This Is Why I Don't...

This is why I don't post about exciting news until after it's an accomplished fact.

For the past two weeks, Squeaky has been over the moon about an old friend of hers and how this girl was "saving her life", how she now "has (her) life together" and all the rest. The source of all this excitement was to happen on Monday, when she and Tim were to board a bus to the southern part of the state, where said friend lives. There, she had been assured, there were jobs, cheap housing, assistance for poor pregnant families, and the rest--a veritable land of milk and honey (or Cheetos and barbeque sauce, if you're Tim and Squeak.) They had been assured that the wait for public housing was negligible--less than a month--and that in the meantime, they could stay at the house of this friend of Squeaky's, who she hadn't seen in a while but who she'd run into on Facebook and reconnected with.

And so for the past two weeks I have been subjected to hours upon hours of "Is Tim going or isn't he?" and "I can't wait to get there" and "Should we take Megabus or Amtrak or should my friend come up and get us, or...?" Hours and hours and hours. And yes, I have been INTENSELY interested in the outcome--not so much the planning, just the point on Monday night when, for the first time since EARLY APRIL, I would come through the front door to a home that belonged--entirely and completely--to ONLY ME. I was looking forward to that. I was looking forward to a large number of things at least partially contingent upon that, as well. (Yes, CR figures in a couple of them. I'm only human, for god's sake.)

Well, as of about noon today, all of them are dust. Squeaky sent me a message on Facebook: "I just got fucked over again. My friend totally backed out on me."

I called her at home and talked to her for about half an hour about this. Apparently, the friend's boyfriend something something her brother, whose girlfriend was crazy and wanted to kill him but is now also staying there with her kids, something something not enough space blah blah sorry. ("So what did you write back?" I asked. "Nothing--I was just totally in shock," she said. I don't normally interfere in other people's friendships, but I would give my right pinkie-finger right about now for that woman's e-mail addy. Even if Squeaky doesn't have the ability to say anything in the face of this situation, please feel free to bet your ENTIRE GLUTEAL REGION on the fact that I would retain no such compunction. Squeaky's life is not the ONLY one that's been fucked with by this decision.)

"I'm not talking to any of these people anymore," says Squeaky tearfully, then goes on to enumerate all the other friends she's going to call to see if she can get housing space from them. "Or we could get an apartment"--the "we" in this case does not include me, as I've already signed my lease for the year and I have no intention of leaving. That ship has sailed--"I only need a co-signer," she says, "since I don't make enough money." Or have a job, or have a man with a job, or have anyone giving you any sort of financial assistance whatsoever... so where this mythical apartment-for-free is coming from is a whole 'nother question.

In the meantime: Squeaky is "depressed". Up until yesterday, Tim had not spoken more than three words to me over the previous ten days; he "just doesn't feel like talking", evidently, and this apparently includes talking to the person who has been giving him free floor space nearly full-time since 2008. Civility is a BITCH, I tell ya. So that's two in the "depressed" column.

Meanwhile, my job has given me a right-proper screwing--wait, let's find a better metaphor, since "a right-proper screwing" would be on the short list of things that might actually IMPROVE my temperament. (There's a CR story that fits in here, but in the interest of "not jinxing it", I'll forbear. However: man, if 10% of what he says is valid, real, anything--if he really means even 10% of what he says, I will have found the biggest turnaround of a human life since I quit heroin in '99. Seriously. I've got so much to tell on this subject, but in some ways I'm reluctant to expose it to skeptics. Not because skepticism will change my opinion of him, or of what he's claiming--only time and experience could do that, and if they do, it will officially mark the end of my belief that people really can change--but because every possible thing anyone could say against him is something I've already said to him directly, or thought to myself--mostly said to him directly, really. The first day he called me after being gone for six years, I promised myself that the days of staying silent and choking on my rage were over. If I had anything to say to him I was going to say it, all guns blazing if necessary. So far, we've talked on and off for a year, and there's not been any time I've broken that promise to myself. It's been his reactions which have startled me--acceptance, apology, a total lack of defensiveness or excuses or ANYTHING. "I did that. I was wrong, and I realize now what the consequences were." That's been the bulk of his reactions....I'm going off track here, but...Yeah.Short form: I am ready to be hurt again, or not to. Neither of these outcomes will upscuttle my life in any serious way; if it goes bad, then it's just a case of the leopard not changing his spots. In fact, it might actually upheave me more if it DOES work out well.)

Anyway, as I was saying: Job. So in the last post I told you about my new, "temporary" location...well, I've finished my first week there, and the verdict is in: please, send help, for I am dying here. The trip to the new place now adds 2 hours of commuting time to my day, each day, and changes my schedule drastically. Where before, I could get up at 9:15 and be at work at 10:00 as scheduled, I now start work at 8:30 and need to get out the door by 7:00 or risk lateness. And I arrive home only half an hour earlier, despite getting off work a full 90 minutes sooner each day. Supposedly, it's just temporary, but--and I don't know if I have ever mentioned this?--I am not a morning person. At. All. Not even a little bit. So getting up at that hour--admittedly not quite the ass-crack of dawn, but definitely beneath dawn's waist somewhere--It's not improving me, is what I'm saying. And then today--admittedly, a day I'd be working anyhow--I had to catch the bus early, and it was really crowded but I was lucky enough to get a seat--but then an old guy sat next to me and like, LEANED on me the whole ride, which wouldn't have been NEARLY as awful if he'd showered or changed his shirt since 1982. So all day long I have been smelling--whether it's real or imagined--Old Man Funk. I have actually been going out of my way to stand away from civilized folk so they can't smell what I smell. I believe I shall BURN this shirt when I get home.

Later:
It's hard to be here and know they're not going anywhere any time soon. I've been reading back over the past couple of years, and I've realized: this is not the first time I've had quite enough of these two, or even just of Tim himself. (He DID, however, manage a conversation when I got home; later translation from Squeaky explained that he really hadn't wanted to move, that he was happy they weren't moving because he knew he'd hate it, and thus his silence for the last...whenever.) I think this friendship is effectively over, once they leave; I really don't want that to be the case, but it really has been one-sided for quite a while now. And then I wonder if I'm really being fair; after all, I -am- the one who has the resources, the education and the easy employability; maybe this is just my role in this friendship, to be the one who's there for Tim when he needs me. But all the same, there's something wrong; I could live with the financial unbalance in our friendship, but lately he's just been a butthead, and the butthead differential can be a killer in ANY friendship. I don't know; time will tell. But in a year or two, when Tim comes back at me with a list of Ways In Which Gladys Failed As A Friend: Squeaky's Pregnancy Edition, I don't think I'll be as willing to accept the blame as I have been in the past.

