AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaand....we're back.
(Okay, MOSTLY back. I'm at work right now. But tonight's task is to reconnect the computer, and the Internet is already in place (as is the cable, installed as the movers hauled things in...happy, happy me!) and once I'm reconnected fully, THEN I'll consider myself COMPLETELY back. But right now, that's a small thing.)
And NOW I'm excited. NOW I'm happy. NOW I am not so ambivalent anymore.
I have three lamps and two small boxes left at the old place. I'll pick them up on Saturday, after work. But otherwise, everything I own is either in my new place or snugly tucked away in Mom's basement.
The cats, having spent yesterday in carriers, have been giving me dirty looks since I let them out to explore. They also, however, decided to share the bed last night, in a rare show of feline solidarity; all three of them managed to spend half the night with no hiss, no spit, no growl nor yowl. Cassidy slept on my left arm, which I found adorable. (Poor kitty has been through a lot, and he's got a lot more to go through; apparently, apartments not being a possibility, Tim and Squeaky are going to live at Squeaky's dad's. Cassidy will join them once they're settled, in a couple of weeks; in the meantime, I'm kittysitting. I don't mind--he's a love, actually.)
When I finally let them out of their carriers, Cass ran around the house investigating everything; Bad ran under the bed and stayed there til dinnertime; and Snick was nowhere to be found. He finally emerged when I put out food, but he'd clearly had enough of this ordeal; I plucked him off a bookcase at one point, and for the first time in his life he HISSED at me. Snickers NEVER hisses at me. He's clearly stressed. (Not stressed enough to affect his appetite, though!)
I am very, very happy with my new place. I will be happier once things are unpacked...but it's DONE; it's OVER; I have moved. (Hallelujiah!)
Showing posts with label peace and quiet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peace and quiet. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, September 2, 2007
This Has Got To End.
From a conversation that occurred at 5:00 this morning, roughly:
Tim seems to think that he is to Squeaky what I am to him: he sees himself as the person who looks out for her, the one who cares about her when nobody else does--the way I do for him.
Okay, fine. Admirable, even. If you've got something to teach her that you think will help her handle her life better, then by all means go for it, and good luck to you.
But then don't go getting blotto-drunk and traumatizing the poor kid by doing stupid shit like threatening to kill yourself and/or cutting your wrists with a steak knife.
And then don't get pissed at her for being scared and waking me up because she doesn't have any idea how to deal with it. Or defend it as an attempt to make a point. You don't make a point by cutting yourself. (unless the point is "I am absolutely batshit crazy, and also very drunk." If that was the point? You've made it admirably.) You don't make a point by scaring the hell out of someone. So don't get pissed at her for dealing with it in the only way she could...
Then ESPECIALLY don't get pissed at ME for being pissed at YOU instead of Squeaky--"she shouldn't have woke you up!" Well yeah--and she wouldn't have, if you hadn't scared her half to death (and apparently opened up some old psychic wounds, as well.)
And Squeaky? When the situation is calming down? The sarcastic remarks calculated to piss Tim off? They don't help. Really. Shutting up--THAT helps. Rule #1: Do NOT poke the crazy.
Once the merriment and festivities had died down, the following facts were explained to Tim:
1. It is my FUCKING DAY OFF. This drama was not appreciated. This drama WILL NOT RECUR. That is a declarative sentence--not a request.
2. The day we move out of this house--no matter where we move to, no matter whether we move by ourselves or whether there are other roomies involved--is the LAST day that Squeaky will be living with us. Once we're in the new place, I am not putting up with this.
3. Any attempt to ignore #2 will be considered a total dealbreaker. Regardless of our friendship, regardless of our history, if you insist on poisoning my personal space with this ridiculous situation, I will GLADLY live on my own rather than put up with this childish crap. I understand that you are trying to help, but this Sid-and-Nancy-Lite shit is not helping anyone, least of all ME.
4. Your attempts to emulate me, by helping someone obviously in need of it, are appreciated. Your methods, however, are at times misguided (and at other times, COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE and inappropriate) and you might think about how the potential outcomes.
