Tim is in the substance-abuse unit at a local mental-health center. I just talked to Squeaky for an hour (and my respect for THAT little girl is ramped up to a fairly-amazing height, considering our history) and things are not looking too spectacular for Tim at the moment. Apparently, after having "the charcoal thing" (Squeaky's description) done to his stomach ("He wasn't real happy about that,") he "kinda freaked out" and was subsequently put in full-body restraints, with the kind assistance of "about 30 or 35 people", and once restrained, was pumped full of tranquilizers. No--I mean FULL of tranquilizers. Per Squeaky's description, they gave him a shot...then another...then another...."They seriously had to go back out to get more medicine about eight times," she said. "There was a doctor there who asked me 'Why isn't he asleep already?' I said 'I TOLD you--he's got a really high immunity for medication!'" (True; I've seen Tim take in quantities of this and that which would have incapacitated, like, ANYONE else.)
Eventually, after they transferred him from the regular hospital to the mental-health center (dumping ground of those who, like Tim, have no insurance) he DID fall asleep; they'd taken his restraints off after the shots started working enough to ensure he wasn't going to kick anyone's ass. (Squeaky told me that last night, when she called me, he had already beaten her up as she tried to get the pills away from him. That's the first time in the history of our friendship that I know of him hitting a woman. I'm not real pleased about it, but then again, he had to have been pretty far gone to even be able to do that.)
And with all the stuff Squeaky's going through with Tim, bullshit is now apparently coming from an unlikely source: Betty. Apparently Betty has decided that the reason Tim is in the condition he's in is traceable directly to Squeaky. "Why did you buy him beer??" Squeaky said Betty asked, during one of several increasingly-hostile phone calls. (Which, to me, is quite hilarious; Squeaky claims she bought him a six-pack, which I believe; whereas, when he's out with Betty, the festivities usually include pitchers of beer (plural) and shots of hard liquor, sometimes with other substances involved as well. Betty's not got a leg to stand on for THAT accusation, unfortunately; "Ms. Pot? I've got a kettle on line 1...something about colors?") Betty is blaming Squeaky, loudly and repeatedly, for every bad thing that's happened to Tim. Now, in the long dark days before Tim knew either Squeaky OR Betty, I have experienced a similar Tim-plosion; he drank himself senseless and started threatening self-harm, and somehow the police were called (I think that time, Tim did it himself) and he was taken to the same hospital. This was back when we were living with CR, so it's a good nearly-ten years ago--and I don't think Squeaky, at 10 years old and not even known to either of us, could be said to hold any responsibility for THAT. The fact of the matter is, Tim needs help; has needed it for a long time, if even only on the substance-abuse level; and right now, no matter how much he hates it, Squeaky hates it, Betty hates it, or I hate it, Tim is exactly where he needs to be. He certainly does NOT need to be in the roommate environment he was in--though that's apparently a moot point, since Old Bastard has told Squeaky that if Tim returns, they will BOTH be kicked out--and he does not need to be motel-hopping/sofa-hopping/whatever with Betty, Squeaky, or both. More than anything, I think, Tim needs some stability; a solid place to stay, and a solid job that he's not going to be "downsized" from, or shut out of when the place closes because of the economy, or whatever. He needs a routine (says the woman who herself is in dire need of a routine, but still).
Squeaky's in a bad way, as who wouldn't be after seeing the person they love put into full-body restraints and shot full of tranquilizers. She's still a kid, really; I have to remind myself of that. I couldn't have handled that when I was 20; then again, at 20, I was still kind of a sheltered, moderately-spoiled, unthinking little product of my upbringing. It wasn't til I met JP, when I was 21, that I started seeing the world through different eyes; even when we were just friends and verbal sparring-partners, he always made me THINK.
I went to the doctor today, and as I suspected she raised my dosage of Effexor. I'm a teeny bit concerned, because my legs seem itchier since I started taking it three weeks ago; but that could be just dry skin and healing from the old condition. The doctor said if it starts to get really bad, stop taking the meds, take Benadryl, and call her. I'm not going to cold-turkey STOP, though; I've heard the withdrawals from Effexor are rather unpleasant, and I don't do well with unpleasant withdrawals. The increase is definitely needed, though; my regular psychologist was worried enough after our last appointment that she scheduled me for another one in two weeks, rather than our usual four. Some of that's the holidays, I'm sure; and some of it isn't. I don't like being in a rut.
Of course, I'd rather be in a rut than be Tim, or Squeaky, or Betty right now.
And then, when I'd hung up with Squeaky (after promising to call her tomorrow), CR called. He hadn't called much recently; in fact, I hadn't heard from him for three months or so, til this morning. "I thought you weren't talking to me anymore," he said. "I thought the same thing!" I told him.
As I suspected from those pictures, he's not in a good way. He told me that within the last three weeks, he found out he has diabetes and high blood pressure (I THINK he got the numbers wrong, or he should be approximately dead--108/180?? Is that possible??) The doctors want him to lose 75 pounds (40 of which he's gained since leaving Chicago) and he's scheduled for a sleep study. (The whole fricking WORLD has sleep apnea, seems like.) And tonight, his best friend at work--an older woman who helped him immensely when he was starting there--the one who, when we first started talking again, he got so emotional when telling me about her influence on him that he actually choked up and cried, which is pretty major for him--anyway, she got fired today. Not only that, but she got fired for being a whistleblower--something about the way the staff was being treated. CR didn't go into detail about that--but basically this woman went to bat for the employees and lost her job for it. Between that, and the health problems, he's feeling really, really low just now. "Thanks for listening," he said, as he promised to call me tomorrow night. "No problem," I said.