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.

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.

"Oy," Also "Vey".

2 PM, voice mail left on my cell phone:
"Hey, G, it's me. Listen, call me when you get this message because I've been having a REALLY BAD past couple of days and I know it's not your problem but I really need somebody to speak to."

4 PM, same:
"G..." (to someone in background: "Shut the fuck up,") "Hey, G, call me as soon as you get this message, okay?"

Now, Tim knows what my cell-phone situation is, so it was my measured opinion that if it was REALLY important, he would call the HOUSE phone. But the second message, with its background argument, made me curious enough to call him.

He answered on the fourth ring: "G--hey. Listen, I'm on my way up there," he told me, "because I can't be around this crazy motherfucker ANY MORE." And then there ensued about fifteen minutes of that I'm-talking-to-the-person-on-the-phone-but-really-I'm-talking-to-the-person-in-the-room-with-me-who-is-the-real-target-of-what-I'm-saying kind of thing. In fact--once the practical outcome of the conversation had been achieved--I just took my ear away from the phone. He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know already (Squeaky's dad is a semi-crazy, extremely-lazy, parasitical welfare-cheat) and frankly, I wasn't that interested. As I said, the main outcome had been arrived at; Tim's on his way over and will most likely be spending a couple of days--at least--on my floor.

This is going to be interesting.

Curiously, I'm not complaining. I'm learning things about myself, these past few months, and one of the things I've learned is: the neat and quiet life isn't all it's cracked up to be. I need a little messiness, a little (okay, a LOT) of stuff going on; not so much cleaning up after everyone around me, but at least having all their stuff play out in my vicinity. Otherwise I get lonely and bored and BORED and depressed, and grossly uncreative. (Speaking of which--I'm taking my REAL computer in this week, and once it's fixed I'm going to scan in a crapload of my artwork. I've been doing a lot of work in colored pencils, pastels, and conte crayons; I wouldn't call it groundbreaking, by any stretch, but it's surely fun, and some of it is quite pretty. In fact, my next step is to buy some mat-board and start decorating.)

I don't necessarily like this new development--and the minute Tim starts with "Squeaky has no place to stay," my attitude will change 180 degrees, to "And Out You Go Too!!"--but for the moment, hey, what the hell--I'll take care of the world for a while longer.

I mean, SOMEBODY's got to, right?

Here Goes Nothing

Last step before moving: pack up the cats.
Second-to-last step before moving: pack up the computer.

Hopefully, by the time I have internet access again, the memory of the past 24 hours will have vanished from my mind; this will spare my readers the most profanity-laced post in TSOW history, because...

Let's just say I am so, so, so very done helping people, ever.

EVER ever. From this point on, I plan to nurture a carefully cultivated streak of total jerkitude and self-centeredness, so as to avoid ever, EVER going through ANYTHING like this again, EVER.

Last thought on this before I take the requisite deep breath:

When you live in someone's house rent-free for a year, should it not be customary to assist with projects without complaint? Or even better, without making yourself out to be some kind of tragic hero for successfully "balancing the wishes of two entirely different people"? Especially when one of these two disparate parties is doing NOTHING for the cause, is in fact DISTRACTING at every turn from the process at hand; and the other party is THE PERSON IN WHOSE HOUSE YOU AND THIS DISTRACTION HAVE LIVED RENT-FREE FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME??? Wouldn't you tell the distraction, "You know, babycakes sugarbooty bumpkin pie, after tomorrow, I can give you every moment of my undivided attention forever and ever--which is what you seem to require in order to continue operating as the barely-functioning individual you are, bless your cute widdle heart--but just for today, I feel like I owe this to a person who's helped both of us quite a bit"? Instead of "This is what amazing, wonderful, self-effacing people like me do for their friends. Look how heroic and wonderful and long-suffering I am"???

Firefly, I apologize, but I gotta use the V-word here: the whole thing makes me wanna vomit.

Every choice, every plan, and every decision I have made through the course of this move--everything from where to stack stuff, to whether to tape certain boxes shut, to what time I could go to bed (!!!), has been debated, argued, contradicted, and second-guessed. Last night, I just snapped--several times, in fact--and by the time I finished with the requisite tears of nervous exhaustion and total fury, and finally DID get to bed, I was so tense that it took me about an hour to fall asleep.

I have to stop ranting now and put the computer away. In a few hours, this move will be done. But since Tim and Squeaky have walked out the door to go to work/wherever--the worst is over.

See you all on the other side....

:::set fades to black:::

Captain Cranky's Bitch-O-Rama

I am really, really conflicted.

After all the go-around with Countrywide Bastard People (my former mortgage company and the current owner of the former Chez Gladys), it became evident that I needed to get my portly butt in gear--getting an apartment, packing, and moving--as soon as possible. So I started squeezing in apartment visits at every available moment--before work, after work, lunch. I went to look at a studio with my old landlord, in the building where Tim and I lived with CR; not only did the building itself give me the screaming heebie-jeebies, thanks to its CR memories, but the apartment itself was a)beyond teeny, and b)just barely north of squalid. Not dirty-squalid, but please-strangle-your-decorator squalid. I would have died a trillion deaths trying to live with that kitchen for a year.

The same night, I had an appointment to look at what sounded like an AWESOME place. One bedroom, garden apartment, sunny, good area...I get to the appointment (which required juggling my schedule, leaving work an hour early, and driving to the entirely opposite end of the city during rush hour) only to be informed by the assclown owner that "oh, THAT apartment has been gone for MONTHS...All we have is this two-bedroom." Which was nice, but: no. Too much opportunity for unwanted guests. I was really, REALLY disappointed--more than I thought I'd be, and definitely more than strictly necessary--and so I walked around the neighborhood, which I liked very much, taking down numbers. There was one place that had a "for rent" sign out, so on a whim I called the number and asked if there was anyone who could show me the apartment; it turned out to be a tinier-than-tiny studio in a building with a WHOLE lot of problems, including exposed electrical wires ("Enrique is an electrician!" the custodian enthused. "We do ALL our own wiring!") and an alley view containing one of the largest rats I've ever seen. I went home with a headache.

