I broke up with the Manboy about three weeks ago, although he doesn't seem to have fully comprehended the news. He texts me to tell me his work is boring today, or to complain about how much reading he has to do. He keeps asking me to join him for dinner or lunch, or Easter Brunch at Eastern Standard. I would, mostly because my weekly grocery budget hovers around $14, but I am pretty much done listening to him talk about his fairly manageable life in overly dramatic terms. And interrupting me. And one-upping every. damn. thing.
I still can't tell you how we wound up dating for six months. This past year has become a miasma of awfulness in my mind. I met The Guy Who Calls Me Girlfriend (after a month of staggered dating) right around the time I was hospitalized for 8 days due to a majorly infected central port. I emerged from that with a PICC line and a visiting nurse and syringes of medication and total exhaustion. My immune system has been utter crap since.
Basically, I was tired, unable to work, automatically ill whenever I did work (kids are germy, you know), and Manboy decided he would take care of me.
I was too tired to beat him away.
Not a stellar start for a relationship, you say. "Yeah, I know. I'm still not sure what's going on," I would say, every time someone asked me about him.
Things got worse with his temper tantrums, his hypochondria, his constant and persistently terrible "advice" to get my life back together. And then came the suggestions for how I could dress sexier for him, lose more weight (while he gained weight), "get over" my depression. Apparently I was supposed to call him and text him to remind him to study for his classes. It was my fault he didn't do well on his exams. And if I tried to introduce a new restaurant, suggested going to the movie theater, suggested pretty much anything outside of his habitual comfort zone, I was admonished and punished with angry silence. I learned to stay quiet and let his constant outpouring of opinions and emotions sweep over me. I learned that all his moods and outbursts were temporary, and if I just hunkered down and became as still as possible, as small as possible, they would pass.
I didn't notice the slow accrual of a kind of emotional silt. I was constantly fearful of the next outburst or indirect attack. Things he said about my body and my capabilities swirled around my head for days, then months... but I believed them already, so it was easy to catalog them with my own self-hating mantras. I knew I had become both more indefinite and more weighed down and it was a horribly familiar state.
But I needed somewhere to be that wasn't my apartment. And I really liked his cat.
I grew used to having him in my life. His gestures became familiar, and it was nice to have someone to touch. I don't let people touch me, especially in my city life. My personal space is sacred. So when I give permission, that effort, that act is momentous and painful. Once I allow someone in I am far too worn out by the process to close him out again.
He loved me. He introduced me to his best friends, his mother, paraded me around his workplace and called me his Special Lady, his Darling.
But I knew part of me had gone dormant. Whatever he loved about me... well, it wasn't me in full bloom. He couldn't know me because I couldn't trust him enough to actually inhabit myself.
And I wasn't comfortable bringing him around my friends. At one point he told me that I need him because I clearly didn't have anyone else in my life. Although that sometimes felt true in my lower moments, I knew I could access people who cared about me and that I had purposely kept them separate.
I was ashamed, not of him, but of how I allowed him to control me.
I noticed, at some point, that part of me had fled. I was protecting and withholding something very dear. I was behaving like a prisoner who had given up hope of freedom. I had taken on the role of a victim. He never attacked me physically, and I kept telling myself (and he kept telling me) that my wariness was my depression taking over. But the ever-present shame and anxiety had grown overwhelming.
It took an incredible effort to end it. I invited him over and I could tell he knew it was coming. He unwrapped his scarf and took off his kermit-green hat and said, "I love those glasses on you. I'm going to make you wear them more." I brought him to the brightness of the kitchen and got us both a glass of water while he complained about his day. I sat and pretended to listen, trying to find an opening.
Eventually, his monologue tapered to a few ready phrases. He took a deep breath and my eyes were already welling up with tears.
"What is it?" he asked. He took my hand and rubbed my knuckles with his rough thumb. I couldn't look him in the eye. I was suddenly awash with the thought that I didn't want to hurt him. To hurt him.
But I had to. I pulled my hand away and found a tissue for myself, mostly fiddling with it.
"This... we're not..." I desperately needed a script. How could I be so useless at a time like this? The tears burned down my cheeks and pooled at my chin, and of course my nose started running. Gross.