I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people. In one way, it's probably not ideal; in another way, it makes me realize how fortunate I am. I have a solid job, a stable place to live, no current substance-abuse issues; moderate mental-health issues, but none completely incapacitating; several minor-to-moderate health problems, but nothing currently at a critical stage; food in my fridge, two gorgeous cats, and a host of things I could do to change my life, even in small ways, were I only to make the choice to do so. So, although I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people, I am also among the most-fortunate people I know. I AM in a rut; there is an astonishing lack of magic in my life right now; but under the circumstances and with my friends for comparison, I'm doing pretty well for myself.
I do wish I was happier about it, though.
I've got a phone number for where Tim is; Squeaky says it's a pay phone in the ward and it's often busy, but I'm going to try to call him tomorrow evening. I suspect he's probably very angry with me for calling 911--he always has been in the past--but as I said last night, and as I told Squeaky tonight, I will tell him tomorrow: I'd rather have a pissed-off live friend than a dead friend. He can be as angry as he wants, but it won't shake in the slightest my belief that Squeaky did the right thing by calling me, and I did the right thing by calling 911.
This year isn't starting out very auspiciously, though, is it.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Resolution #1
My first resolution for 2009: No more drama.
It took me, granted, 27 hours of the new year to codify this one; actually, 26 hours and 48 minutes, which was how long after midnight on January 1 that Squeaky called me to tell me that Tim was "eating handfuls of pills"--Benadryls and Advils, before he started going through the OTHER roommate's pills (the 61-year-old guy, who I'm sure is on some heavy-duty stuff, and who will henceforth be known as Old Bastard). And when I told her to call 911, she claimed "I said I was going to, and he snapped at me and shit." Now, Tim, when drunk/whatever, is not always the nice guy he is when sober; he said the only time he ever hit a woman was during a drunken blackout several years ago, and so I wasn't in the mood to put Squeaky in that position. So I told her "Give me the address and I'LL call 911. I don't care HOW mad he gets at ME." (Which is true.) So she did, and I did, and I gave them the address and told them what she told me, and they said they were going to send somebody over there. Past that point, as I told Squeaky, I'm not terribly concerned. If he never speaks to me again...oh well. I would rather have a pissed-off ex-friend than a dead friend. And if he DOES speak to me again, he's going to get an earful; I've been down this road with him before, and I'm reasonably sure that it's a)alcohol-fueled; b)not an actual suicide attempt; c)calculated to get under SOMEONE's skin, probably Squeaky's. I know he's having a positively shitty time right now; he's still jobless, living in a place he hates with people he can't stand, and seeing no viable way out for quite some time. But what he's going to hear from me is: he's making it worse for himself, too. Squeaky and Old Bastard are NOT the only ones responsible for his misery; he's done a fair bit to further THAT himself. Not that I don't understand; but there's only so much I can do, and tonight he basically reached that limit.
This is NOT an auspicious beginning to the year.
It took me, granted, 27 hours of the new year to codify this one; actually, 26 hours and 48 minutes, which was how long after midnight on January 1 that Squeaky called me to tell me that Tim was "eating handfuls of pills"--Benadryls and Advils, before he started going through the OTHER roommate's pills (the 61-year-old guy, who I'm sure is on some heavy-duty stuff, and who will henceforth be known as Old Bastard). And when I told her to call 911, she claimed "I said I was going to, and he snapped at me and shit." Now, Tim, when drunk/whatever, is not always the nice guy he is when sober; he said the only time he ever hit a woman was during a drunken blackout several years ago, and so I wasn't in the mood to put Squeaky in that position. So I told her "Give me the address and I'LL call 911. I don't care HOW mad he gets at ME." (Which is true.) So she did, and I did, and I gave them the address and told them what she told me, and they said they were going to send somebody over there. Past that point, as I told Squeaky, I'm not terribly concerned. If he never speaks to me again...oh well. I would rather have a pissed-off ex-friend than a dead friend. And if he DOES speak to me again, he's going to get an earful; I've been down this road with him before, and I'm reasonably sure that it's a)alcohol-fueled; b)not an actual suicide attempt; c)calculated to get under SOMEONE's skin, probably Squeaky's. I know he's having a positively shitty time right now; he's still jobless, living in a place he hates with people he can't stand, and seeing no viable way out for quite some time. But what he's going to hear from me is: he's making it worse for himself, too. Squeaky and Old Bastard are NOT the only ones responsible for his misery; he's done a fair bit to further THAT himself. Not that I don't understand; but there's only so much I can do, and tonight he basically reached that limit.
This is NOT an auspicious beginning to the year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Another Year Gone By
I'm not getting worked up about New Year's Eve this year. I've done some housework, ordered a pizza, talked to Tim (about which more in a minute), folded laundry...nothing special, nothing emotional, nothing really even other-than-ordinary. I have some resolutions but they're sort of works-in-progress; some of them, I think, may be too big to fit into one designated night.
Anyway, about the Tim thing: I kinda had to give him a pass when he called a couple of days later and left me a message in which he basically asked questions I'd already answered, claiming to remember nearly nothing about the morning I kicked him out. Further discussion led to the following: "After you invited me out of your place--which was just...unreal to me; I swear I heard Disney music in my head--anyway, I don't remember much of anything except that I somehow ended up downtown and I threatened to beat the shit out of a cabbie because he nearly hit me. I mean, yeah I was drunk, but I STILL had the right-of-way!!!" And of course, he apologized profusely. It's cool, I told him. I know his situation really sucks enormously right now; he's not allowed to be an asshole at my apartment anymore, but if he's willing NOT to be an asshole, he's welcome here. Which is pretty much what I told him. I'm low on friends right now; I'm really not willing to push anyone out of my life.
