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.