The next day, I started looking, just for fun, at the area around my job.

(Here's where I get ambivalent, part one. See, to go into more detail about the neighborhood will pretty much be to reveal where I work; it's one of those neighborhoods defined by something within it. It's like, if I say "Evanston", everybody thinks "Northwestern"; if I say "Northfield", everybody thinks "Jewel" or "Dominicks"...well, if I say the neighborhood, every Chicagoan will instantly know the institution for which I work. But if I DON'T mention the neighborhood, it's gonna be really hard talking about WHY, exactly, I'm conflicted. )

I found a building (one of those managed things, with the move-in incentives and the elevator and the fitness center and the nice video presentation on its website and all that) walking distance from work.

WALKING distance.

As in, "I need to be at work at 10 AM and it's now 9:05 and I can hit snooze three more times before I even have to THINK about getting up."

So I went to look at it. It was a one-bedroom, fourth floor, pretty nice place. It was about $80 a month more than I'd hoped to pay, but again: WALKING distance. No need to burn gas driving to work, no need to keep my bus-pass deduction, no need for ANY transportation-related expense, really, over and above......

And here's where I get REALLY ambivalent.

See, this neighborhood has no grocery stores.

That's not an exaggeration--that's a fact. There is the This Neighborhood Co-Op, which has had a monopoly on groceries in This Neighborhood since approximately forever; from everything I've read and heard, it's apparently very pricey and very understocked, and it's also fairly distant for a quick grocery walk. But there's no Jewel, no Dominicks, no Food-4-Less; no Treasure Island or Meijers or ANYTHING, for at least a twenty-block radius on all sides. (This is due to the political activism of the denizens of This Neighborhood; they're a pack of rabid liberals, which is all well and good since I'm one of those myself, but my liberalism ends when my inability to buy groceries cheaply begins. They don't want Big EEEEEVil Capitalists encroaching on their happy little Utopia, and apparently they're willing to forego groceries in favor of this principle. (Or at least, they'd have you believe they would. Actually that's 100% bullshit--either they shop at the Co-Op and pay extra for a smaller selection because they can afford to support their principles, or they subscribe to Peapod and get their expensive groceries delivered because they can afford the convenience, or they drive their Volvos and their minivans to Whole Foods or wherever they go. So the only people inconvenienced by this piece of liberal quixotism are the students (oops!) and/or the disadvantaged of the neighborhood. Gee, THANKS, wealthy liberal folks! I'm beginning to see why we're not well-liked...))

Politics aside, though, one of the reasons I'm actually almost GLAD to leave my current 'hood is just exactly that: no grocery stores for miles. So for the new neighborhood to have EXACTLY the same deficiency, albeit for a totally different reason...disappointing.

But that can be surmounted. There are two car-sharing services I can subscribe to, where I can rent a car for a couple of hours to go to the store on a Sunday or whatever, and not have to worry about keeping a car for myself. So the grocery thing: irritating beyond belief, but not the end of the world.

However, there's the OTHER thing: the thing I'm totally not proud of, the thing that's got me questioning "Who are you, and what have you done with Gladys?"

I don't know all that much about This Neighborhood. I mean, in terms of the important stuff--like, what is there to do for fun? Where do I go on the fourteenth boring afternoon, when I've exhausted all the very obvious stuff and don't feel like making the trip downtown? (There's plenty of that--but eventually you can't GO to the same bookstore for another day. Eventually you exhaust the museums.) What, other than Place Where I Work and the politics and the architecture and the landscape...other than that, what makes this place special? And what about the other considerations. For example: where is it safe to walk after dark, and where isn't it? (Of course, there are those who would have me believe that NOWHERE is safe after dark. I'm definitely not one of those, but I AM aware that around my potential new abode, there are some pretty rough spots. I'm just not sure exactly where they are.) Up in Edgewater and Rogers Park and Andersonville, I KNEW where all those places were. I even knew it where I am now, although the answer was a very simple blanket statement: "I wouldn't." But in my new neighborhood, I don't know the boundaries as well. I've been told to avoid Stony Island south of 60th; anything near the Green Line tracks after 55th; stuff like that. (Yeah, that's right. I'm moving to Hyde Park. Which means you now know where I work, if you're a Chicagoan, or know Chicago very well. I'm associating with, shall we say, People of the Maroon Persuasion. This is the closest-together that I've ever allowed my "real life" identity to get to my Gladys-ness, and it's scaring the crap out of me; I feel like Clark Kent would feel if he mistakenly walked out in tights and a cape one morning on the way to work at the Daily Planet.) But safety's generally something I'm good at--I've lived HERE for four years, after all! But as far as FUN--Okay, there's the Museum of Science and Industry--that should be good for the first six months of weekends!--and the DuSable, and I know the University has a lot of movie fests and whatnot--but other than that, I know JACK about Hyde Park, really, and it makes me nervous. That's the point I'm making here.

Normally--and by "normally" I mean "several years ago"--the element of surprise and new adventure would have been exciting. Now? It's just...daunting. And that scares me. When did I get old and scary about new experiences?? What the hell? When did that happen, and more importantly: WHY? And even more importantly than THAT: How do I make it stop happening???

That fear, though, may just be an indicator of how godawful stressful this situation is for me right now. I have just--in putting down the deposit on this apartment, which I did (at the rental agent's behest--"I have a lot of people looking at it," he warned me)--in putting down that deposit, I have accepted the necessity of taking the contents of a seven-room house with basement and garage, and deciding which of my entire collection of personal belongings are important enough to merit squeezing them into three tiny rooms, and which can be exiled to my mom's basement. I am coming face-to-face with the fact that this is all actually HAPPENING, and it's happening NOW, and I have anywhere from twelve to nineteen days to get my shit together and haul it out of there. I am not happy about this. I have coordinated moves before---many, many, many times!--but never quite this fast, and definitely nowhere NEAR this big. Really, the two parts of the process which are giving me the most anxiety are: one, the contents of the basement and the garage; and two, dividing and marking everything according to its eventual destination. And the speed at which this needs to happen is not in any way helping.

"But you have roommates to help you!" you say. And I laugh.

To be fair, Tim offered to help. But his "offer" seemed to be a blatant attempt to use helping me as a completely transparent excuse for why he couldn't go looking for a job, which could later be used as a very good reason for why I would have to help him after the move. "If I hadn't been doing YOUR packing...." I can just see it now. So I told him "Worry about your own well-being first: go get a job. If I need help packing, I'll ask for it. In the meantime, take care of yourself."