This year has gone by so fast. Hell, this DECADE has gone by so damn fast; it was nine years ago tonight I really-quit heroin for the first time, and three years tonight since I quit after my relapse. This is generally a good night for me to make big changes, I guess. (Pause, while I redirect my thoughts from another New Year's Eve, seventeen years ago, and how much I wish I had that kind of spirit again. But...yeah. Past and gone, Gladys, past and gone.)
2009. That looks just...astonishing, to me. (And I'm really going to miss writing "2008". I LIKE eights. They're fun to write, like little decapitated snowmen, and I'm kinda bummed that I'm going to have to wait another nine years before I can start writing them again. And maybe when I'm 48 it won't be so much fun anymore.)
When I'm 48....yeesh. Now THAT's one for the let's-not-think-about-it file. I'm still amazed that I'm 38. Is it cliche to say I don't FEEL thirty-eight?? (Fortunately, I don't LOOK thirty-eight, either; people generally peg me somewhere in the late 20's, like 26 or thereabouts. But one of my smaller resolutions for this year involves maybe starting to wear foundation, maybe, just to take the edge off my extreme pinkness. If Bare Minerals drops their price some, maybe.)
I want to do big things this year. I'd be more confident about that, though, if I could get a handle on the little things--getting out of bed before dinnertime on my days off, maybe, or eating meals that don't consist of Froot Loops and Pepsi. Maybe I'd be smarter to tackle the REALLY big things, and take my little comforts where I find them, like in a box with a giant toucan on the front. Who knows?
It's a strange way for me to end a year, really; but since the old ways haven't really served me too well, I'll try this one for a change. But regardless, I wish you all a happy New Year, and hope that all of you have the year you wish for.
Anyway, about the Tim thing: I kinda had to give him a pass when he called a couple of days later and left me a message in which he basically asked questions I'd already answered, claiming to remember nearly nothing about the morning I kicked him out. Further discussion led to the following: "After you invited me out of your place--which was just...unreal to me; I swear I heard Disney music in my head--anyway, I don't remember much of anything except that I somehow ended up downtown and I threatened to beat the shit out of a cabbie because he nearly hit me. I mean, yeah I was drunk, but I STILL had the right-of-way!!!" And of course, he apologized profusely. It's cool, I told him. I know his situation really sucks enormously right now; he's not allowed to be an asshole at my apartment anymore, but if he's willing NOT to be an asshole, he's welcome here. Which is pretty much what I told him. I'm low on friends right now; I'm really not willing to push anyone out of my life.
This year has gone by so fast. Hell, this DECADE has gone by so damn fast; it was nine years ago tonight I really-quit heroin for the first time, and three years tonight since I quit after my relapse. This is generally a good night for me to make big changes, I guess. (Pause, while I redirect my thoughts from another New Year's Eve, seventeen years ago, and how much I wish I had that kind of spirit again. But...yeah. Past and gone, Gladys, past and gone.)
2009. That looks just...astonishing, to me. (And I'm really going to miss writing "2008". I LIKE eights. They're fun to write, like little decapitated snowmen, and I'm kinda bummed that I'm going to have to wait another nine years before I can start writing them again. And maybe when I'm 48 it won't be so much fun anymore.)
When I'm 48....yeesh. Now THAT's one for the let's-not-think-about-it file. I'm still amazed that I'm 38. Is it cliche to say I don't FEEL thirty-eight?? (Fortunately, I don't LOOK thirty-eight, either; people generally peg me somewhere in the late 20's, like 26 or thereabouts. But one of my smaller resolutions for this year involves maybe starting to wear foundation, maybe, just to take the edge off my extreme pinkness. If Bare Minerals drops their price some, maybe.)
I want to do big things this year. I'd be more confident about that, though, if I could get a handle on the little things--getting out of bed before dinnertime on my days off, maybe, or eating meals that don't consist of Froot Loops and Pepsi. Maybe I'd be smarter to tackle the REALLY big things, and take my little comforts where I find them, like in a box with a giant toucan on the front. Who knows?
It's a strange way for me to end a year, really; but since the old ways haven't really served me too well, I'll try this one for a change. But regardless, I wish you all a happy New Year, and hope that all of you have the year you wish for.
Monday, December 29, 2008
No, Really--I'm SERIOUS.
Well, that was a heckuva holiday.
First off—I was one of the two last living bodies to flee my workplace, at 6:30 PM on Christmas Eve. Now. Let’s look at this through the distant lens of logic, which so seldom is found in my office. My work is dependent on a stream of work tickets. These tickets are provided by the first-line phone support staff, who receive requests for assistance via both phone and e-mail. If there were no first-line staff, work tickets would not be created.
So why in the name of curdled eggnog were we still there at 6:30 PM, a full TWO HOURS after the first-liners had shut off the phone, shut down their e-mail, locked the front door, and fled the vicinity on foot or by wheel???
(Answer: because the boss said we had to be there. Good enough reason, I guess.)