"What? What are you trying to say?" His turquoise eyes burned into me as I wiped my nose and chin.
"I can't... This isn't..." I had worked myself up with fear, uncertain of his reaction. Would he jump up and yell? Throw something? Slam his chair against the wall? Would he go through the list of reasons I was mentally unfit to make decisions? Try to convince me of my own feebleness?
"This needs to end," I said, kind of warbling through the snot and tears.
"Yeah," he said, almost whispering. "I was wondering when..."
We sat there and I cried, ablaze with the shame of crying.
"You're gonna make me cry," he said, and his eyes did grow red and wet.
He stuttered through several unfinishable phrases about his lack of surprise and his sadness about losing me. He told me, again, that I was his Special Lady. He repeated over and over that we would still be friends.
I didn't respond, but I never did respond. He must have decided, as always, that no response was a form of permission.
Eventually he stood up and we hugged in the kitchen. He squeezed me extra hard, held me out at arms length and kissed my forehead before hugging me again. In the foyer he kissed my head again before awkwardly scrambling to put on his coat, locate his hat and scarf.
"I'll talk to you soon," he said as he opened the door. "I'll text you."
God, I need to learn how to say no again.
And I need to wash this silt out of my brain.
Showing posts with label lurve. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lurve. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Monday, July 28, 2014
Oh, manboys.
The manboy I'm trying not to love was sleeping with everyone. EVERYONE. I have been trying to salvage whatever was salvageable, discussing misunderstandings (apparently I wasn't clear about expecting him to reserve his body for me), attempting to spend time together, and it seemed to be going well. I tried to reach him yesterday, suggested hanging out, and lo, he was unavailable for hours. He tells me today, "Sorry about that. I was with someone."
"I'm thinking of giving up on you," I say.
"Honestly," he says, "I think you should. The more chances you give me, the shittier I feel about the whole thing."
The shittier HE feels. Hmm.
But, the timing... I had finally trusted him enough to talk about some Big Scary Things (psych history). I trusted him enough to talk about my family a bit (forced to, due to an impromptu trip to Rottenchester to see my brother who had drunkenly fallen into a fire pit and required surgery). I let him keep a toothbrush here. I let him keep deodorant here. I introduced him to friends and invited him to parties! Me! I did!
So, what now? Oh, right, obviously, stop talking to him forever.
But, what if the rest of your life is pukey (totally a word) and your friends are all distant and you have no steady income and your Dad is harassing you about abandoning the medical supports you have? What if you haven't left your apartment in three days and your symptoms are worsening and you're avoiding your roommates so you don't have to speak to other humans? What if you're getting a subcutaneous port surgically placed into your chest this week and already feel like you don't have much support, even a ride home from the hospital? What if you just need someone to hold, just for a minute... Just for a second...
Doesn't matter. Stop talking to him. Forever.
Or at least until he grows up. (Which could be Forever.)
"I'm thinking of giving up on you," I say.
"Honestly," he says, "I think you should. The more chances you give me, the shittier I feel about the whole thing."
The shittier HE feels. Hmm.
But, the timing... I had finally trusted him enough to talk about some Big Scary Things (psych history). I trusted him enough to talk about my family a bit (forced to, due to an impromptu trip to Rottenchester to see my brother who had drunkenly fallen into a fire pit and required surgery). I let him keep a toothbrush here. I let him keep deodorant here. I introduced him to friends and invited him to parties! Me! I did!
So, what now? Oh, right, obviously, stop talking to him forever.
But, what if the rest of your life is pukey (totally a word) and your friends are all distant and you have no steady income and your Dad is harassing you about abandoning the medical supports you have? What if you haven't left your apartment in three days and your symptoms are worsening and you're avoiding your roommates so you don't have to speak to other humans? What if you're getting a subcutaneous port surgically placed into your chest this week and already feel like you don't have much support, even a ride home from the hospital? What if you just need someone to hold, just for a minute... Just for a second...
Doesn't matter. Stop talking to him. Forever.
Or at least until he grows up. (Which could be Forever.)
Sunday, February 24, 2013
The crux
My grandmother passed away, finally*, at age 94 back in October. She died in her sleep. More importantly, she died dreaming of my grandfather (or rather in a haze of dementia) and repeatedly mentioned that he had asked her to marry him.
