You Saw My Blinker Bitch

{April 26, 2010}   Epic Fail!

What a beautiful Monday! And by that I mean I did something somewhat productive. Janie and I went running, or fast shuffling as I like to call what I’m doing out there on the track, followed by calorie laden coffee. YUM! Coffee is not only delicious, but it really is what keeps me from totally going of the deep end. Which I’m damn close to anyway y’all. But that’s another story for another day.

Friday. Oh Friday. It was a good Friday, really. I got up, took Emilio to school. Came back home to my mother still being home (you know, in her OWN home that I’ve infiltrated) and changed into my running gear. Picked up Janie and we went for our first of (hopefully) many running excursions. I was feeling really good, getting back in to a grove that I had down pat years and years ago, and the all of a sudden – OH SHIT – wasn’t I supposed to be doing something today? Something really important and all life changing and shit? Oh yes, yes I was.

So it occurs to me like half a mile in that I was supposed to start my Friday Not I Day practice that morning. It also has occurred to me that I have already spent some time talking about things of importance or fun and excitement to me, even as early in the day as it was. Yeah, I’m THAT MUCH OF A SELF CENTERED WHORE. At least I can admit it, can you? Now, seeing as it was still early in the day, and I had realized my faux pas, I still could have made up for it and started from that moment on. I considered it. Momentarily. Very momentarily. I continued my run and then, off to have that delicious cup of coffee.

While at coffee, Janie and I were talking, and I found myself again doing less of the listening and more of the talking about myself, my woes (but there are so many!), and so on. Somewhere after slurping down the whip cream and before actually tasting my beverage I think I thought about confessing to Janie what I had not remembered to do. I, however, did not fess up, but rather continued my daily ritual of self-centered banter. I did listen to her a bit, and tried to be ever so slightly more attentive but that really just didn’t go over.

So, off to drop Janie at home we went. This time, before reaching her abode I told her what I had done, or rather, failed to do. FAILED. It’s like my whole school career all over again. I didn’t fail because I was dumb, or bad at what I was doing or supposed to be doing. I failed because I just DIDN’T DO IT. It was liberating to confess. I was actually pretty ambivalent on the whole issue of actually failing to do something so profound (I was hoping), and so good for everyone (with the me shutting my fucking trap for a minute and all). I confessed to Linsey via Gchat later in the day, but other than that didn’t really give it any more thought. The moments I spent thinking on it were several, yet fleeting.

What Linsey advised, which is of course awesome advice, was to try again this week. It’s not like I can’t ever try and do more listening and give more attention to others. She also was lovely to point out that it is a big step for a fucking talk-whore to actively try and be more of a listener. Baby steps people, baby steps.  I can try again, and I will try again. Maybe. Sure, yeah, ok.


{April 16, 2010}   It’s FRIDAY, not I day

So my who life I’ve been quite self centered. I know I am now, but I haven’t always been so insightful. I do try very hard now to LISTEN more and talk less. Of course I have to be one of those waits for her turn to talk people, so this whole listening thing is relatively new to me. I’m trying it, and liking it. I find out way more about people that way, and find that I learn more about myself that way too.

There is a HUGE problem with always being the talker, besides the one where you look like a total ass for always talking about or making things about yourself. That is that not only do I often have horrible social graces, but I don’t actually know how to communicate with others. I don’t know how to strike up a conversation and keep it going without making it all come back to ME (it really is all about me though, right???) or something I did, or want to do etc. So I’ve decided to start a new practice. I’m thinking that obviously it won’t start today, because damnit this whole fucking post is already “I” laden, but one Friday a month I will refrain from (to the greatest extent possible) talking about myself, using “I”, and generally being an asshole who only cares about ones self.

So next Friday, the 24th of April my experiment will begin. I will attempt to learn as much about someone, or something, or anything really as I possibly can. I will not wait for my turn to talk, but rather I will listen closely, take mental notes, pay attention for godssakes. Once I feel I can adequately handle one Friday a month, I will do every other week, until I can go one day every week where I am not the subject matter. I hope to learn a lot, about you, and about myself.

