I had the worst asshole moment a couple weeks ago. I went to lunch with a business associate at a small cafe frequented by yuppies and SAHMs. It's a nice place with a tattooed, hippie waitstaff and I've gone there countless times over the past 15 years. In fact, I once attended an open mic poetry reading there when I was 18 and in the dark-and-angst-filled phase of my writing. (One poem I penned began "My lifeless body lies in a pool of blood..." and didn't get any better from there.) That was the first place I heard a woman read a poem about her vagina. Or maybe it was her menstrual cycle. All I remember is that she was ANGRY and her poem was LONG and the subject matter was definitely TMI.
So, at this fun little restaurant that no longer hosts the poetry readings, I almost always get the chicken salad. Thus, you can guess what I ordered. Lunch arrived and at glance at my sandwich sparked the Uh Oh Alarm. But I ignored my instincts, because that's a good idea, and took a bite of my sandwich, at which point my brain could only babble Spoiled. Spoiled. Spoiled. Bad chicken bad spit out bad! I called the waitress over and said something was wrong with the chicken salad. I was trying to be nice about everything ... but then ... my shoe ... slammed into my mouth. The words "Is it fresh?" spilled out of nowhere and I basically guaranteed that the underpaid server was going to hock a loogie into my Diet Coke. In my defense, the chicken salad was normally white and the color of the ... substance ... on this particular sandwich looked more like tuna. That screams "not fresh" to me. Still, I didn't need to frolic onto Assholian Trail and the waitress was nice enough to void the offending poultry from my check and bring me a turkey sandwich but I know I saw a bitter glint in her eye when she asked me how my new sandwich tasted. Or maybe she was trying to determine if I could taste ground up cigarette butts.
Bills
Sorry, but you aren't really getting paid this pay period. I know you're demanding my attention much as Gizmo does every time I make a move towards the kitchen, but between rent and new glasses (see G), I'm going to have just enough money to put gas in the car and groceries in my pantry/fridge before my available funds dry up. The good thing is that you'll ALL be waiting for me on October 12. I might look forward to seeing the whole lot of you if you'd wear some lingerie (nothing crotchless, please).
Cats
Usually very cute, but tonight the whining is GRATING ON MY NERVES. Sit down, shut up, be petted, and let Mommy get back to her overdue blog entry.
Drunk
You know what it's like when you don't drink for a long time and then you kill off a bottle of wine by yourself (see W) and you're like, "Goddamn, but drinking is FUN. Why don't I do this more often?" so you get drunk the next night, but it's just for fun the second time and it's not (entirely) self-destructive? Yeah, me neither. The rest of this entry, however long it ends up being, might not entirely make sense because the wine, she is flowing. My liver might like a break but I'm out of Cabernet Sauvignon after tonight and left only with the Riesling (bleargh!) that I got as a Christmas gift, so The Unofficial Drinking Chronicles are done after tonight. Unless I take some of my grocery money and buy more red wine. That's definitely a good idea.
Earrings
The cute babies I ordered from Etsy arrived and are gorgeous. I put them on and tried to take a good picture to post but ended up with a lot of shots of my hair, the wall behind me, and in one, just my hand. Watch out, Annie Leibovitz!
Futon
is the new bed and is fairly comfortable. It still pops up in the middle when one sits too close to the edge but at least I don't go cascading to the floor like I did whenever the Serta Surfing occurred. I still want to add more padding because Jesus God I could kill someone with one swipe of the mattress (if I could lift it without (a) inducing a hernia or (b) falling over under its awkward size and weight) but switching the order of the foam pad and Target featherbed I have under the comforter was the best idea I've had in a long time. No more sharp feather points stabbing my delicate bits when I change position in the middle of the night and that alone is enough.
Glasses
Sometime early this morning, my glasses, which were on their way out anyway, bit the dust but hard. I dropped them and my cell phone on the floor as I went to bed last night and I guess they gave up the ghost right then and there, so much so that I got up this morning and it looked like they'd been on the bottle-beaten end of a bar fight. I found a lens somewhere under my bed and picked up the tangled half-fishing-wire frames and went to Lens Crafters (whom I love) to see about a quick fix. Tragically, said fix was impossible. The glasses had the courtesy to have good timing as I already had an appointment with Target Optical scheduled ... until I found out Lens Crafters takes my insurance. (All together now: Target who?) So, now, hours after my eye appointment this evening with the reading of tiny numbers, tinier letters, and playing Optometry Pursuit ("Which is better, 1 or 2? Okay, 2 or 3? Here's 2. Here's 3."), I am $422 poorer but I have new, dark, square glasses on order and new lenses being inserted into my old sunglasses frames. If the state wants to know why I didn't pay my speeding ticket on time, I can simply say, "Well, officer, I had to order new glasses. After all, it's illegal for me to drive without them." They don't need to know I can see
By the way, I asked the doctor, when he was shining the flashlight in my eyes, if he could see my brain, but he said no. Disappointed!
Homo shirt
The pride shirt I advertised on my blog a few days ago has found a home with one of my Michfest friends. Yay!
iPod
I want one. End of entry.
John Legend
I know I've mentioned it before, but I really dig his CD, Get Lifted. The slower songs are slowly growing on me. When I first started listening to the CD, I skipped them and just listened to the fun, dance-ier songs. But now I'm appreciating the artist's work as a whole. How noble of me.
Kids
My Republican neighbors have three or four or 15 kids. Or two kids with 35 friends. Whatever it is, they're all allowed to play outside in the space between our houses on the weekends and BOTHER CERTAIN CHILD-FREE PEOPLE with the whooping and hollering and yelling goodbye and whatever else they're doing. SHUT UP AND GO INSIDE ALREADY. Christ, where's an X-Box when you need one?