So Mom picked me up from work and we stopped at my place to feed the kits, and I picked up my suitcase and my bags of this and that, and went to spend the night at Mom’s, which is part of our Christmas tradition. And we did our little candle-lighting and our Bible reading, and Mom fixed a fabulous dinner, and we began the other part of our Christmas tradition: the Potato Ceremony. (This is actually part of the _real_ Christmas meal, but the preparations involved are time-consuming enough that we have to start them the night before.) And then Mom went to Midnight Mass, and I turned on WGN’s “Bozo, Gar and Ray” special, and wrapped the one present for Mom which had survived the holiday season intact; and placed it under the tree and went to bed.
And the next day, we opened gifts and finished potato-ing, and then we packed up what seemed like half the food in the house (four trays of twice-baked potatoes, two large cheesecakes, and two containers of strawberry topping, along with a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting) and trekked it down the ice-glazed walks to Mom’s car, and went to The Fun Relatives’ House. (The house belongs to my aunt-in-law; between her and the various people who bring side dishes and desserts, dinner there is a thing of beauty. And they really are fun people.)
Then I went home.
Here was my first mistake:
At about 11:00, later than the usual time that anyone calls me with GOOD news, I picked up the ringing phone to the sound of hysterical male weeping. I mean, just sobbing. My immediate thought was Oh my god, Tim’s cat died. (It was, of course, Tim. Who did you think it would be?) But no—the cat is apparently hale and hardy, though it took some time before I could pick out enough whole syllables to ascertain that such was the case. He was just…bawling. Apparently something something Squeaky’s roommate something mutual friend something tried to tell him but something something and then I just took it straight to him…which I wasn’t proud of but something something….blah blah…probably shouldn’t have called you…I’ll talk to you soon, okay. Click.
Well, I said. That was…perplexing.
At which point the phone rang again. “Listen, G? I’m gonna head out toward you, okay? I mean, it’ll be a while because of the buses and everything, but I’ll keep you posted…”
Oh. Goody.
He showed up at about 3 AM, moderately drunk, as I expected. You know for 100% sure that Tim is drunk when every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is “Seriously?” I guess if you hang around a ditzy twenty-year-old long enough, you get to sounding like one yourself. So anyway—seriously?—he calmed down enough to tell me the story. See, Squeaky’s roommate was a 60-year-old-guy, and—seriously?—he had a crush on one of Squeaky’s friends, who was like 23. Seriously. And so she (the friend) tried to dissuade him (the roomie) and—seriously? (Okay, I’ll stop, I promise. But that’s what the conversation was like—seriously.) And anyway, the roomie didn’t like it, and Tim tried to talk to him and somehow, something just blew up and punches were thrown and the friend fled the vicinity in disgust, and I STILL have no idea what the hell Tim was all hysterical about on that first call, but whatever.
So then we devolved into Various Dark Secrets of Tim’s Past and Present, of which the only one I’m at liberty to disclose is that he’s in love with Betty the Bartender and thinks it’s mutual. But there was a lot more than that, and it was about 5 AM when I finally chugged off to bed. And I was tired. I’d had a very, very busy day, what with the potatoes and the family and the socialization and this and that…
I wanted my peace and quiet, is what I wanted.
Unfortunately, before leaving the room, I had answered “yes” to a very simple, seemingly harmless question: “Hey, G, you mind if I have a shot of your vodka?” I figured, as late in the night as it was, and as stressed as he’d been, he’d have a shot and pass out on the floor for a few hours.
My first notion that this was not going to be the case came when I got up to use the bathroom. “No—wait—don’t go back in the room yet—I want to ask you something—no, seriously—“ He then attempted to stop me from feeding the cats because he didn’t believe “you’ve got them on a schedule? Seriously?” And what, should you ask, was the crucial thing he needed to ask? He needed me to proofread a text-message to Squeaky. And then he came into my room—which from long roommate-ship, he knows is not appreciated—after I’d told him I was tired and I was going back to sleep now, and goodnight.
The next thing I heard was BadCat, yowling and hissing and generally sounding thoroughly outraged, alternating with “Seriously? What. What are you gonna do, huh? Seriously?”
Now, BadCat and Tim are not good friends. BadCat, from kittenhood, has been…concerned…by Tim’s existence. He expresses that concern through loud meows, yowls, and hisses whenever Tim violates his own personal feline zone of no-contact. Even a casual walk-by will elicit a mew of consternation; actual, direct attention gets a concert of yowls and moans and very very unhappy cat noises, increasing in volume. I know those yowls well enough to know that intervention was required.
I opened the door, and Tim was on all fours in the hall, with BadCat backed into a corner. “Dude. Cut it out,” I said. No response. “Dude, I said cut it OUT!” He continued. Finally I stepped forward, put my hand on Tim’s forehead, and pushed. “Tim! Stop it right now. Leave the cat alone.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he said. I went back into the room.
Five minutes later, yowl, hiss, meow, Seriously, etc.
The conversation progressed thusly.
“Tim. Leave the cat alone, please. Go to sleep.”
“Tim. Stop it. “
“I’m not kidding. Stop aggravating the cat. You’re pissing me off.”
“You are really, seriously, pissing me off right now, Tim. Go to sleep and leave the fucking cat ALONE.”
And finally, the coup de gras: “You know what? You need to leave now.”
If I thought I’d heard the word “Seriously?” a few times earlier in the evening, it was nothing at all compared to how many times I heard it as he put his shoes on, pulled on a sweatshirt, and picked up his backpack—all in triple-slow motion, because surely I was going to change my mind, right?
I didn’t. Not through “seriously?”, not through “I’m sorry, I’m an asshole,” not through “I thought we had a stronger friendship than that, but whatever.” And he walked out the door in quadruple-slow motion, and it took a good five minutes for him to walk the length of the hallway to the elevator.