5. Did I mention about it being my day off? Have we not, for some time now, maintained an understanding about my personal space? Then stop setting off the drama. It's every bit as much your doing as Squeaky's--more, really, since you're the one who knows better.
I don't know how thoroughly my statements sunk in--for one thing, they were percolating through a thick layer of Miller High Life, and were probably garbled on the trip--but at least I've said my piece. If necessary, I will repeat it.
It has also become obvious that I cannot have beer (or any other alcohol) in this house. Not that it's such a great loss for me--summer's almost over anyway, and that's the only time I ever really drink--but it's become apparent to me that for Tim, beer is like rocket-fuel for his inner butthead. This is the third or fourth time I've had to involve myself in their little interpersonal crises, and each time there was alcohol involved. It's like in the I Has A Sweet Potato story: "WE JUST WON'T HAVE ANY ROOT VEGETABLES ANYMORE. THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY?" Except in this case, it's beer. (I only WISH it was root vegetables. I've never heard of anyone becoming a jerk after an overdose of yams.) Like I said--beerlessness is no great hardship for me. I just happen to enjoy a couple of Coronas after a hard day's work; I'll just have to find something else to enjoy after a hard day's work instead. (Breyers' Caramel Pretzel ice cream is looking like a good candidate. In the words of lolcats everywhere, nom nom nom.)
So all in all, this so-called "long weekend" has been a total loss: Friday night I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well; Saturday I worked from 8:00-4:30; and today was spent either babysitting my roommates and their domestic disputes, or sleeping in the aftermath of same. And then tomorrow, it's off to Mom's--where I will no doubt be treated, along with a delicious meal, to a running commentary about how much weight I need to lose. (But at least there won't be any drama. It's hard to believe it--I'm faced with a lecture about my weight, my hair, or my beliefs, and yet those lectures actually seem PREFERABLE to staying at home--because if I go where the lectures are, I won't have to deal with the silly childish crap going on HERE...Yeah, that's a sad state of affairs if ever I've heard one.)
All things considered, I'll be glad to get back to work on Tuesday.
Tim seems to think that he is to Squeaky what I am to him: he sees himself as the person who looks out for her, the one who cares about her when nobody else does--the way I do for him.
Okay, fine. Admirable, even. If you've got something to teach her that you think will help her handle her life better, then by all means go for it, and good luck to you.
But then don't go getting blotto-drunk and traumatizing the poor kid by doing stupid shit like threatening to kill yourself and/or cutting your wrists with a steak knife.
And then don't get pissed at her for being scared and waking me up because she doesn't have any idea how to deal with it. Or defend it as an attempt to make a point. You don't make a point by cutting yourself. (unless the point is "I am absolutely batshit crazy, and also very drunk." If that was the point? You've made it admirably.) You don't make a point by scaring the hell out of someone. So don't get pissed at her for dealing with it in the only way she could...
Then ESPECIALLY don't get pissed at ME for being pissed at YOU instead of Squeaky--"she shouldn't have woke you up!" Well yeah--and she wouldn't have, if you hadn't scared her half to death (and apparently opened up some old psychic wounds, as well.)
And Squeaky? When the situation is calming down? The sarcastic remarks calculated to piss Tim off? They don't help. Really. Shutting up--THAT helps. Rule #1: Do NOT poke the crazy.
Once the merriment and festivities had died down, the following facts were explained to Tim:
1. It is my FUCKING DAY OFF. This drama was not appreciated. This drama WILL NOT RECUR. That is a declarative sentence--not a request.
2. The day we move out of this house--no matter where we move to, no matter whether we move by ourselves or whether there are other roomies involved--is the LAST day that Squeaky will be living with us. Once we're in the new place, I am not putting up with this.
3. Any attempt to ignore #2 will be considered a total dealbreaker. Regardless of our friendship, regardless of our history, if you insist on poisoning my personal space with this ridiculous situation, I will GLADLY live on my own rather than put up with this childish crap. I understand that you are trying to help, but this Sid-and-Nancy-Lite shit is not helping anyone, least of all ME.