Lousy-smelling incense
I hate how an incense I like in the store turns into a cloud of perfume-y crap when I get home and it's the only kind I have left after blowing through my Nag Champa supply. So far my grocery list consists of wine and incense. Wow, who am *I* trying to seduce?
Bonus L: One of my favorite tracks from Suzanne Vega's newest release, Beauty and Crime, is Ludlow Street. The whole CD is fantastic, but I often back the CD up and listen to Track #2 again before moving on.
Mack Daddy Smooth
I'm not sure what sparked the following memory, but I was thinking about my childhood and about my younger brother last night and wrote the following. It was originally going to be filed under "T is for things that haunt me" as I was going to do this alphabetical thing last night.
We walked you to school one morning, the one that was down the hill from our house. It was a sunny day. I don’t think it was your first day of school. We dropped you off, Dad and I, and you went out to the play yard with the other kids. I don’t remember if you were crying when we took you inside the building, but you were sobbing by the time you were outside. All I remember is you standing at the fence, clinging to the chain links, sobbing hysterically as we walked away. I don't remember what you were saying, but I know you were pleading with us and the memory tears my heart open. Dad walked us away, towards home, and I looked back over my shoulder at you. I can see you so clearly in my mind, more than 25 years later. If I sit with the moment for longer than a few seconds, I can hear you sobbing and I am punched in the gut with guilt and the undeniable truth: we abandoned you. All I wanted to do was go back and get you and make you safe and happy. You screamed so loud that eventually Mom and Dad couldn’t take you to that preschool anymore. The teachers couldn't handle it. Or maybe they finally conceded to the emotional trauma you were going through.
I can't help but think there is a connection between that moment and your memories of being a foster child before being adopted by our folks. You had lived with your foster family since your birth. They, of course, loved you, and how could they not? My God, the dimples, the smile, your curls? Anyone would have wanted a baby just like you.
Mom and Dad brought you home to us right before you turned one and they said everything was fine until it was time to go to bed. Dad put you in your crib and you looked around, confused, and asked in this small voice, "Ma?" So simple a question with so profound an impact on your new family. Dad said we all gathered in our parents' bed, the four of us, and sobbed. I was three, you were one, and our parents, our parents were younger than I am today. I cannot fathom what it was like to be parents to a son who by one-year-old was on his third mother.
I know that you’re grown up and that you don’t remember these things happening. You’re almost 32 and, as far as I can tell, pretty well-adjusted. But me? At almost 34? I start crying as I write this because your pain was so intense that day at the preschool, your confusion your first night with us so profound, and I helped contribute to part of it. The preschool 'incident' must have happened 27 or 28 years ago and I can’t let it go and I don’t know why. Maybe because as you grew up, you were the little brother who defended me on the playground from kids who were making fun of me for being fat, something I only found out about recently. You were looking out for me and I knew none of it. I certainly didn't make things any easier by eating anything I could get my hands on and by befriending only kids who had money to buy me snacks. I vehemently denied it then when confronted by a girl I wouldn't play with but she was right. And you were there, small scrappy you, jumping in the face of anyone who dared make fun of me. We are bound together by a lifetime of experience and memories, good and bad, and with the knowledge that you were a savior during the beginning of a dark time, I feel my love for you intensify.
I cannot tell you how happy I am that we’ve become friends as we've grown into adults. I turn to you for advice. You were the person who pointed out, when I called myself a loser for not being interested in or especially talented at cooking, as you are, that my talent is writing and that you can barely type. It was so cut and dry when you said it. I'm the cook, you're the writer. No shame, no trauma, no pain. This is just how it is, okay? Come on, let's go watch the game.
Our relationship isn’t hokey or covered in flowers and I’m glad that I can be honest with you about everything. I think you should give Dad a call because Grandma isn’t doing so well and I think he’s sad and could use a phone call to cheer him up. And you say okay and I know that you will call and surprise Dad and it makes me feel good to know that you’re a good son and a great brother. U
Unfortunately, my love is spliced with the panic I feel for the well-being of those I love and I ask of all the deities I know Please don’t take my brother from me until we are both white-haired and creaking and telling stories about our respective childhoods. If he is taken before his time, I believe I will follow because I will not know how to live with the pain. But as soon as I say that, I rescind. My love is stronger than pain, so I take your face in my hands and I look into your eyes and I say You are my blood. Let no one tell you differently.
Numb
Some time ago, I lost feeling in my butt. How long have I been sitting here? Is this chair made of concrete?
O, P
I'll have to come back to these later. Can't think of anything right now.
Quilt
I would like to piece together a quilt using old t-shirts. I have one shirt ripped apart and need to go through my other shirts that I don't wear to see what I can come up with. I don't know how to make a quilt and I'm scared of sewing machines, but I've been wanting to make this quilt for some time, so I'll just have to team up with someone who likes and knows how to sew. You know, someone who understands that the sewing machine isn't alive and ISN'T about to angrily chew someone's fingers off.
R, S
Umm... ravioli... spaghetti...
Therapist
Things are working out. In another few -- or several -- sessions, we're going to do (?) EMDR therapy. I'm looking forward to it. It requires, however, a bond between therapist and client and a level of trust we haven't quite reached. Luckily, though, we're working towards that goal. Case in point: I almost hugged her goodbye on Wednesday instead of shaking her hand as I usually do. Progress.
U, V
I can't think of anything to put here besides "rays." Maybe tomorrow.
W, X, Y, Z
The creative flame, she has gone *poof*.
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