Go ahead and place your bets on how long it will last. My money’s on 2 Fridays.

{April 15, 2010}   Sorting it Out

I’m feeling in love with my best friend.( No, not you silly, my other best friend.) Only I’m not quite sure that I’m IN LOVE, but I completely and utterly love the man. You see, I’ve never really had a close male friend, and that’s what makes this all a completely confusing experience. I grew up with only female friends, so I never really learned how to make a distinction between the love I have for my girlfriends (oh and I do love you so!) and the love one can have for someone of the sex to which she or he is sexually drawn to. It’s such a wonderful time for me to have someone new and exciting to share with. I have never been happier spending hours on end talking about anything, everything, and nothing. Not in my adult life, at least. Yet night after night I struggle to label what it is we have here. I’m not really sure it even needs a label, but I feel like that can put me more at ease with how I’m feeling, what I’m feeling, and how I can make sure to keep my wonderful friend around for years to come.

Recently (ok, well like a year and a half ago), I got out of an extremely bad relationship. I spent the better part of my adult life not really knowing the closeness and love that can come from a proper relationship. I was battered in every possible sense that one can be. Mentally I’m a wreck, and I pity the poor man who ever comes after that show, and emotionally I’m fantastically retarded. I was told I was loved, but often with prodding for such affirmations. I was told I was nothing – garbage, a poor existence – more often than not. I was never supported in any decision I made, and no matter how well I knew my choices to be sound (mostly) I was taught to be sorry for them, or that they were always wrong. If my opinion ever differed from his, I was promptly ‘put in my place’ and told what my opinion needed to be. I was stunted and left a withered shell of a girl who once was. There was no semblance of the person I felt like I was deep down in my heart remaining. I lost sight, no control, of who I was and how awesome I was. I forgot how much fun I used to be, and how much I liked being me.

Along comes a long lost acquaintance, passing by my new life, experiencing my new freedoms with me. When we re-met after decades of not even remembering the other shared the planet with us, we became inseparable. We were never supposed to spend more than a few weeks hanging out and having fun. He was, I thought, a floating friend whom I could count on to give me life experiences I would always remember but would have lost track of in time. One night of superficial conversation and debauchery turned into another, and then another. This was all fine and well and what I needed most in life at that time – FUN. It was profoundly meaningful to my recovery of self, yet supposed to be inconsequential to my days ahead. Innocently enough we texted back and forth, almost daily. We learned about the lives of one another from then until now. We found that lost period – that lost time where we had forgotten one another. It was nice to have a new friend, and exhilarating to be the person I had always dreamt I was all balled into this new and exciting adventure.

Texting turned into phone calls. Phone calls turned into lunches, and lunches into dinners. Dinners expanded to include one another’s children. Having one another’s children in our lives turned into sleepovers for the kids and camping trips. The friendship quickly turned into the kind where you have to tell the other your worries, your happiness, your confusion, your everything to the other as soon as humanly possible. This sometimes happened (and still does, frankly) in the middle of the night, or the wee hours of the morning. It didn’t matter, we always think of the other when something important happens. We share silences, we share laughter, we share disappointments . Just yesterday, he talked me through a traumatic hour and a half, just because he knew I needed my best friend. He is always there when I need him, as I am him. We would do just about anything for the other, because we care so much about the welfare of each other.

Herein lies the problem. This man and I have become extremely close in the last year. We hold hands (ok, we’ve usually been drinking for that to happen, but still), we hug when we know the other needs one. We rarely go out separate from the other, and most of our friends can expect to see both of us, or at the very least not be surprised if we come somewhere together. We are attached in ways beyond just a friendship. Or are we? You see, I have never felt so secure, so loved and cared for, so able to be MYSELF with any man before. In stark contrast to the man I spent so many years with, this man allows me to be me. Sure we fight, but those fights never last more than an hour before we’ve figured out that we’d rather not fight. We often don’t agree, but he’s never pressured me to succumb to his position. I feel comfortable telling him a plan and asking his opinion, and the warmth that envelops me knowing that he disagrees with me but will always support me keeps me smiling when I go to sleep at night. It sure feels like love to me. Yet, I don’t know that it is. I really don’t know WHAT it is. I’m confused, because I have ingrained in me the thought that if I am attracted to men, and I have a strong relationship and bond with a man, that he and I must be lovers.