4. Your attempts to emulate me, by helping someone obviously in need of it, are appreciated. Your methods, however, are at times misguided (and at other times, COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE and inappropriate) and you might think about how the potential outcomes.
5. Did I mention about it being my day off? Have we not, for some time now, maintained an understanding about my personal space? Then stop setting off the drama. It's every bit as much your doing as Squeaky's--more, really, since you're the one who knows better.
I don't know how thoroughly my statements sunk in--for one thing, they were percolating through a thick layer of Miller High Life, and were probably garbled on the trip--but at least I've said my piece. If necessary, I will repeat it.
It has also become obvious that I cannot have beer (or any other alcohol) in this house. Not that it's such a great loss for me--summer's almost over anyway, and that's the only time I ever really drink--but it's become apparent to me that for Tim, beer is like rocket-fuel for his inner butthead. This is the third or fourth time I've had to involve myself in their little interpersonal crises, and each time there was alcohol involved. It's like in the I Has A Sweet Potato story: "WE JUST WON'T HAVE ANY ROOT VEGETABLES ANYMORE. THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY?" Except in this case, it's beer. (I only WISH it was root vegetables. I've never heard of anyone becoming a jerk after an overdose of yams.) Like I said--beerlessness is no great hardship for me. I just happen to enjoy a couple of Coronas after a hard day's work; I'll just have to find something else to enjoy after a hard day's work instead. (Breyers' Caramel Pretzel ice cream is looking like a good candidate. In the words of lolcats everywhere, nom nom nom.)
So all in all, this so-called "long weekend" has been a total loss: Friday night I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well; Saturday I worked from 8:00-4:30; and today was spent either babysitting my roommates and their domestic disputes, or sleeping in the aftermath of same. And then tomorrow, it's off to Mom's--where I will no doubt be treated, along with a delicious meal, to a running commentary about how much weight I need to lose. (But at least there won't be any drama. It's hard to believe it--I'm faced with a lecture about my weight, my hair, or my beliefs, and yet those lectures actually seem PREFERABLE to staying at home--because if I go where the lectures are, I won't have to deal with the silly childish crap going on HERE...Yeah, that's a sad state of affairs if ever I've heard one.)
All things considered, I'll be glad to get back to work on Tuesday.
Monday, August 20, 2007
--enormous sigh of total relief--
Guys, really.
I'm trying.
I'm trying to be good, trying to be kind here. I know Squeaky's life can't be easy. I'm trying.
But today, after I'd dropped her and Tim off at the baseball game, after which Tim was going to the bar and Squeak was going to her dad's for the rest of the week at least....well, when I walked in the door I pretty much did the Dance of Total Joy.
I cannot stand hearing another off-key pop song.
I cannot stand to have the plot of another Disney-Channel movie related to me in excruciating detail.
I cannot stand to listen to another story about some almost-famous person whom she almost knows, or almost encountered, or whose brother's cousin's daughter's babydaddy's sister-in-law's auntie went to grade-school with.
I cannot stand to watch the same MadTV skit on YouTube again.
I cannot stand to hear her and Tim talking over each other, no one listening, each one getting louder and louder and louder.
I work hard. I come home at the end of a day, or at the end of a week, and I ask for exactly two things. One is a Pepsi. (Don't ever be the person to drink the last Pepsi at my house, friends; bad things happen to people who drink the last Pepsi.)
The other, though, is a reasonable interval of peace and/or quiet, during which I can recompose myself, wind down, unscrew my neck-muscles and relax. That is all. Not much to ask, is it? I mean, I don't THINK it's much to ask....No, really--IS it??
To walk in the front door and find the TV and the computer speakers both going at once, in two totally different sonic assaults--with Squeaky singing and dancing along to the computer while watching Whatever on TV, with Tim going through his music library at intense volume, all while the two of them bicker and the cats fight in the background...