Well, THAT possibility evaporated anyway, because ever since I said that, he's been ministering to Squeaky, who we took to the emergency room last week. Again. This time, it was for seven large boils on her butt and legs, which at one point had been ONE boil, a few weeks back when I told her she needed to get that looked at and get some antibiotics before it got worse. Nobody listens to me. Anyway, she ended up with stitches and packing and multiple doctor appointments and Vicodin, which she and Tim fought over non-stop til it was gone, because HE has a sore shoulder and he can't do anything because it keeps him awake.

(If there are two things I hate, they're these: hypochondriasis, for one; and for the other, people who talk and talk and talk about their infirmities, real or imagined, but then never actually do anything to take care of them until the situation is so bad it requires an E.R. visit. I have had so many of BOTH kinds of people in my life that it makes me nuts. I recognize that I have been blessedly healthy, especially considering the amount of crap I've done to my body, but the one time I required an E.R. visit for a non-drug-related reason, it was because the actual PROBLEM--my gallbladder--had been previously misdiagnosed, not because I didn't TRY to get it dealt with! Tim won't go NEAR a doctor; he just crabs about this pain and won't get it looked at. And Squeaky, had she gone to the E.R. back when it was ONE boil, could have avoided a WHOLE LOT of pain...but she didn't want to go by herself, and she didn't want to wake Tim up to make him take her, and... I am SO GLAD to be getting away from their relationship!!! I may be a low-self-esteem-having, low-maintenance woman, but I don't think I ever neglected my own medical needs to avoid pissing off a GUY!)

Anyway, Tim HAS managed to put out a few job applications, and so has Squeaky--but neither of them has any promising leads. I worry about them--but I would worry more if I wasn't so mad at Tim for the way he's been treating me. For the first time in our friendship, I actually FEEL taken-advantage-of. Not because of anything financial, but because he's treating me like an irritant, whereas with Squeaky (when he's not pissed at her) he's fun and chatty and enjoyable to be around--the Tim I know. I try to talk to him, I get monosyllables and eye-rolls. (Unless he needs something.) And forGET trying to actually spend any time with him. The other night, he was watching TV in the living room while I was playing on the computer. We were actually having a conversation for the first time in a while--nothing important, just chatting. Squeaky was in their room, watching something else. She comes out and starts wheedling him to come into the room to watch TV (because she cannot STAND to be alone, even just in a separate room, for even a short time--last week, when Tim went out to put out applications and she was stuck at home healing, she IMed me at work repeatedly, about nothing, even though I told her I was busy). He follows her, and for the rest of the night I can hear them laughing and giggling and talking. Hey, whatever, you know? But it's like that all the time now. I am the least high-maintenance person I know, but one of my unwritten rules is: if you're living in a house with me, be prepared to at least have conversations. I don't require entertainment or company, but I cannot STAND being actively ignored for a long period of time. And this is a person who is supposedly my friend. Well, the past couple of months--since Squeaky appeared--have really injured this friendship, from my standpoint. I'm sure we'll talk it out, eventually, but right now I'm pissed and hurt and can't wait for this move to be over, so I can get some peace and quiet.

As for my fear of a new neighborhood, I keep reminding myself: this is NOT Scientology; I'm not signing a billion-year contract on this apartment. (Actually, I don't think I'm even signing a one-year lease; I think it's a month-to-month thing, given that they cater to so many students.) If I hate hate hate it, I can move. And then I think about going through all THIS again, albeit on a smaller scale...

I really hope I like it. But anything's better than THIS.

Cross...Everything!

Ladies and gentlemen--barring the intervention of a vengeful deity who would CLEARLY have to hate me--I am losing my roommates.

That’s a fairly-optimistic assessment of the situation, since they’ll still be around—but according to the arrangements discussed over the past few days, they will no longer be LIVING with me. Per those discussions, here’s how it’s gonna go:

1. Tim is going to talk to Betty about that condo. I’m pretty much over that idea—for one, I’m fairly sure it will be expensive as hell; and for another, I really don’t have time left to wait on Betty’s schedule.

2. If the condo thing fails, we’re going to see if Betty wants to get a different place with me. Again, not my absolutely favorite idea, but if it will cut costs, I’ll deal with it. She shouldn’t be difficult to live with…though I hope to hell that’s not Famous Last Words.

3. If Betty doesn’t want to get a place, then I’ll get a studio or one-bedroom on my own. This is my favorite option.

4. And no matter what—Tim and Squeaky are getting THEIR OWN PLACE.
:::dance of unrestrained joy!!!:::

I’m sure they’ll still be a part of my life—Tim said as much, though I think he meant it in a good way, as in “we’re not abandoning you”—and he also made it very clear that this whole Squeaky interlude, while it has taken all our collective time and energy, does not mean that he’s abandoned all the plans we made before she showed up. (“Plans?” you ask. See, Tim and I had a long talk several months ago, probably a month or two after he moved in. We’ve pretty much accepted that we’re one of the world’s great celibate old married couple, and we’ve decided to just be happy with that, and work together on our assorted goals, and eventually be like, eighty years old, living in a little house in Wisconsin, still bickering about whether you should use a nonstick or a regular pan to make grilled cheese. I know I get frustrated with Tim, and a lot of people in my life question why I keep him around—well, in a nutshell, it’s because he’s good company. He has his quirks, but so do I, and our quirks seem to fit together well. As he said last night, up til the drama started, this was basically the best summer either of us had had in a long time.)

So Tim and I are still good friends...which doesn't mean I don't want to strangle him, at least three times a day. I can't believe the way he's doing things, and how much of it sounds like he's using ME as an excuse for all the stuff that he's not doing. He couldn't go out looking for work Saturday...because I had my bus pass and he can't find his. He hasn't been working hard on getting a job...because he knows how much help I'M going to need with getting things together for the move, and he's not comfortable taking a job under those circumstances. Jigga-WHAT? If he and Squeaky don't both have jobs within the next couple weeks or so, there's no way they're going to be able to get a place! Squeaky, at least, has a couple of good possibilities--Tim's got basically nuthin'. And basically, all they've both been doing for the better part of a week now has been sleeping all day and puttering around watching movies all night. I'm in NO way implying that I'm in any way superior--when I didn't have a job, that's largely what I did too--but the difference was, in my field, I could at least put in applications online during those middle-of-the-night rambles. Restaurant staff don't have that luxury--they need to pound the pavement. And for the most part, these two aren't doing that. They've even gone looking at apartments--again, jigga-WHAAAAT? And you were going to get these apartments with WHAT, exactly? Champagne wishes and caviar dreams?