The emotions I feel for this man change daily, hourly actually. Some days I can’t imagine anything other than the platonic friendship we share. I can’t fathom being any more entrenched in his life than I already am, and can’t think of him in any way but as one of the greatest friends I’ll have this decade. Yet other days I wonder why he’s been put into my life. I wonder if I don’t deserve to be as happy as I am with him after all I’ve been through. I wonder, mostly out of loneliness I think, why I can’t find a man just like my friend – the man of my dreams. When will MY day come, already? I’ve come to the conclusion that we are meant to just be wonderful friends, to love and support one another as we see fit, and nothing more. I do not value the friendship I have with him any more than with anyone else I love dearly, or anyone else I can share with, and have a close and wonderful bond with. I’ve learned that it’s okay to love your friends no matter what sex, orientation, or anything they are. I’ve learned that yes, I’m in love with my friend, but not like that.

{April 2, 2010}   Journey to Homeless

My move is complete. I now officially live out of a storage unit, with no address and no clue as to what happens next. It’s funny, but I didn’t even really feel like I was leaving my apartment for good when I left. It just seemed like I was headed out to the grocery store, except that I had one crying cat and one panicked cat in crates in my back seat. I left the porch light on, checked that I had my keys, and closed the door. Part of me realizes that this whole thing is very real, and part of me still thinks I’m just kickin’ it at Mom’s for a few days and I’ll be back.

The last few days (or crunch time) were a mess. Wednesday last week my friend was gracious enough to come help me move. He has a mini-van and was absolutely sure that my big shit would fit. I was more than skeptical, but who am I to look a gift mini-van in the mouth? I had my queen sized mattress and box spring (which for some reason is like, super deep – I have to JUMP to get onto my bed), my love seat hide-a-bed (heavy fucker he is), and my dresser. It was great he was coming to help, but as I was still healing from armpit surgery and had stitches it was going to be a challenge for the two of us to do this. To my great pleasure and surprise, he had enlisted the help of another male friend of ours to do the lifting – he didn’t want me to pop my stitches. Most would find this to be a great act of chivalry, but I know the truth – if I had popped a stitch, he’d have to hear about it for months on end. I’m spiteful like that. My beloved mattress was strapped to the roof rack, and with the dresser safely tucked inside we headed to my storage unit. Now it’s only a five minute drive, but it’s all downhill. So as the boys are following behind me I’m checking my mirrors to see if my mattress is being run over after having dislodged itself from the roof rack. To my great relief, all three items made it safe and sound to storage and I didn’t have to lift a finger.

Forward past the post-move celebration of beers and sliders at The Jolly Roger Tap Room, to about 10:45 that evening when it dawns on me – I JUST PUT MY FUCKING BED INTO STORAGE. What I thought I was going to be sleeping on that night is beyond me. My son’s bed had long been dismantled and there wasn’t even a chair to sit on. Ok, that’s a lie there was, but I wasn’t going to sleep on a crappy office chair. So here I am, driving home from a friend’s house thinking I had to sleep on the floor. All of a sudden, the brilliance of an eleven year old strikes and my son reminds me that although completely dismantled, his mattress is still in the apartment. SCORE! So we slid his queen mattress into my room and cuddled for the few days remaining in the unit. It was a real Madonna and Child kind of bonding we had. Except for the excruciating pain I had in my lower back from where he had curled into a ball and his knees were pressed into me.