"What should I say?" she asked my father.
"For godssake, say yes, otherwise I won't exist," said my father. She laughed as though she got the joke, and she may have, because she was a sharp lady.
I love to think of her suspended in that giddy moment of young love, the moment just before her life settled into its track and took off barreling toward pregnancies and houses and addictions and celebrations. I see it as a conductor raising her arm for the downbeat, the gesture before the music, the instruction to draw bows and breath.
Yet, when my grandmother died, I had a sudden and explosive thought; I had been waiting for her to die before allowing myself to consider suicide. It was a simple rule, and it worked for years. While she was alive I could spare her needless pain and confusion. How would this woman, who only knew the kindest, most patient side of me, ever reconcile that image with the desperation of my truer self? Why force sobs from her? I assumed, too, that my father would very likely lie to her, and how could I make him do that. How cruel would I have to be to force him to make that decision?
And so she fell asleep, and so she never woke, and when that word popped into my head I had nothing handy to bat it away.
Suicide.
At first, the thought itself was so upsetting that the anxiety swept me into fits. Every moment of solitude or quiet brought on hyperventilation and tears.
Then I started really thinking about it; how I had drawn away from friends and I could recede even more, how I could sell my things, throw away papers. We already had a temp at work, which just proved (in my mind) that everyone is replaceable. I had already stopped enjoying the usual pastimes; reading, writing, singing, hanging out with friends, even eating. The world had become two dimensional, blank cardboard cut-outs of the actions of living. And so it was time.
Of course, I'm an asshole, and this is why.
My father hinted to it on the phone but I didn't believe him at the time. He was drunk. But then again, he had just lost his mother. I cut him a little slack, at least. He mumbled something about Grandma's will, and I decided to dismiss it. Then my mother mentioned something and credibility came into the picture. And then I went home to see my aching family and touch them to make sure they were solid and okay.
Mom and Dad were puttering downstairs, clearly waiting for me to get ready. I came downstairs to the two of them on either side of the kitchen counter, suddenly hushing themselves. My father had something in his hand, barely hidden.
"Johanna Mary... your grandmother loved you very much." He then went on to describe the many ways I was good to her; sending cards and letters, insisting on seeing her on my trips home, making sure my brothers remembered her at Christmas time and her birthday. And then he talked about his mother meeting his father, how dear they were to each other.
And then he showed me the ring, and told me Grandma wanted me to have it. She only mentioned four people in her will, and I was the only grandchild. She left her wedding band to Aunt Depresso, her pearls to Aunt Klondike (I think), and her engagement ring, a cushion-cut diamond flanked by the tiniest chips of diamond in an art deco setting, to me.
I cried. A lot. My parents hugged me. They couldn't know that every part of me wanted to reject the gift. If I had really been a good granddaughter, I felt, I would have called. I would have sent the card I bought for her last week and she would have loved it. I would have gotten my license and seen her on my own, and often. But then again, here was proof that she knew I loved her.
Four months later, my brother said the thing I needed to hear, and maybe couldn't absorb until this moment.
"Grandma didn't want you to be buried with that ring."
He also soliloquized about how special I am and how important I am and blah blah blah - nothing I could believe besides that one thing. I was given a ring in hope that I would have a piece of her, know she loved me, maybe someday find my own love. She could never have thought that I would kill myself mere months afterward and scramble to think of someone more worthy of the ring. She was clear in her gesture: I am worthy. Whether or not I believe it, I am worthy of her love and love from any direction.
I still don't believe it, but I do accept that she believed it. In her honor, I live.
*"Finally" sounds harsh, however, Grandma was fed up with birthdays and suffering daily shame from merely existing in a facility where she did not leave her room or cultivate friendships. Some of that is her own fault. I also find myself saying "finally" to continue convincing myself that death is quite final. It's a one-way street. Unless you're Wesley from The Princess Bride and you wind up "mostly dead," but I digress.
"What should I say?" she asked my father.
"For godssake, say yes, otherwise I won't exist," said my father. She laughed as though she got the joke, and she may have, because she was a sharp lady.