Then there's the whole Betty debacle. (Keep in mind the following: Tim is not affected by the Betty situation--he already knows that if I DO live with Betty, there's ZERO chance she'll put up with Squeaky even temporarily; and if I DON'T live with Betty, I'll probably get a studio and there's ZERO chance of him and Squeaky staying with me, even temporarily. So it's not like putting it off benefits him in any way, nor does it hurt him. Also, Tim is the main one advocating this living-with-Betty idea; I've been willing to say "forget it" for WEEKS, and go find something for myself, but Tim keeps telling me to keep an open mind about it, because he knows she's having a hard time right now too--and I have, as a favor to him.) Tim is basically my main contact with Betty. We have each other's phone numbers, but for most of last week, Tim's and my cell phones were turned off for late payment. So all last week, I was asking Tim to go up to the bar where Betty works and find out what the situation was. Monday they didn't go anywhere because his shoulder hurt and his sleep schedule was messed up. Tuesday they didn't go because he and Squeaky were putting out applications, and they were too far from the bar, and anyway he couldn't just walk into the bar with no money. Wednesday, I left him $20 so he couldn't use THAT one anymore--and when I got home, the $20 was gone, but he hadn't gone to see Betty because they were dealing with Squeaky trying to get a job, and getting some clothes to wear if she gets one, and blah blah blah. And Betty only works thru Wednesday, apparently, so there would be no point of going on Thursday or Friday--and Thursday morning there was a note on the fridge, asking if I could leave him $8 for cigarettes.

Now, all this mess doesn't screw me up at all--aside from the $28, it doesn't cost me a damn thing--but it slows down my progress, makes it harder for me to plan, and annoys the holy crap out of me. I told Tim that if I don't have a concrete answer from Betty as far as housing plans by the end of this week, I'm considering the matter closed. I also texted Betty, telling her to call me as soon as she can so we can get things settled. That's all I can do--and to be honest, I'm really hoping I DON'T hear anything. I would honestly rather live by myself; I'm only going along with this because Betty seems like a decent person and Tim has asked me to consider it as an option. But we got a letter from the lawyers last week, and if that letter is to be believed, time is running VERY short. I can't control what Tim and Squeaky's situation will be when time runs out; I can only control MY situation, so that's what I'm going to do. But as I do so, I'm going to make it VERY VERY clear to Tim: I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I will not accept it if he, finding himself and his passenger in an uncomfortable situation in the future, attempts to put any sort of responsibility for that situation on ME. He has lived here for eleven months, and I have given him ample opportunity to improve his situation during that time; he chose not to take that opportunity, and that was HIS choice, not mine. If he and Squeaky find themselves homeless because they don't have jobs, or haven't had them long enough to save for an apartment, that's entirely not my fault, and entirely not my responsibility to rescue them again.

(Firefly thinks it's going to go differently; she thinks I'm gonna end up with these two on my hands just the same as they are now. As I told her, I plan to get an apartment small enough to make that an impossibility; I'll gladly give up some space in exchange for peace, quiet, and an end to the eternal, hell-begotten SINGING.)

I love Tim to pieces, and in past times I've seen him act like a responsible, mature adult; I know it can happen because I've WITNESSED it. When he's on his own and not involved with anyone, he can work hard, save money, and pay his bills on time. That's why I took him in this last time, because I knew he COULD do it. And when Squeaky came into the picture, he'd just started at a job; he hadn't made much, but he was WORKING. Then comes the Squeakster, and poof-- Responsible Tim is replaced by this other guy, who's making no money, no progress, nothing but excuses. And this is the worst possible time for THAT Tim to show up.

I hope he makes it all work out for himself, but I have my own problems right now. I'll help him where I can, but I also have to take care of myself.

Crossing All My Fingers

Barring an unforeseen catastrophe, Squeaky will be leaving tomorrow and will be gone for "at least two weeks". (I place that in quotes because if I have anything at all to say about it--and I should, what with it being MY FRACKING HOUSE AND EVERYTHING--that "two weeks" will stretch to approximately "the end of time".) I'm dropping her off at her dad's house, on the way to my opthalmologist appointment. And then, dilated pupils and all, I'm going to come home and fix myself a big celebratory meal, of all the things I denied myself while she was here (because I didn't feel like buying/paying for/cooking three of them. There's a steak with my name on it, somewhere.)

(Oddly enough, as I typed this: Tim came out of their room and told me that she's not feeling well; that she has a pain just below her ribs, that she felt "a pressure" and then "like something exploded". I have heard about every...single....solitary ache and pain that this child has experienced: stuffy sinuses and a head cold ($30-plus for Benadryl--the drowsy AND the non-drowsy--and Mucinex), sore foot, a boil on her butt (yeah, really)--and it's tempting not to take this seriously, but I don't want to be cruel, either, if she really IS in pain. I'm in a wait-and-see posture, at the moment. But if this child doesn't get out of my house and out of my life, post-haste, I'm going to lose what fragments of my sanity remain.)

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.

No Good Deed...

You know how that proverb ends, right?

Yep--so do I.

(Note: this post was written over the space of three days. I started it Sunday; it is now just after midnight, which makes it Wednesday. I would say the three posts in a sequence--this one, the "OMFG..." post, and the "Disclaimer-ish" post--give a pretty accurate picture of the state of this house from Saturday evening til the present--to say nothing of the state of my mind.)

So Saturday evening, I get home from my first Saturday of work. I arrive with a 12-pack of beer, to find the house empty, and, expecting an evening of peace and quiet based on this fact, put the beer in the fridge and turn on the TV.

First problem: the cable is off. I calculate the date in my mind, then realize yeah, shoulda paid that one about 2 weeks ago. The bills in this house are in total disarray; basically, the squeakiest creditors get the cash, and anyone who can shut something off will be paid before someone who can't. Once we move, I will change that; I plan to be the...

pause.

This pause in my blog has been inserted because in light of the story I am about to relate, I need to add this interruption to show you all what I'm up against.