I'm exaggerating, I'm sure.
What I'm NOT exaggerating, though, is that last night, for the first time in absolutely as long as I can remember in my adult life--I snapped. I yelled. Really yelled. (The last time I remember yelling AT someone? 1993. I was with my ex-husband, and I was PISSED.) I was attempting to convey necessary information to them--information I knew they would ask for within minutes, if they didn't hear me this time--and they were bickering on inconsequentially, and all the noise and clutter and sonic chaos of the past week just overwhelmed my filters, and I finally just lifted up my voice and yelled "HEY! STOP! I'M TALKING NOW!" They looked at me, Tim especially, as though I'd just lost my mind entirely. Tim has known me for so long, and has seen me angry so rarely, that he realized immediately the wisdom of shutting the hell up. That's the advantage of not having a noticeable temper; when you finally do lose it, people sit up and take notice.
And so I simply said what I was trying to say, apologized for snapping, and let them continue on with what they were doing. (Which was "bickering extensively", should you wonder.)
I'm trying, really. I've tried to be there, to listen to Squeaky when she needs someone to talk to. I've been less-charitable than I would like, I know...But it doesn't--does it?--make me a bad person, if I'm almost incapacitated with happiness at her departure??
I'm trying.
I'm trying to be good, trying to be kind here. I know Squeaky's life can't be easy. I'm trying.
But today, after I'd dropped her and Tim off at the baseball game, after which Tim was going to the bar and Squeak was going to her dad's for the rest of the week at least....well, when I walked in the door I pretty much did the Dance of Total Joy.
I cannot stand hearing another off-key pop song.
I cannot stand to have the plot of another Disney-Channel movie related to me in excruciating detail.
I cannot stand to listen to another story about some almost-famous person whom she almost knows, or almost encountered, or whose brother's cousin's daughter's babydaddy's sister-in-law's auntie went to grade-school with.
I cannot stand to watch the same MadTV skit on YouTube again.
I cannot stand to hear her and Tim talking over each other, no one listening, each one getting louder and louder and louder.
I work hard. I come home at the end of a day, or at the end of a week, and I ask for exactly two things. One is a Pepsi. (Don't ever be the person to drink the last Pepsi at my house, friends; bad things happen to people who drink the last Pepsi.)
The other, though, is a reasonable interval of peace and/or quiet, during which I can recompose myself, wind down, unscrew my neck-muscles and relax. That is all. Not much to ask, is it? I mean, I don't THINK it's much to ask....No, really--IS it??
To walk in the front door and find the TV and the computer speakers both going at once, in two totally different sonic assaults--with Squeaky singing and dancing along to the computer while watching Whatever on TV, with Tim going through his music library at intense volume, all while the two of them bicker and the cats fight in the background...
I'm exaggerating, I'm sure.
What I'm NOT exaggerating, though, is that last night, for the first time in absolutely as long as I can remember in my adult life--I snapped. I yelled. Really yelled. (The last time I remember yelling AT someone? 1993. I was with my ex-husband, and I was PISSED.) I was attempting to convey necessary information to them--information I knew they would ask for within minutes, if they didn't hear me this time--and they were bickering on inconsequentially, and all the noise and clutter and sonic chaos of the past week just overwhelmed my filters, and I finally just lifted up my voice and yelled "HEY! STOP! I'M TALKING NOW!" They looked at me, Tim especially, as though I'd just lost my mind entirely. Tim has known me for so long, and has seen me angry so rarely, that he realized immediately the wisdom of shutting the hell up. That's the advantage of not having a noticeable temper; when you finally do lose it, people sit up and take notice.
And so I simply said what I was trying to say, apologized for snapping, and let them continue on with what they were doing. (Which was "bickering extensively", should you wonder.)
I'm trying, really. I've tried to be there, to listen to Squeaky when she needs someone to talk to. I've been less-charitable than I would like, I know...But it doesn't--does it?--make me a bad person, if I'm almost incapacitated with happiness at her departure??
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