I love to think of her suspended in that giddy moment of young love, the moment just before her life settled into its track and took off barreling toward pregnancies and houses and addictions and celebrations. I see it as a conductor raising her arm for the downbeat, the gesture before the music, the instruction to draw bows and breath.
Yet, when my grandmother died, I had a sudden and explosive thought; I had been waiting for her to die before allowing myself to consider suicide. It was a simple rule, and it worked for years. While she was alive I could spare her needless pain and confusion. How would this woman, who only knew the kindest, most patient side of me, ever reconcile that image with the desperation of my truer self? Why force sobs from her? I assumed, too, that my father would very likely lie to her, and how could I make him do that. How cruel would I have to be to force him to make that decision?
And so she fell asleep, and so she never woke, and when that word popped into my head I had nothing handy to bat it away.
Suicide.
At first, the thought itself was so upsetting that the anxiety swept me into fits. Every moment of solitude or quiet brought on hyperventilation and tears.
Then I started really thinking about it; how I had drawn away from friends and I could recede even more, how I could sell my things, throw away papers. We already had a temp at work, which just proved (in my mind) that everyone is replaceable. I had already stopped enjoying the usual pastimes; reading, writing, singing, hanging out with friends, even eating. The world had become two dimensional, blank cardboard cut-outs of the actions of living. And so it was time.
Of course, I'm an asshole, and this is why.
My father hinted to it on the phone but I didn't believe him at the time. He was drunk. But then again, he had just lost his mother. I cut him a little slack, at least. He mumbled something about Grandma's will, and I decided to dismiss it. Then my mother mentioned something and credibility came into the picture. And then I went home to see my aching family and touch them to make sure they were solid and okay.
Mom and Dad were puttering downstairs, clearly waiting for me to get ready. I came downstairs to the two of them on either side of the kitchen counter, suddenly hushing themselves. My father had something in his hand, barely hidden.
"Johanna Mary... your grandmother loved you very much." He then went on to describe the many ways I was good to her; sending cards and letters, insisting on seeing her on my trips home, making sure my brothers remembered her at Christmas time and her birthday. And then he talked about his mother meeting his father, how dear they were to each other.
And then he showed me the ring, and told me Grandma wanted me to have it. She only mentioned four people in her will, and I was the only grandchild. She left her wedding band to Aunt Depresso, her pearls to Aunt Klondike (I think), and her engagement ring, a cushion-cut diamond flanked by the tiniest chips of diamond in an art deco setting, to me.
I cried. A lot. My parents hugged me. They couldn't know that every part of me wanted to reject the gift. If I had really been a good granddaughter, I felt, I would have called. I would have sent the card I bought for her last week and she would have loved it. I would have gotten my license and seen her on my own, and often. But then again, here was proof that she knew I loved her.
Four months later, my brother said the thing I needed to hear, and maybe couldn't absorb until this moment.
"Grandma didn't want you to be buried with that ring."
He also soliloquized about how special I am and how important I am and blah blah blah - nothing I could believe besides that one thing. I was given a ring in hope that I would have a piece of her, know she loved me, maybe someday find my own love. She could never have thought that I would kill myself mere months afterward and scramble to think of someone more worthy of the ring. She was clear in her gesture: I am worthy. Whether or not I believe it, I am worthy of her love and love from any direction.
I still don't believe it, but I do accept that she believed it. In her honor, I live.
*"Finally" sounds harsh, however, Grandma was fed up with birthdays and suffering daily shame from merely existing in a facility where she did not leave her room or cultivate friendships. Some of that is her own fault. I also find myself saying "finally" to continue convincing myself that death is quite final. It's a one-way street. Unless you're Wesley from The Princess Bride and you wind up "mostly dead," but I digress.
Monday, October 15, 2012
And now, for your further amusement...
Let me say, in all honesty, that I would feel a twinge of regret if my dear friend Spen ever knew that I wrote about her asking me to tell about my dating failures for the amusement of others in anything less than a jaunty tone. But, as with most of my tales, there is a darker side, a chiaroscuro that makes the light points that much more noticeable and visceral.
...right?
And actually, there's some therapy in the telling of my own sad tales. I truly hope someone laughs at them more than I am able to.