Thursday was pay back. You see, the two boys who helped me move were both also separately moving into their own new places. So rather than pack up my remaining belongings (my kitchen had not been touched – including doing the dishes – since before surgery) and setting myself a bit more at ease that it would all actually get done on time, I helped a friend move. It’s all worth it in the end, because if we all help out now, we all remember and the help will be there again when we need it. Plus he had taken some of my things off my hands for me so I really did owe him. When that was done I pretty much went home and took a nap before going back to bed. Good times.

Friday my friend Janie and I had coffee – I think. I can’t remember but there are good chances we did. Although now that I’m thinking on it, maybe we didn’t. I feel like she came to help at some point. She must have. I just know it. Well shit, it appears that I’ve plumb forgot what I did last Friday, and that was just a week ago. OH. I know. I partied. Well, not until the evening, but I did party a bit. Hey, a girl’s gotta blow off some steam ya know? It’s been tense what with the getting evicted and having a week to pack up four and a half years of your life and trying to figure out what happens to the cats and where I’ll sleep and how my son’s gonna deal. Sadly, I didn’t even get drunk. Not to make me sound like a lush or anything. I mean, yeah, ok, so I like to imbibe from time to time, or every other day, or on a day that ends in ‘y’, but I’m not an alcoholic. I swear. No, wait – it’s coming back to me. I *did* meet up with Janie part of the day because we worked on the kitchen and I kept trying to give her my shit that her wife really didn’t want me to send home. We settled on leaving the pile at my place and when Linsey came over the next day she would have veto power over any of our selections. Lucky for me she only nixed one.

Home stretch here, I swear. Saturday morning Linsey was coming to help but I had little to no motivation. I spent most of my time putting up ads on Craigslist hawking my shit for FREE because people were too cheap to actually buy it. Crazy thing was, after listing my two biggest burdens the first e-mail response I got was from my friend’s ex-wife. I’m told she isn’t the most reliable person but I thought hey, it serves both of us and if I get so inclined maybe I can visit my furniture one day. Yeah, I’d so some shit like that. So Linsey shows and we pack up the kitchen and I make a few car trips to the storage unit wherein I realize that the Saturday before the first of the month is a fucked day to go to storage as that’s when everyone and their fucking brother goes and they bring big ass moving trucks. With toilets in them.  I never did figure out why they were storing that toilet but my Mom says toilets are very personal so who am I to judge? Anyhow, Linsey and I didn’t do a whole lot, but I was lonely as my son was at my Dad’s to be out of the way and I can’t really think or work alone. It was enough that she was there to get me through that day.

Whew! Sunday. The day. The last chance I had to get my shit out of the place and I hadn’t even gone through my clothes yet. The unit doesn’t have a washer or dryer so I had dirty laundry, clean clothes, stuff for Goodwill, and stuff for storage. Janie kicks ass y’all. She came in and although I pretended I was calling the shots, she got in there and directed and cleaned and helped me gather what was left and get it to where it needed to be gotten to. It was awesome. Then, as we were fairly set in our standing, feeling damn good about ourselves, I realized we had forgotten an entire cabinet completely. Lucky for us it was small-ish but we were out of boxes. Another lucky break was that my son insists on keeping shoe boxes (he gets it from my ex, unfortunately) and one was in the recycle bin. Most of the stuff fit and we were done. DONE. OMG, DONE.  It wasn’t spotless, it wasn’t great, but it was over. Except that the friend’s ex never showed. Wasn’t I told something about that? Yeah. So with Janie safely at home, and me borrowing her cat crates, I waited in the empty unit on that damn office chair texting and IM-ing, waiting for her to show. Finally the last of the furniture was picked up, and I closed that door one last time.

{March 23, 2010}   Scents and Nonsensibility

Ah, Monday morning. How you come so quickly. How you remind me that the looming deadline for me to vacate my residence is ever closer. Fuck off with that, already. Seriously Monday. Seriously.