And I locked my door, gave BadCat an extra treat for being a trooper, and went to bed.
(He called me about eight times in the next four hours. He left his jacket in my closet, for one thing, and I guess he either wanted to apologize or let me hear him bitching out pedestrians who were cruel enough not to give him a cigarette when he asked. But he also called after he sobered up, and the messages sound, at least, like he recognizes what an ass he was. It’s something, anyhow.)
Christmas, man. What a freakin’ riot.
Seriously.
First off—I was one of the two last living bodies to flee my workplace, at 6:30 PM on Christmas Eve. Now. Let’s look at this through the distant lens of logic, which so seldom is found in my office. My work is dependent on a stream of work tickets. These tickets are provided by the first-line phone support staff, who receive requests for assistance via both phone and e-mail. If there were no first-line staff, work tickets would not be created.
So why in the name of curdled eggnog were we still there at 6:30 PM, a full TWO HOURS after the first-liners had shut off the phone, shut down their e-mail, locked the front door, and fled the vicinity on foot or by wheel???
(Answer: because the boss said we had to be there. Good enough reason, I guess.)
So Mom picked me up from work and we stopped at my place to feed the kits, and I picked up my suitcase and my bags of this and that, and went to spend the night at Mom’s, which is part of our Christmas tradition. And we did our little candle-lighting and our Bible reading, and Mom fixed a fabulous dinner, and we began the other part of our Christmas tradition: the Potato Ceremony. (This is actually part of the _real_ Christmas meal, but the preparations involved are time-consuming enough that we have to start them the night before.) And then Mom went to Midnight Mass, and I turned on WGN’s “Bozo, Gar and Ray” special, and wrapped the one present for Mom which had survived the holiday season intact; and placed it under the tree and went to bed.
And the next day, we opened gifts and finished potato-ing, and then we packed up what seemed like half the food in the house (four trays of twice-baked potatoes, two large cheesecakes, and two containers of strawberry topping, along with a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting) and trekked it down the ice-glazed walks to Mom’s car, and went to The Fun Relatives’ House. (The house belongs to my aunt-in-law; between her and the various people who bring side dishes and desserts, dinner there is a thing of beauty. And they really are fun people.)
Then I went home.
Here was my first mistake:
At about 11:00, later than the usual time that anyone calls me with GOOD news, I picked up the ringing phone to the sound of hysterical male weeping. I mean, just sobbing. My immediate thought was Oh my god, Tim’s cat died. (It was, of course, Tim. Who did you think it would be?) But no—the cat is apparently hale and hardy, though it took some time before I could pick out enough whole syllables to ascertain that such was the case. He was just…bawling. Apparently something something Squeaky’s roommate something mutual friend something tried to tell him but something something and then I just took it straight to him…which I wasn’t proud of but something something….blah blah…probably shouldn’t have called you…I’ll talk to you soon, okay. Click.
Well, I said. That was…perplexing.
At which point the phone rang again. “Listen, G? I’m gonna head out toward you, okay? I mean, it’ll be a while because of the buses and everything, but I’ll keep you posted…”
Oh. Goody.
He showed up at about 3 AM, moderately drunk, as I expected. You know for 100% sure that Tim is drunk when every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is “Seriously?” I guess if you hang around a ditzy twenty-year-old long enough, you get to sounding like one yourself. So anyway—seriously?—he calmed down enough to tell me the story. See, Squeaky’s roommate was a 60-year-old-guy, and—seriously?—he had a crush on one of Squeaky’s friends, who was like 23. Seriously. And so she (the friend) tried to dissuade him (the roomie) and—seriously? (Okay, I’ll stop, I promise. But that’s what the conversation was like—seriously.) And anyway, the roomie didn’t like it, and Tim tried to talk to him and somehow, something just blew up and punches were thrown and the friend fled the vicinity in disgust, and I STILL have no idea what the hell Tim was all hysterical about on that first call, but whatever.
So then we devolved into Various Dark Secrets of Tim’s Past and Present, of which the only one I’m at liberty to disclose is that he’s in love with Betty the Bartender and thinks it’s mutual. But there was a lot more than that, and it was about 5 AM when I finally chugged off to bed. And I was tired. I’d had a very, very busy day, what with the potatoes and the family and the socialization and this and that…
I wanted my peace and quiet, is what I wanted.
Unfortunately, before leaving the room, I had answered “yes” to a very simple, seemingly harmless question: “Hey, G, you mind if I have a shot of your vodka?” I figured, as late in the night as it was, and as stressed as he’d been, he’d have a shot and pass out on the floor for a few hours.
My first notion that this was not going to be the case came when I got up to use the bathroom. “No—wait—don’t go back in the room yet—I want to ask you something—no, seriously—“ He then attempted to stop me from feeding the cats because he didn’t believe “you’ve got them on a schedule? Seriously?” And what, should you ask, was the crucial thing he needed to ask? He needed me to proofread a text-message to Squeaky. And then he came into my room—which from long roommate-ship, he knows is not appreciated—after I’d told him I was tired and I was going back to sleep now, and goodnight.
The next thing I heard was BadCat, yowling and hissing and generally sounding thoroughly outraged, alternating with “Seriously? What. What are you gonna do, huh? Seriously?”
