent Mother's Day with me at my mom's house--a last-minute invite for dinner, since Tim had gone all Asshole-Boy and went off to hang with his friends--and even my MOM said Squeak is extremely self-centered. Every conversation came back around to "I'm pregnant!" She's not a bad person--in fact, I think the thing that disturbs me most about her is that I see in her a lot of who I might have easily become, had my life not turned in the direction that it had. If I had continued on the pampered-darling path I was heading down when I was 18 or 19 or 20, I could very well have remained unconscious, invested my entire energy, heart, and soul into a Man, and been somebody's little shadow, someone's mouthpiece, for the rest of my days. I can't pinpoint the moment my life turned--it was before I met JP, probably, but not LONG before--but I thank X every day for it.
4a. "You thank WHO? Who's 'X'?" Okay, look. I know some of you might be religious, and I begrudge no one their deity, but seriously: if people do not stop whacking me upside the head with their Lord and Savior, I'm gonna get REAL heathenish, REAL quick. Yesterday I left work early with a bad stomach; before I left, my cubemate PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER (big no-no--I'm practically Asperger-y about unsolicited touch) and PRAYED that I would be HEALED in the name of JESUS. (And no, there was NO irony intended at all--he was dead serious.) Today, when he brought his wife and kids in for the picnic, he announced to them "I prayed for Gladys yesterday when she was sick, and she got better." I WANTED to say, "I was gonna get better ANYWAY, nimbot--this happens pretty much EVERY month for a day or two," but I figured, if it made him happy to believe that he'd "cured" my monthly case of premenstrual bubbleguts, who was I to harsh his God-buzz? But seriously: between him, Mom, and random kindly strangers who take entirely too much interest in the condition of my alleged immortal soul, I am distancing myself ENTIRELY from this whole Judeo-Christian-normativity complex. In other words: please remove your higher power from my grill. He is not happy there; it's not the kind of 'hood He wants to inhabit. K, thx, BAI!!!
5. Summary: I'm good. Not great--sometimes not even functioning, alas--but taking things on the balance, I'm doing okay. A few improvements could be made, but that will come in time, I hope.
(but my boss is still a bitch...)
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