*************************************************************
(written Sunday night) I was writing this post, here in my living room where the computer desk is, at 11:00 PM--even though I have to be up for work before 6 this morning--because Tim and Squeaky had gone into their room at last and FINALLY, for the first time ALL FREAKING WEEKEND, I was reasonably assured of some privacy.

As I wrote the sentence just before the pause, they came out. Tim came over and whispered gibberish at me, to make it seem like he was talking about Squeaky. It's a game, I guess, that they play. Then, he went to the fridge for some ice cream. They sat down on the sofa, talking to me all the while. (Actually, Tim was mostly silent; Squeaky was yammering on about some TV show or something.) I listened for about three sentences and went back to reading whatever page I'd brought up when they came out--neither of them, as you might imagine, know about my blog.

After about ten minutes, Tim said to Squeaky, "Okay, leave her alone and let her read. She gets cranky if you don't let her read." (True enough.) After some more jabber, she followed him into the room, and I brought my page back up.

NOT TWO MINUTES LATER, from the room: "Gladys!!!"

I put my head in my hands. "What?"

"He called me fat!" Door opens. Squeaky and Tim emerge.

"Leave her alone," says Tim.

"I AM leaving her alone," she tells him. "He called me fat! Make him stop calling me fat!"

"Will you LEAVE HER ALONE!" Tim said.

"I AM leaving her alone!"

"Actually," I piped up, "you're really not. Actually you're sorta...still talking."

"I SAID, leave her the fuck alone!" Tim said. "I swear to God, I'm gonna smack you..." (He's not. We threaten horrible lingering death to each other a million times a day; I know of exactly one incident when Tim has hit a girl, and that was fifteen years ago and he was blackout drunk. So that threat, though it's obnoxious and dickheaded and all the rest, is not anywhere near as threatening as it seems--and what's more, Squeaky knows this.)

"I AM leaving her alone!!!!" To me: "Did you hear what he just said to me??? You're supposed to save me!!!"

I put my hands over my face again. "Okay, actually? No I'm not. That's what all that bullshit was about last night. I'm so totally NOT supposed to save you."

After some more squawking and yammering, and the background sound of a vein in my forehead throbbing, they finally went back into the room. The odds of them staying there long enough for me to complete this post are roughly nil.

end pause

****************************************************************

As I was saying:

Once we move, I plan to be the soul of order and punctuality as regards the payment of bills; now, however, it seems to be too Herculean a task to even contemplate the masses of unopened and opened mail which has accumulated on every available desk, much less to undertake to pay it all. I will continue to dwell on this shoestring, and take it as a lesson learned.

Anyhow.

As I was on the phone with the Automated System of the Damned, paying the Comcast bill, the door opened and in came Tim. Since my back was to the door, I didn't realize Squeaky was with him til she came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later.

Here's the thing, though: Tim wasn't speaking to her. He went into his room, leaving her in the living room, and slammed the door and turned his music up loud. She made several forays into the room, and every time emerged looking crestfallen.

As I heard the story from her: apparently she was supposed to be staying at her dad's house. (Not her stepdad the sexually-abusing asshole; her real dad, who I guess is a wee bit of a jerk but otherwise mostly harmless.) Tim apparently had a long talk with Squeaky's dad a week or so ago, affirming that they both care a lot about what happens to her, and making an agreement that she could alternate between staying at her dad's and staying here. (In case you're wondering--no one asked me, no.) And it was that agreement that touched off the whole conflagration.

Apparently she'd stayed a day or two at her dad's, then gone to visit a "friend" of hers on the South Side. "Friend" gets quotes because it's a guy, and because her choice of "friends" in the past has led her into all sorts of situations. This was no exception; apparently, as she got off the Red Line at 95th to meet him, she was followed by a guy she knew, a guy who had raped her in the past, who she'd seen several weeks ago in a public place and who she'd apparently told off, made brave by the fact that he couldn't do anything to her while there were people around.

Well, this time, she wasn't so lucky; he grabbed her and choked her, telling her "This is for last time--you think you're so tough?" According to her, that was all that happened; she has bruises all around her neck, so either she's telling the truth or something else happened that she isn't mentioning.

She didn't want to tell Tim about getting choked, allegedly because she was afraid Tim would get mad and insist on finding and killing this guy. (Do I believe this story? Not entirely.) All she told Tim was that she left her dad's and spent the weekend with "a friend".

That's HER story. Tim's story--which came out after four hours of the silent treatment, during which I was left to entertain Squeaky and listen to her kvetch about Tim's treatment of her, all while I would have MUCH rather been relaxing with my Coronas, my onions-and-beef over rice, and my NASCAR race--Tim's story was: she was supposed to be staying at her dad's, and then all of a sudden she calls him and leaves him a message that she's staying with a friend--a GIRL, in the original story. And then halfway through her story, that girl becomes a guy. She claims she has no recollection of telling him she would be staying with a girl. She claims she was stung by a bee and because she's allergic, she took Benadryl and it made her sleepy and she doesn't remember that phone call because she was half-asleep.

I wasn't sure who, if anyone, was telling the truth. I didn't like, though, the way Tim was talking to her--like the ONLY places she was permitted to stay were either here or at her dad's, like she had no say-so and she wasn't allowed to change her plans. That was MY main objection--that he was talking to her as though he owned her, and that regardless of how angry he was, it was NOT okay for him to bring someone to the house and ignore them, leaving them as MY responsibility. "She's not your responsibility, though, G!" he said. "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation."

He claimed, after the fact, that the sentence "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation," meant "please stop mediating the situation." I didn't take it that way. So when he started yelling at her about her "friends" and her changing stories and her general lack of trustworthiness and consistency, I tried to calm the waters.

Big mistake.

At one point, he said something about Squeaky having no job. Now, she had told me that she'd just gotten a job, at a coffee shop, and would be starting in a week or so. I mentioned this, and he scoffed. "What, after waiting around for six months for a job?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Tim," I said quietly, "You really shouldn't judge people for making the same kind of decisions you made." He wasn't listening; apparently something in my expression showed my amazement that he would even have the nerve to say such a thing, because his voice started getting louder as he started talking about jobs she'd apparently turned down.

I was running out of words, not to mention patience, and so I just pointed at him. And apparently, this was exactly the worst thing I could have done, judging from the explosion that followed. The sum of what he was yelling--in my face, at the top of his lungs--was that he could have three or four jobs, and yeah he'd turned down a job, because he was entitled to do whatever he wanted if he thought a job wasn't worth taking, and don't you point at me, and blah blah really loud and ineffectual and probably at least somewhat guilt-ridden blah.