Now, BadCat and Tim are not good friends. BadCat, from kittenhood, has been…concerned…by Tim’s existence. He expresses that concern through loud meows, yowls, and hisses whenever Tim violates his own personal feline zone of no-contact. Even a casual walk-by will elicit a mew of consternation; actual, direct attention gets a concert of yowls and moans and very very unhappy cat noises, increasing in volume. I know those yowls well enough to know that intervention was required.
I opened the door, and Tim was on all fours in the hall, with BadCat backed into a corner. “Dude. Cut it out,” I said. No response. “Dude, I said cut it OUT!” He continued. Finally I stepped forward, put my hand on Tim’s forehead, and pushed. “Tim! Stop it right now. Leave the cat alone.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he said. I went back into the room.
Five minutes later, yowl, hiss, meow, Seriously, etc.
The conversation progressed thusly.
“Tim. Leave the cat alone, please. Go to sleep.”
“Tim. Stop it. “
“I’m not kidding. Stop aggravating the cat. You’re pissing me off.”
“You are really, seriously, pissing me off right now, Tim. Go to sleep and leave the fucking cat ALONE.”
And finally, the coup de gras: “You know what? You need to leave now.”
If I thought I’d heard the word “Seriously?” a few times earlier in the evening, it was nothing at all compared to how many times I heard it as he put his shoes on, pulled on a sweatshirt, and picked up his backpack—all in triple-slow motion, because surely I was going to change my mind, right?
I didn’t. Not through “seriously?”, not through “I’m sorry, I’m an asshole,” not through “I thought we had a stronger friendship than that, but whatever.” And he walked out the door in quadruple-slow motion, and it took a good five minutes for him to walk the length of the hallway to the elevator.
And I locked my door, gave BadCat an extra treat for being a trooper, and went to bed.
(He called me about eight times in the next four hours. He left his jacket in my closet, for one thing, and I guess he either wanted to apologize or let me hear him bitching out pedestrians who were cruel enough not to give him a cigarette when he asked. But he also called after he sobered up, and the messages sound, at least, like he recognizes what an ass he was. It’s something, anyhow.)
Christmas, man. What a freakin’ riot.
Seriously.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry...Something.
I hope all of you are having a good holiday.
Me, not so much. I'm stuck working Christmas Eve til 6:30 PM even though there's NO ONE else in the building except me and the few others in my department who share my bad luck.
And yesterday, FedEx delivered the package containing my mom's Christmas present--a mini-DVD player--and by the time I got home, someone had stolen it. Ho ho ho, right? And of course, the security cameras weren't running. After a few hours of trying to find out where it might have ended up, I just accepted fate and forked out another $150-plus for a new one. THIS one gets delivered to Mom's.
People are jerks, you know?
Anyway, I'll be spending the night at Mom's--oh joy!--and we're having Christmas Dinner with the Fun Relatives. So that's a good thing. Maybe I'll feel more Christmasy then; at the moment, though, not so much.
Stoopid thieving bastards. I hope they use it to watch porn and it slams shut on their naughty-bits and chops them off.
As for the REST of you, Merry Christmas (unless you stole my FedEx package, in which case: see above.)
Me, not so much. I'm stuck working Christmas Eve til 6:30 PM even though there's NO ONE else in the building except me and the few others in my department who share my bad luck.
And yesterday, FedEx delivered the package containing my mom's Christmas present--a mini-DVD player--and by the time I got home, someone had stolen it. Ho ho ho, right? And of course, the security cameras weren't running. After a few hours of trying to find out where it might have ended up, I just accepted fate and forked out another $150-plus for a new one. THIS one gets delivered to Mom's.
People are jerks, you know?
Anyway, I'll be spending the night at Mom's--oh joy!--and we're having Christmas Dinner with the Fun Relatives. So that's a good thing. Maybe I'll feel more Christmasy then; at the moment, though, not so much.
Stoopid thieving bastards. I hope they use it to watch porn and it slams shut on their naughty-bits and chops them off.
As for the REST of you, Merry Christmas (unless you stole my FedEx package, in which case: see above.)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Holy Moly Guacamole....
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude.
They arrested the Governor.
Let me type that again:
They ARRESTED. The fucking GOVERNOR!!! of the ENTIRE STATE!!!!!
Just exactly how dense do you have to be: you're elected as a REFORM governor, because the LAST guy is in jail for official corruption; you KNOW--because EVERYONE IS TELLING YOU--that you're under investigation for all sorts of various shenanigans; and STILL you allow yourself to be AUDIOTAPED--AS YOU TRY TO SELL A SENATE SEAT TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER??? A Senate seat that belongs to the by-god PRESIDENT-ELECT OF THE ENTIRE COUNTRY?????
I think I should maybe calm down.
But:
DUDE.
They arrested the GOVERNOR!!!!!
(Needless to say, I am thrilled; even though he was a Democrat, he certainly wasn't MY type of Democrat--though I'm trying to remember if I voted for him. I don't believe I did, but if he was running in an election I voted in, then I probably did--more shame on me! The man is a pestilence, a parasite, a wart on the butt of a state which already has WAY too many governmental butt-warts in its past. The sooner he resigns, or is impeached, or--preferably!--both, the better off. Though I can't imagine his Lieutenant Governor would be a stunning improvement...hey, I could be wrong.)
They arrested the Governor.
Let me type that again:
They ARRESTED. The fucking GOVERNOR!!! of the ENTIRE STATE!!!!!