I will allow Spen's words from last night introduce tonight's account. We were circled around ice cream cones (topical, you will come to find) by a bench in Coolidge Corner, visiting with Wellesley girls I don't know so well but whose company I enjoy. I tell Spen that I had another mediocre date just across the street at the Regal Beagle. She begs for details, gets them, then opens the field a bit wider:
"Tell them about the stinky guy!"
'Twas the dog days of summer, when a girl hesitates to make a date on a school night because it's a wee bit hot on the subway and she doesn't want to look as disheveled and not-so-fresh as she feels. She makes the date anyway. Besides, the soon-to-be-christened Revere Beach date has been kind and patient and very persistent. Might as well meet the guy.
So off I go to Revere Beach, wondering where in hell we're supposed to meet. This is a recurring nightmare in online dating. Do you meet in the station? On the platform? Outside the turnstyles? Near a landmark? At the destination for coffee/drinks/etc? Leaning against a grecian urn with the last, rosy rays of waning sunlight glinting in your hair?
For lack of grecian urns, and for the sake of being as close to the beach for as long as possible, I chose the boardwalk; in particular, a sweet little bench by some rose bushes. I waited.
Text from dude: I'm almost there! (Bizarre posed picture of self in subway attached)
Text from JoBiv: Cool. I'm by the beach.
Silence...
The phone rings. I hate the phone. I answer it because normal people answer phones and one should protect one's image of normalcy for as long as possible when one is meeting new people.
He's at Wonderland. He thought Wonderland and Revere Beach were the same thing. An odd thought, given that there's a T stop called Revere Beach, which... I don't even have to go into this, do I?
He gets on a train, travels one stop. Meanwhile, I look over the water and watch the full moon, wonder why I can never take a decent picture of it, how it never looks as big as it feels in my eye.
The man arrives, suddenly, from around the bandstand. The man looks mostly as pictured, and smiles as he evaluates me in a similar manner with a dissimilar conclusion. The man wants to exchange hugs. The breeze whips up and delivers a scent to my nose which results in a quick handshake and How-do-you-do.
The scent, I decide while in the ice cream shop, enclosed with it and forced to order ice cream as though having an appetite, is that of a hobo who not only urinates on himself, but over time comes to dry out his pants just to soak them a second, third and perhaps a fourth time. I find some distraction in the man's breath, which reminds me of a grease trap I once met at the bottom of the sanitizer at Starbucks. (Let us simply say, things could not possibly emerge sanitized with whatever was living in that trap.) I stop myself from warning the girl at the cash register. I stop myself from paying to curtail the horrible search for crumpled dollar bills from his various pockets and crevices. I stop myself, again, from interfering on behalf of the poor teenager who must handle the money. (I scold myself in silent anguish for weeks afterward, regretting my lack of action.)
I am enthusiastic about ice cream if only to distract myself from the scent of this man. I also think, maybe his slushie will wash out the sewage in his mouth. I think, perhaps this guy has some medical issue that affects his nostrils and he simply doesn't know that he smells. Maybe he did the Smell Test, and having been smacked on the head by an anvil at a tender age, did not register the foulness that emanate from his clothes. How sad. For me.
There was some air of martyrdom about me, I believe, as I sat and made small talk with this sweating, heaving, reeking man. I thought, "he's probably a good guy who doesn't get out much. He's intelligent enough, just socially awkward."
Then he said, "I think this is going really well. How do you think it's going? Do you like me?"
Hint to all mankind, for free from me to you: never ask these questions on a date, unless... nope. NEVER ASK THESE QUESTIONS ON A DATE.
And if you get this answer, "Oh, I kind of take my time to decide these things..." do not attempt to parse out the exact meaning of the response. MOVE ON. Or, wiser still, end the date.
All of the above admitted for evidence, you should know that Stinky Dude was sort of loveable in an orphaned kind of way. If I had met him with a plate of glass between us, I would have entertained his comments a while longer.
Wait, I had done that. The plate of glass was my monitor. Hmm.
So, no more making of excuses, I realized as another powerful waft of peepee made it's way into my lungs. I had to end the date.
JoBiv: Yeeeeeaawwwn. I'm so tired... Time to get myself back to my home.