And he'd been drinking, and I'd been drinking (and yes, you are all entitled to crawl up my ass for the decision I made immediately thereafter, but I was, SERIOUSLY, not drunk) and Squeaky was in the background talking about "fuck it, I'm getting out of here, I'm going back to my dad's" and Tim was yelling at her about "no you won't, if you leave this house you'll just go right back to the South Side to fuck around some more," and I had now officially had ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY ENOUGH, so I said "C'mon, Squeaky, I'll give you a ride to your dad's house." And I grabbed my bag and my car keys and walked out the door, got in the car and started the ignition.

And waited.
And waited.
No Squeaky.

About five minutes later, I called the house number on my cell phone. "Squeaky," I said. "I am outside in the car waiting for you. If you want a ride, you need to come outside, right now."

Five minutes after that, out came Squeaky.

"Tim says to tell you that no way are you driving and no way am I getting into a car with you in your condition. He wants you to come inside."

"Oh," I said, turning off the car and getting out. "So now I get to look like the idiot for stepping in and trying to help somebody else. Good. That's wonderful."

"I think he's gonna apologize," she said.

"I don't give a fuck either way," I replied, largely because I know Tim well enough to know that an apology was not forthcoming, at least not for an hour or so. As I walked in the door, I repeated that sentence, and added "I really have nothing to say.'

"Ohh," said Tim. "So if I don't want to talk, that's terrible, but if YOU don't want to..."

"I don't use it as an everyday strategy!" I said, walking up the stairs. " 'I don't wanna talk about it!' 'I just want to be by myself.' 'Leave me alone--I don't wanna talk,'" I said, doing my best (and, might I add, extremely childish) imitation of Tim whenever he's faced with some negative consequence to HIS actions. "Well, now it's MY turn: I don't want to talk."

I went upstairs and put a sign on my door: DO NOT KNOCK. I put another sign on a string at the top of the steps: I WOULDN'T. And I went into my room, got out my yarn, and sat down in front of the TV to crochet.

It took about half an hour, but Tim came upstairs, ignoring all notices to the contrary, and knocked on my door. And A Conversation was had; I explained to him that yelling at me was a very, very, VERY bad idea, for a myriad of reasons including but not limited to: if you're yelling at me, you're not hearing my point. (I managed, with Herculean effort, not to add "...and you'll never see another cigarette, can of beer, dollar added to your bus pass, dollar 'loaned' to you, meal shared, personal-care item purchased, cell-phone bill paid, or financial obligation ignored EVER AGAIN." Never let it be said that I have learned nothing from my mother's money-is-power issues.) "And my point WAS," I added, "that you shouldn't judge people for doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING YOU DID."

He conceded the issue, but added, "Yeah, but when you point your finger at me like that...."

"Yeah, I know. That was maybe not the best way of expressing myself," I told him.

We talked some more, and he did apologize; I told him that I really didn't appreciate a lot of the stuff that had been going on, and he told me that he would really, REALLY appreciate if, in the future, I didn't take it upon myself to mediate their arguments/bickering/complaining/disputes/whatever. "It's not your job," he said. "Don't put yourself in that position."

"I DON'T put MYSELF there," I reminded him. "SHE comes to ME when she wants to bitch about you."

"Well then, shut her down," he advised. "Tell her 'Look, I'm not going to put myself in the middle of this--if you have a problem with Tim, go talk to Tim.'"

"And then when you don't want to talk, and YOU shut her down TOO...?"

"That's between her and me, though." Which...okay, yeah, he's right, but it's tough to see a person with a problem, who's TRYING to talk to the other involved party about the problem, but the other person doesn't want to talk and so the wounded party is left with no recourse than to just deal--and it's very hard for me NOT to try to help, under the circumstances. Especially when I know that--for the most part--I can usually manage to remain objective...

...until people start yelling, and not listening to me, and claiming that true things are false, and the sky is green, and rain falls up, and they could have three or four jobs ANY TIME THEY WANTED THEM. Apparently that's my breaking point.

Anyhow, Tim and I worked it out, and had a hug, and the problem was mostly solved...

Mostly. As the other posts in this sequence will show.

Disclaimer-ish

No, don't worry. The last post was not as ominous as I'm sure it seemed.

I'm just frustrated.

Very, VERY frustrated.

The barbarian hordes of Squeakdom have returned, in all their loud and un-perceptive glory, and I am absolutely without hope of a moment of peace, quiet, and/or privacy.

I don't dislike Squeaky, really I don't. I just need my freaking SPACE, and space is the one thing it feels like I can't have.

"Just TELL her when she's getting on your nerves," Tim advises. Okay, easier said than done, for one thing--remember who you're dealing with here? I'm Ms. Nonconfrontational--and more importantly: I've tried. Doesn't work.

Example. As I wrote this post:

She made a phone call to a friend on the house phone. (She did ask before using the phone. This is why I simply can't hate the kid; she's TRYING to be respectful and polite. She asks before she takes food, uses the phone, borrows anything, uses the washer. She clearly wants my good opinion, and she's clearly grateful for the accommodations.) She left a message, and a couple of minutes later the friend called back. She was pacing around the living-room as she talked, making it impossible for me to continue writing, and so I asked her if she could maybe go in Tim's room. Instead, she finished the conversation, handed me back the phone (with a "thank you"), and sat down on the couch to chat with me some more. It was only ten minutes later, when Tim came back downstairs from taking his shower, that she followed him back into the bedroom and they closed the door.

Squeaky doesn't like to be alone. She's said as much several times; for one, with the life she's led, I'm sure she's never learned the art of being good company for herself, and I'm sure she's got plenty of demons in her head that come out when she's left with no one but herself. I can understand that. And I know she's not TRYING to crowd me or piss me off--she's said she thinks of Tim and I as "family" and she's thankful that we're looking out for her best interests. She's not TRYING to step on my toes, but when it comes to the issue of personal space, I'm so fanatical that she simply hasn't got a chance of NOT stepping on them. I recognize this, and it's not her fault--but it doesn't make it any easier when I come home after a long day at work and want nothing more than dinner, a beer, and a chance to un-knot myself. I know it's up to me to be flexible, and to be direct yet gentle when I just can't stand it anymore--but part of this frustration is that at the moments I need my space the MOST, I have the LEAST ability to keep those things in mind. It's a thorny situation, and I realize that some of it, if not most of it, is of my making.