Just exactly how dense do you have to be: you're elected as a REFORM governor, because the LAST guy is in jail for official corruption; you KNOW--because EVERYONE IS TELLING YOU--that you're under investigation for all sorts of various shenanigans; and STILL you allow yourself to be AUDIOTAPED--AS YOU TRY TO SELL A SENATE SEAT TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER??? A Senate seat that belongs to the by-god PRESIDENT-ELECT OF THE ENTIRE COUNTRY?????
I think I should maybe calm down.
But:
DUDE.
They arrested the GOVERNOR!!!!!
(Needless to say, I am thrilled; even though he was a Democrat, he certainly wasn't MY type of Democrat--though I'm trying to remember if I voted for him. I don't believe I did, but if he was running in an election I voted in, then I probably did--more shame on me! The man is a pestilence, a parasite, a wart on the butt of a state which already has WAY too many governmental butt-warts in its past. The sooner he resigns, or is impeached, or--preferably!--both, the better off. Though I can't imagine his Lieutenant Governor would be a stunning improvement...hey, I could be wrong.)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Oh, Yeah--I Forgot...
(See, this is what happens when I don't post in a long time. Things get overlooked.)
I didn't mention the BIG FREAKING DEVELOPMENT:
Tim and Squeaky are mostly-broken-up and (shocker) once again mostly-homeless. AND: Betty (Tim's friend who used to be a bartender at his favorite bar til she got fired several months ago) is apparently travelling with them.
The order of events, as I understand it, went something like this:
Tim and Squeaky had been living with Squeaky's dad for the past year. Squeaky's dad (hereafter abbreviated to SD) has his own issues; he's apparently schizophrenic, along with a bunch of other diagnoses, and so he lives in an apartment subsidized by some church group with which he's affiliated.
Meanwhile, Betty had been staying with her boyfriend, but they got into a huge fight and she left, and SD told Tim and Squeaky "sure, why not, what's another one?" So Betty was staying with Tim and Squeaky.
One night, after some trivial slight, Squeaky just basically flipped the fuck out. (I have this on the authority of both Tim, whose version of the story would be open to doubt, and Betty, who would have no reason to varnish the truth.) She started screaming at Tim "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and pounced on him, scratching and clawing and strangling and just generally losing her mind. Betty, at the time, was sitting in the living room watching TV with SD, and SD said "What's she doing to him NOW???" (Both Tim and Betty claim that Squeaky's attacked Tim before. I don't entirely doubt it...in fact, I don't doubt it at all.) Betty ran in and pulled Squeaky off Tim, and the screaming and yelling and the rest continued.
Meanwhile, SD had had enough. Now, normally, when people have Had Enough, they yell and make ultimatums and so on. Not SD. SD, when he's Had Enough, checks himself into the hospital for a break. And that's what he did in this case--he left, and went to the hospital, and checked himself in as a psych patient.
Betty and Tim managed to calm Squeaky down, and Tim was of course properly pissed--as who wouldn't be...Anyway, Tim told Squeaky that he was pretty sure that they were all in serious trouble, now that SD had gone to the hospital, and that the next few days would be critical.
Enter the Church Guy. The Church Guy (now CG) is apparently SD's caseworker or whatever; anyway, CG showed up at the hospital and heard SD's story of why he was there, and CG--quite rightly--said "oh HELL no; out they go, the lot of them." And so there they were: Tim, Squeaky, Betty, and two cats, out on the streets two weeks before Thanksgiving.
The first I heard of it was the first day of my vacation, when Tim called. "Um, G?" he asked. "Could me and Betty maybe crash at your place for a day or two?" He told me the story, told me he had "suggested" that Squeaky find somebody else to stay with among HER friends (oh, wait, that's right--she didn't really HAVE any, but fortunately someone she knew from the old days was willing to let her crash there anyway) and emphasized that it was only for a couple of days, that they were working on several other options. That was at about 8 PM, and they said they were "on their way".
They arrived at 4 AM, after several stops and missed buses and pauses at bars and et cetera; they told me the full story, which lasted pretty well til sunrise. Throughout the story, and in fact through the next two days, every conversation was interrupted with the BEEP of either Tim's or Betty's phones, with text messages from Squeaky. She was DETERMINED to get back into their good graces, which--from what I was hearing--was totally NOT going to happen.
Anyway, they stayed three nights, at the end of which it was determined that they REALLY needed to get Betty out of my apartment before her entire head exploded--Betty is HIGHLY allergic to cats!--and so they actually left. They've since been staying here and there, and apparently Squeaky has some roommate situation developing, and though Tim is adamant that he and Squeaky are broken up, apparently they're going to be staying in the same place--all three of them, plus the cats (the cats had been living with SD, and getting fed by CG when he wasn't around--Tim was more worried about the cats than Squeaky, really, and I can't blame him) and Tim may have a job in the works, at last.
Mostly I'm just happy he and Squeaky broke up; I'm pretty sure it's for keeps, too. I have heard Tim at various points in most of his breakups, and I can pretty much tell when he means it and when he doesn't; then, too, Betty is a helpful reinforcement in several ways. One, she loathes Squeaky; two, Tim has had a crush on Betty for quite a while, though it's not reciprocated; three, Betty is pretty much an exemplar of all the qualities which Tim admires and which are completely lacking in Squeaky: Betty is down-to-earth, has street-smarts, is self-sufficent (well, when she has a job!), has a life outside her relationship...I would say "isn't annoying" but...well, Betty is kinda loud and brash, but in a fun way, and she has enough other good qualities that it can be forgiven. And she's smart, too. She actually READS--in fact, she left here with a couple of my books, and when I talked to Tim a couple of days ago I heard her in the background saying "Tell her I need more books!" It's been so long since I've had people around me who READ...like, at least ten years, maybe more. I don't think Tim and Betty will end up together, but it wouldn't be a bad match, if they did.
