Everybody Goes Somewhere

Well, as you might have guessed from that last post (pissed-off as it was), my short-lived interlude is over; he went back home, having changed plans due to some personal stuff. I can't be angry about it; I'm angry at myself, though, for letting down the walls even a little bit. I won't do that again. It's a pretty clear measure of how lonely I've been, though.

And THAT is overshadowed by the OTHER news of the day: I got a text message from an unknown number this morning, but between the spelling and the content it was pretty easy to tell who'd written it:

i been locked up and everything and i been worried about u is u ok girl call me

To which I replied, in my own mind at least, "?!!!??!!"

You have to understand: LJ prided himself on never having been caught. He lives in Chicago all his adult life, running around surrounded by more weed than the average organic farmer, and flies free despite some of the dumbest moves imaginable-- then he moves to Podunk McNowhere and one of his friends snitches on him and he gets jailed in a midnight raid...not to mention losing his cell phone with all the numbers. He was only able to get my cell phone number by calling his friend whose phone I'd subsidized for a couple of years. And then, apparently for some time, he couldn't get me to answer THAT--apparently the cause of that oh-so-slightly-comforting "worried"--because, of course, it was sitting uncharged in the bottom of my Bag of Damnation, along with three ink pens, a half a pack of gum, and the receipt for a grilled chicken sandwich. Only bill collectors ever call that number anyway, so what's the point of keeping it charged? (Yes, yes--"for emergencies". I know. I don't have enough of a LIFE to have an "emergency". Lately, "emergency" in my life involves being out of orange juice, or having been attacked by a festering ex-food item from the back of my fridge. And for that, I have a REAL phone.)

Apparently his mother and his girl bonded him out of jail (sure glad I'm not his girl at the moment!!) and he's got a lawyer, who says he's got a pretty good chance to beat the case--not enough vegetable matter, for one thing (barely enough to constitute "personal use", let alone "intent to deliver") and a bunch of irregularities in the warrant. Of course, EVERY defense lawyer says that. But since this IS his first arrest, he'll probably get off light.

But again--despite the "worried", which today was at least salve for my wounded pride--I'm certainly glad I'm not his girlfriend at the moment.

I was going to call him anyway, because (drum roll please): this Friday, as soon as the check clears, I will have made the FINAL payment on the Vehicle of the Damned, the Mighty 'Ho. Not to have that $445 a month hanging over my head every month, nor to ever again see the dreaded word "Nationwide" on my caller ID when my payment is eleven seconds late...I believe I have found on earth all I will ever need of heaven, really, when I think about those two conditions. (Seriously, if you're ever in Chicago or anywhere else, and you have crappy credit and someone tries to push you to a finance company called "Nationwide" with headquarters on North Cicero Avenue in Chicago? Don't walk away. Don't even run away. FLY away. Grab your children and your pocketbook and flee, flee the evil that is Nationwide. This isn't the same Nationwide that advertises on TV--they're an insurance company, and I'm sure they're a very nice one--but the Nationwide that finances loans in Chicago is a den of evil, and should be avoided at any and all costs. I've warned you, now; heed my counsel and save your mortal souls.)

So, to recap: LJ goes to jail, Really Hot Man goes home, and Gladys goes...quietly to bed, I guess, now that she doesn't have to keep the house clean and the bikini-area landscaped in anticipation of unannounced visitors. Sad, a little, but also liberating.

Mostly sad, I think....but I'll live. I always do.

Inappropriate BWAHAHAHAHA

It's finally happened.

The Woman With Absolutely No Sense of Boundaries Whatsoever--better known as my mom-- finally got her karmic comeuppance for thirty-seven years of not respecting my personal space.

My mom has a history of demanding too much info--and of obtaining it through any possible means. When I was eighteen she read my diary; even to this day, she still asks inappropriate questions about my finances and other issues. And she absolutely cannot resist opening things she shouldn't--boxes, medicine cabinets...drawers...

Well, when I moved, I stored a bunch of stuff in her basement--boxes, tools, shelves, a bunch of stuff. Among the collection was an old dresser, which had spent the last few years of its life in LJ's room at Chez Gladys. I thought I'd emptied out all the contents of the drawers, but...well, maybe not so much.

Because apparently, a few days ago, Mom was in the basement, and she decided to open up the drawer of this dresser (which could have absolutely NOTHING in it pertaining to her) and rummage through this drawer (containing a tangle of mens' socks and size XXXXXXL t-shirts which were OBVIOUSLY not mine)...

...where she discovered a small collection of DVD's.

(You know where this is heading, don't you?)

DVD's with names like "Black A*N*A*L--Five Hours of HOT A$$-F***ing!!!"

Oh--and they had EXTREMELY relevant cover-art.

She showed this collection to me today, when we were downstairs putting away the Christmas tree. "They're not....YOURS, are they?" she asked, obviously very worried. "I was SO upset when I found them..."

I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing.

"Of course, I COULD ask why exactly you might be rummaging through the drawer of one of MY dressers," I said pointedly (after explaining that no, those were NOT my a$$-f***ing DVD's) but the best answer I could get was something like "Well, I was on the phone, and I just started looking through things..."

Uh-huh.

The offending items were securely encased in several layers of old newspaper and deposited in the alley trash-can, beneath the week's accumulation of yogurt containers and coffee-grounds. I offered to sneak down the alley and bury it in someone ELSE's trash, but she said that wouldn't be necessary; just so they weren't laying out right in the open where the garbage-men would be likely to see them. "I mean, what would they THINK?" she asked, and though I was tempted to treat it as a non-rhetorical question, I forbore.

I'd hope this would cure her of rummaging through other people's belongings, but alas, I know better. But all the same...Classic, man. Just classic.