But knowing what the problem is, and owning it, doesn't SOLVE it. And I'm not sure what will do that.

She's looking for housing. And in the manner of bureaucracies everywhere, things are moving at roughly the pace of cold molasses, and no one's returning phone calls. I know she's frustrated too. I feel bad for her, and I'm glad I can help...

...but it does make me tired.

OMGZOICKSBBQWAFFLEPONIES!!!11!!ELEVEN

For the love of all that is good and holy,

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE HER SHUT UP AND LEEEEAAAVVVEEE?????????

My hai blood preshurez and tenshun heddakes--let me show u them.

More details to follow. Pray for me. :)

Dear Tim

Message left taped to my roommate's door this morning as I left for work:

Dear Tim...

Now, you know I love you to bits.

BUT.

There are very, VERY few messages which merit calling me after midnight on a work night.

1. "I am in jail"
2. "I have been (shot, stabbed, beaten) and am now hospitalized."

In fact, those are about the only two I can think of. (Please note that whatever-it-was you were attempting to communicate last night? Did not make the list.)

Further: Telling me "I'll call you back" does not help matters; not only am I now awake, but I am also unable to go back to sleep because I am waiting for the next call. Calling me back an hour later and saying "Nevermind"? Also does not work.

Since pretty much everything in this house depends on my ability to keep this job, and my ability to keep this job depends almost entirely on my ability to get enough sleep, I trust you will see the wisdom of NEVER...DOING...THAT....AGAIN.

(Note: I am not mad. I was mad last night. I am not mad now. But I needed to make this point.) Love ya...--G

I am tired.
My head hurts.
I apparently slept the rest of the night with my jaw clenched, judging from the state of my neck muscles.
I feel like crap. (I almost typed "I feel like carp" which would have been no less appropriate. I can't imagine carp are happy fish.)
I want a NAP.
And a truncheon, with which to whack my darling roomie.
Suddenly, a studio apartment--with no phone!--sounds like a verrrrry enticing idea.

--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??

Strays

So, Squeaky is back.

She has been back, in fact, for more than a week now. Apparently her AA-evangelist friend refused to accept her assertion that she hadn't been drinking for the two days she spent here last weekend. (Which she hadn't, and I know that for a fact. I'm the beer-purchaser around here; I'm the one with money; and I COUNT my beers. Squeaky was perfectly innocent, in this case. But tell that to 12-Stepper.) Because she didn't believe Squeaky, Squeaky was told she would not be staying at 12-Stepper's house; because all the other places she could stay were out of range of public transportation, Tim went and met her and brought her back here. She's been doing very well here--even though Tim and I have had beer in the house almost constantly, she hasn't drunk any, and since there's no other type of intoxicant available, she's been relentlessly sober. She's....not so bad, I guess. She sings a lot, and dances a lot, and has more energy than I would even WANT to have; she's loud and aggravating, but she's also sweet and very considerate and very grateful to be allowed to stay here. And she loves the hell out of Tim, unfortunately; he's still pining for Nicolette, and makes no bones about Squeaky's role in his life. He cares about her; he just doesn't plan to be her guy permanently, is all. It's a hard state of affairs for everyone concerned, really.

She's told me more of her history; if even five percent of it is true, she's had a life no one deserves. If all of it is true, or even the half of it, she's lucky to be alive, mostly sane, and mentally-functioning at all. As I said to her, after her recitation of the things her stepfather did to her: "There's a special circle of hell for some people, you know? I have to believe that, because if I didn't I'd jump off a bridge at the injustice of it all." She broke down crying at one point; I gave her a hug. It was the best I could do. "You're the only one who listens to me," she told me. "Tim doesn't want to hear it." I happen to know that Tim doesn't want to hear it because he's EXTREMELY sensitive about his friends being hurt; if he hears about it, man-like, he feels an obligation to act, and if he can't solve the problem....well, it just eats at him. I know there's nothing I can do; the past is the past, and sometimes it helps just to talk. And if I can listen, at least that's something. (But it doesn't mean she's not driving me completely bat-shit crazy...)

LJ, unexpectedly enough, showed up at the front door Thursday night. Apparently he's been in town for a couple of days; he's been staying at his mother's.
"So...was that your girl?" I asked him. "One of them, yeah," he replied coolly. "She's a headache, though...always tryin' to control my life, all 'where you goin' and 'when you comin back' and all that...And she HATES it that I still keep in touch with you," he added. "I told her ain't nothin' goin on...I told her that truck is like our kid. I let her know...'Gladys an' me are probly gonna be friends for life,' I told her," he said, which I thought was nice. He hung around for a while; he and I and Squeaky and Tim talked for a few minutes. We laughed, had a beer, talked about the situation. I told him we'd lost the house; he agreed to come back and get what little stuff was left here, which he did last night. Those twenty or thirty minutes were more comfortable than the relationship ever was.

That's not to say that everything's perfect. I'm still behind on a lot of bills, though I'm chipping away at it; we still don't have a place to go when we have to move. We haven't heard anything from Betty about her friend's amazing condo; if that doesn't work out, I'm thinking I might just get a one-bedroom or a studio closer to work. It's a little bit stressful, this not-knowing--but only a little. Really, things are good. I'm back in the groove of having a job; getting up in the morning, coming home at night, being exhausted--but in a good way. I really love my job.

In fact, I love my job so much that at the moment, I'd be happier THERE than I currently am at home. At least, it would be more peaceful. Who was that, who made the comparison between houseguests and fish? Yeah. DEFinitely. I'm weary unto death of hearing about whatever TV show or movie she just finished watching, or hearing her singing various pop songs and demanding that people watch her dance, or watching the same MadTV skit on YouTube eight times a day. Between that, and the constant married-couple bickering between her and Tim, I'll be very glad tomorrow when this little arrangement comes to an end...at least for a couple of days. I'm driving the two of them to the Cubs game, and then I guess she's going....somewhere. I'm concerned, but not terribly concerned.

I know, I know--I should be more compassionate, but seriously, I can only be so good for so long; I'm rapidly approaching the moment when I'll finally put my head through the wall in total irritation. There was a REASON I didn't have kids; and honestly, if I'd wanted a 19-year-old in my life when I was 37, I'd have had a baby at 18.