Really, I'm just glad they're figuring this out on their own, for the most part. Tim, when they were here, made some remarks about how much I've done already, and how he doesn't feel comfortable asking me for any more, in the face of all that; not that I mind helping him, but I'm impressed that he seems to want to handle it without asking me for help. That--like dumping the Squeakster--is a step in the right direction.
I didn't mention the BIG FREAKING DEVELOPMENT:
Tim and Squeaky are mostly-broken-up and (shocker) once again mostly-homeless. AND: Betty (Tim's friend who used to be a bartender at his favorite bar til she got fired several months ago) is apparently travelling with them.
The order of events, as I understand it, went something like this:
Tim and Squeaky had been living with Squeaky's dad for the past year. Squeaky's dad (hereafter abbreviated to SD) has his own issues; he's apparently schizophrenic, along with a bunch of other diagnoses, and so he lives in an apartment subsidized by some church group with which he's affiliated.
Meanwhile, Betty had been staying with her boyfriend, but they got into a huge fight and she left, and SD told Tim and Squeaky "sure, why not, what's another one?" So Betty was staying with Tim and Squeaky.
One night, after some trivial slight, Squeaky just basically flipped the fuck out. (I have this on the authority of both Tim, whose version of the story would be open to doubt, and Betty, who would have no reason to varnish the truth.) She started screaming at Tim "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and pounced on him, scratching and clawing and strangling and just generally losing her mind. Betty, at the time, was sitting in the living room watching TV with SD, and SD said "What's she doing to him NOW???" (Both Tim and Betty claim that Squeaky's attacked Tim before. I don't entirely doubt it...in fact, I don't doubt it at all.) Betty ran in and pulled Squeaky off Tim, and the screaming and yelling and the rest continued.
Meanwhile, SD had had enough. Now, normally, when people have Had Enough, they yell and make ultimatums and so on. Not SD. SD, when he's Had Enough, checks himself into the hospital for a break. And that's what he did in this case--he left, and went to the hospital, and checked himself in as a psych patient.
Betty and Tim managed to calm Squeaky down, and Tim was of course properly pissed--as who wouldn't be...Anyway, Tim told Squeaky that he was pretty sure that they were all in serious trouble, now that SD had gone to the hospital, and that the next few days would be critical.
Enter the Church Guy. The Church Guy (now CG) is apparently SD's caseworker or whatever; anyway, CG showed up at the hospital and heard SD's story of why he was there, and CG--quite rightly--said "oh HELL no; out they go, the lot of them." And so there they were: Tim, Squeaky, Betty, and two cats, out on the streets two weeks before Thanksgiving.
The first I heard of it was the first day of my vacation, when Tim called. "Um, G?" he asked. "Could me and Betty maybe crash at your place for a day or two?" He told me the story, told me he had "suggested" that Squeaky find somebody else to stay with among HER friends (oh, wait, that's right--she didn't really HAVE any, but fortunately someone she knew from the old days was willing to let her crash there anyway) and emphasized that it was only for a couple of days, that they were working on several other options. That was at about 8 PM, and they said they were "on their way".
They arrived at 4 AM, after several stops and missed buses and pauses at bars and et cetera; they told me the full story, which lasted pretty well til sunrise. Throughout the story, and in fact through the next two days, every conversation was interrupted with the BEEP of either Tim's or Betty's phones, with text messages from Squeaky. She was DETERMINED to get back into their good graces, which--from what I was hearing--was totally NOT going to happen.
Anyway, they stayed three nights, at the end of which it was determined that they REALLY needed to get Betty out of my apartment before her entire head exploded--Betty is HIGHLY allergic to cats!--and so they actually left. They've since been staying here and there, and apparently Squeaky has some roommate situation developing, and though Tim is adamant that he and Squeaky are broken up, apparently they're going to be staying in the same place--all three of them, plus the cats (the cats had been living with SD, and getting fed by CG when he wasn't around--Tim was more worried about the cats than Squeaky, really, and I can't blame him) and Tim may have a job in the works, at last.
Mostly I'm just happy he and Squeaky broke up; I'm pretty sure it's for keeps, too. I have heard Tim at various points in most of his breakups, and I can pretty much tell when he means it and when he doesn't; then, too, Betty is a helpful reinforcement in several ways. One, she loathes Squeaky; two, Tim has had a crush on Betty for quite a while, though it's not reciprocated; three, Betty is pretty much an exemplar of all the qualities which Tim admires and which are completely lacking in Squeaky: Betty is down-to-earth, has street-smarts, is self-sufficent (well, when she has a job!), has a life outside her relationship...I would say "isn't annoying" but...well, Betty is kinda loud and brash, but in a fun way, and she has enough other good qualities that it can be forgiven. And she's smart, too. She actually READS--in fact, she left here with a couple of my books, and when I talked to Tim a couple of days ago I heard her in the background saying "Tell her I need more books!" It's been so long since I've had people around me who READ...like, at least ten years, maybe more. I don't think Tim and Betty will end up together, but it wouldn't be a bad match, if they did.
Really, I'm just glad they're figuring this out on their own, for the most part. Tim, when they were here, made some remarks about how much I've done already, and how he doesn't feel comfortable asking me for any more, in the face of all that; not that I mind helping him, but I'm impressed that he seems to want to handle it without asking me for help. That--like dumping the Squeakster--is a step in the right direction.
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