Stinky Dude: I must be boring you to death.
JoBiv: ...
Stinky Dude: Okay, well let's get ourselves to the train. Do you know how to get there?
JoBiv: You... came from there... didn't you?
Stinky Dude: Yeah, kinda.
JoBiv: Whuh?? Okay, whatever, it's this way.
Stinky Dude: Oh, I guess we're both going Inbound.
JoBiv: (Internally: MOTHEREFFER) We are?
Stinky Dude: Looks like you'll have to put up with me for a little while longer...
JoBiv: (Nervous laughter) Looks like it.
We board the train, which comes a little late just to taunt me, but then again there's more free air movement on the platform and I'm not relishing the idea of being stuck inside a closed space with this man. Once we do board the train, it does, in fact, remind me of working as a camp counselor and having to help a kid who lost his watch in the port-o-potty during the sleepover night. Less of the earthy scent of nature, though, and there was far better lighting on the train. I would have taken the flashlight and the latrine over the subway car, all things considered.
Stinky Dude: (Patting the seat beside him) Why dontcha take a seat?
JoBiv: (Looking for Ashton Kusher and his army of cameramen) Um... I'd rather stand.
Stinky Dude: Naw, you're wearing a leg brace, for christ's sake.
JoBiv: I'm much more stable with the brace on, actually.
Stinky Dude: C'mon, sit next to me.
JoBiv: Not gonna do it.
Stinky Dude: Why not?
JoBiv: Because... I'm stubborn... and don't like being told what to do.
Let it be said that I did not lie to this man, but did I do him a disservice by protecting him from the truth? How do you tell a guy, "You're only marginally attractive, and the aroma of an adult diaper isn't helping your game." A leaky diaper. A leaky diaper that someone else peed in before the current wearer pulled it on. A leaky diaper cured in a brine of... Okay, I'll stop.
The end of this story is swift and neat. I got off the train. I never had the guts to tell the dude he smelled. There were simply too many things to point out besides the smell, I told myself, that listing them would be cruel. Let his close friends (assuming he had some) give him the straight talk. I am not in the business of making over divorcees in leaky diapers, and there's only so far that whole Pygmalion thing will take you, really.
I told a shorter version of this tale, along with snippets of others. There are others, of course, and many of them are nearly as pathetic. I think Stinky Dude takes the effing cake, however. But, after the general murmur and laughter died down, one of the Wellesley girls looked at me thoughtfully.
Blonde R: Oh, it just occurred to me that since you're going on dates, you're not dating Sir Knight anymore...
JoBiv: (On the spot in front of strangers, hooray) Yeah, I gave him a list of the ways he didn't love me and he kinda agreed and that was that.
Blonde R: Oh. I'm sorry JoBiv.
JoBiv: Thanks, Blonde R. I think it's mostly a good thing. And after all, he was kind of a whiny bitch.
Blonde R: I thought maybe he just wasn't comfortable around your friends.
JoBiv: Maybe that too, but really... he was a whiny-ass bitch.
Blonde R: Well good riddance, then? You're better off without him, right?
Spen: You're more JoBivvy without him, that's for sure.
JoBiv: Thanks...?
Spen: It's a compliment.
JoBiv: I had hoped so.
Perhaps I am more JoBivvy this way, on my own and making people laugh at the daily incidents that churn my stomach and bring tears of frustration. It's far more JoBivvy to switch trains and find a corner seat where I can hide and hold myself and try not to cry, missing some life I keep trying to have. It's very JoBivvy to walk the few blocks home... I'm sorry, limp the few blocks home... full of self-pity and bubbling with tears and gazing at a huge moon that I can never capture in a photograph. This is the shading around all things that brings the glint of light into greater focus.
...right?
And actually, there's some therapy in the telling of my own sad tales. I truly hope someone laughs at them more than I am able to.
I will allow Spen's words from last night introduce tonight's account. We were circled around ice cream cones (topical, you will come to find) by a bench in Coolidge Corner, visiting with Wellesley girls I don't know so well but whose company I enjoy. I tell Spen that I had another mediocre date just across the street at the Regal Beagle. She begs for details, gets them, then opens the field a bit wider:
"Tell them about the stinky guy!"