Right now, a bomb has gone off in my apartment. Or that’s the way it looks.It’s echo-y, what with the hardwoods no longer having anything to buffer the sound upon. It’s eerily quiet what with the three TV’s and two computers and various radios all disengaged from power sources and strewn about waiting for it’s next temporary spot. You see, I’m quite organized, it just takes me a while to get there. My son completely hates it and can’t follow me fast enough to keep up. This, along with the fact that he’s hitting puberty and all hormone driven and I am me and always filled with the hormones, is the major reason we argue. One, but generally both, of us is bound to end up in tears.

Let’s back up to Saturday, or packing day #1. I mean, I’ve got to be out of this place in a week and nothing is done. What to do? Rather than methodically go through every room in the house, carefully packing and organizing my shit, I haphazardly bark orders to friends and family on what should go where and so on. I’ve got one friend who shows up to take some stuff off my hands and I haven’t even cleared off anything. Another friend clears that off while I wander around aimlessly and tell my son to do something. Probably to SIT DOWN, SHUT UP. Or give Mama a hug. One or the other. I think I asked (or told) another friend to do something that I probably didn’t explain at all but expected her to understand. It likely didn’t get done. That’s the way I operate. This means the poor stereo that I’m not even sure yet is worth making the trek to storage has gone from it’s spot in the kitchen, to a different spot in the kitchen, to the floor of the front room, and may make it to my room yet before the decision process is over. Why? Like I know. I mean, I do know that there is reason in there somewhere, just not one that I can explain or articulate in any sort of manner that would make one understand my whacked out logic. Whatever.

I know where in the long run things need to go – storage, Goodwill, trash – but the path these things are taking to get to said destinations is a wicked funky one for sure. I just noticed a pile of shoes on the floor that I thought was all Goodwill, but realized that my prized slippers are in that pile so now I have to figure out just what I did there. I’ve got three bins full so far of papers and odds and ends that need to be sorted out. Most of which are probably old Panda Express receipts that I swore I would call into the survey to get that $5.00 coupon code.  This stuff all needs a home, and it’s my job to get these things there, wherever it’s there is.

Much like the scattered paths that things are taking, there are scattered smells going on in this place that are making this already relentless task even more, shall we say, enlightening. First off, I have these two wonderful cats. Ok, that’s a lie. Only one is wonderful. The other is marginally ok. At any rate, these lovely fur balls like to do things like pee in the bathtub when they are angry with me and vomit under beds. I found a crunchy yakked up fur nugget under my bed as I was disassembling it. YUMMY! So I wake to find piss in the bathtub (stinky), barf in the front room (slimy and smelly), and that one of the two decided to take a monster shit and not cover it in the box (wretched awful smell). Then of course what move doesn’t have it’s fair share of dust flying around (don’t even tell me you people actually dust your shit, because really, who the fuck has time for that) which leaves a nice musky odor to the air.  Lastly, because I was waiting on some Craigslisters to show and couldn’t leave the house I ordered a pizza with the money I scammed, er made, from a prior sale and now I’ve eu de Pizza Hut lingering in the air. No amount of window opening will save my olfactory glands tonight.

It seems that there was some tie-in, ending thing-y that I was going to plunk down as the moral to my day and story here, but alas my brain only has a loop of The Bad Touch going on and nothing more. Must mean sleep deprivation has grabbed me full throttle.

{March 21, 2010}   Wake up Call

So I’ve got to move. Like now. I have to pack up four and a half years of stuff and get it out of my favorite apartment ever in less than a week. It’s sad, and I’m in pain from having had surgery on my armpit several days ago so this isn’t me in the best of times. Whatever, a girl’s gotta do.

I’m moving most all of my belongings into storage. My Dad was nice enough to meet me at a Public Storage facility early yesterday morning and help me rent a space that will, with any sort of luck, be big enough to store my most treasured items. All the other stuff will just have to be gotten rid of. I had planned to list on Craigslist a sale of sorts, but of course spent my time setting up a blog instead. You know, priorities.  Anyhow, in the mean time my Mom goes out garage-sailing this lovely morning and runs into some ladies that need things. This means that I wake from my vicodin daze at 9:somethingorother to Mom calling me and telling me she’s given out my address and number. Um, say what?

This news is not only jarring due to the fact that my brain is yet to turn on, but because I am in NO WAY prepared to have people come look at furniture. The computer desk is still fully outfitted with the computer and all the past-due bills and crap that I threw into the over-flowing file boxes on it. The kitchen unit still has a microwave and stereo and dust galore. I’m just in no way ready to have people here. Or be out of bed. Or be awake. Or be a functional, contributing member of society.

I hop out of bed (ok, you got me, I rolled out and stumbled a bit) and throw on a bra and pull my hair into a half assed ponytail. It’s now time to wake the 11 year old monster who, if you can believe it, is less of a morning person than his mother. Feverishly I find places for the crap that adorns the belongings I’ve decided can go and I dust, arrange, and photograph. Now I’m sweating, and smelling just peachy – the perfect state for company! Since I have no idea when these folks are coming and what exactly of mine they may want I start my brain and fire up the computer (the other one, not the one I just threw into a box to clear off the desk) and write up my ad letting the Seattle-Metro area know they need to come get my shit and give me money for it because I fucking need it. Well, maybe the ad was a little less profanity laden, but that’s what I was thinking when I wrote it up.

So now I sit and wait. Wait for people to try and give me the shaft and tell me they want my crap but don’t want to pay the price my crap isn’t worth to buy it. I tried to go reasonable and shit, but still. I NEED MONEY. I have some change in my purse and lint in my pocket, but dude, that ain’t gonna pay my bills. Or the back rent I owe. Or for a Hello Kitty tattoo. Priorities after all.

{March 21, 2010}   Juicy

My dear friend Uncouth Heathen is like, a blog posting fanatic. She’s quite good at what she does and, quite frankly, I’m proud to count myself among the throngs of her devoted followers.  I have toyed with the idea of blogging for some time now, and what with the being unemployed and all right now she suggested that this may be the right time for me to get started. Whatever. I’m only doing it because her wife plied me with booze.

So, lets see…things to know about me. I am a raging alcoholic, and of course straight up GANGSTA. Or as Gangsta as one can be when they grow up in middle class Seattle. I am a single parent to the greatest punk ass 11 year old you will ever meet. Really. I’m not just saying that because he’s my kid. Most of the people I know think he’s a punk ass too. Or great. You decide. I have great aspirations to become a Registered Dietitian and attend Bastyr University one day. Right now that is all out somewhere on the horizon as I need to find me one of them there job thingys that people have. Oh yeah, and because I don’t have one I am in the process of vacating my residence. It’s a mutual agreement between the landlord and myself as we both would LOVE to avoid, you know, court proceedings to evict me.

Life isn’t all bad, but not as gangsta as it could be. Sure I don’t have a job, my kid and I are homeless, and my debt pile grows each and every day, but I am yet to bust a cap in anyone’s ass (although I did find a full box of ammo while packing my shit up today). I am extremely lucky to have my Lady Gay’s, and my family to support me as many of them have extremely comfortable couches for me to sleep on in the coming days, weeks, months, and well we’ll just see how long this chapter lasts.

I can not guarantee anything with this blog dear reader. I can’t say I’ll write in any sort of style (or even with any flair for writing) or focus on any one subject. My mind, and actions, are such that I start in one direction and sharply veer in another without any warning. For the most part there is a rational train of thought, but by the time any of you figure that out it’s too late and I’ll have jumped somewhere else entirely. It’s exciting, and it’s me. I’ve not lost any friends for that…yet. In due time you’ll get used to it. I mean, my son’s been working on it for like 11 years now but that doesn’t mean you won’t be smarter than a sixth grader and catch on sooner.

My son just asked if he could eat me. Um, no. You should also know I have an incredibly dirty mind, and I am in TEARS over that one I’m laughing so hard. Good times.

I’ll leave you with this tidbit: I have a valley-girl-Canadian accent. Nobody knows where it comes from, but many attribute the Canadian to my unnatural obsession to Degrassi.

et cetera