'Twas the dog days of summer, when a girl hesitates to make a date on a school night because it's a wee bit hot on the subway and she doesn't want to look as disheveled and not-so-fresh as she feels. She makes the date anyway. Besides, the soon-to-be-christened Revere Beach date has been kind and patient and very persistent. Might as well meet the guy.
So off I go to Revere Beach, wondering where in hell we're supposed to meet. This is a recurring nightmare in online dating. Do you meet in the station? On the platform? Outside the turnstyles? Near a landmark? At the destination for coffee/drinks/etc? Leaning against a grecian urn with the last, rosy rays of waning sunlight glinting in your hair?
For lack of grecian urns, and for the sake of being as close to the beach for as long as possible, I chose the boardwalk; in particular, a sweet little bench by some rose bushes. I waited.
Text from dude: I'm almost there! (Bizarre posed picture of self in subway attached)
Text from JoBiv: Cool. I'm by the beach.
Silence...
The phone rings. I hate the phone. I answer it because normal people answer phones and one should protect one's image of normalcy for as long as possible when one is meeting new people.
He's at Wonderland. He thought Wonderland and Revere Beach were the same thing. An odd thought, given that there's a T stop called Revere Beach, which... I don't even have to go into this, do I?
He gets on a train, travels one stop. Meanwhile, I look over the water and watch the full moon, wonder why I can never take a decent picture of it, how it never looks as big as it feels in my eye.
The man arrives, suddenly, from around the bandstand. The man looks mostly as pictured, and smiles as he evaluates me in a similar manner with a dissimilar conclusion. The man wants to exchange hugs. The breeze whips up and delivers a scent to my nose which results in a quick handshake and How-do-you-do.
The scent, I decide while in the ice cream shop, enclosed with it and forced to order ice cream as though having an appetite, is that of a hobo who not only urinates on himself, but over time comes to dry out his pants just to soak them a second, third and perhaps a fourth time. I find some distraction in the man's breath, which reminds me of a grease trap I once met at the bottom of the sanitizer at Starbucks. (Let us simply say, things could not possibly emerge sanitized with whatever was living in that trap.) I stop myself from warning the girl at the cash register. I stop myself from paying to curtail the horrible search for crumpled dollar bills from his various pockets and crevices. I stop myself, again, from interfering on behalf of the poor teenager who must handle the money. (I scold myself in silent anguish for weeks afterward, regretting my lack of action.)
I am enthusiastic about ice cream if only to distract myself from the scent of this man. I also think, maybe his slushie will wash out the sewage in his mouth. I think, perhaps this guy has some medical issue that affects his nostrils and he simply doesn't know that he smells. Maybe he did the Smell Test, and having been smacked on the head by an anvil at a tender age, did not register the foulness that emanate from his clothes. How sad. For me.
There was some air of martyrdom about me, I believe, as I sat and made small talk with this sweating, heaving, reeking man. I thought, "he's probably a good guy who doesn't get out much. He's intelligent enough, just socially awkward."
Then he said, "I think this is going really well. How do you think it's going? Do you like me?"
Hint to all mankind, for free from me to you: never ask these questions on a date, unless... nope. NEVER ASK THESE QUESTIONS ON A DATE.
And if you get this answer, "Oh, I kind of take my time to decide these things..." do not attempt to parse out the exact meaning of the response. MOVE ON. Or, wiser still, end the date.
All of the above admitted for evidence, you should know that Stinky Dude was sort of loveable in an orphaned kind of way. If I had met him with a plate of glass between us, I would have entertained his comments a while longer.
Wait, I had done that. The plate of glass was my monitor. Hmm.
So, no more making of excuses, I realized as another powerful waft of peepee made it's way into my lungs. I had to end the date.
JoBiv: Yeeeeeaawwwn. I'm so tired... Time to get myself back to my home.
Stinky Dude: I must be boring you to death.
JoBiv: ...
Stinky Dude: Okay, well let's get ourselves to the train. Do you know how to get there?
JoBiv: You... came from there... didn't you?
Stinky Dude: Yeah, kinda.
JoBiv: Whuh?? Okay, whatever, it's this way.
Stinky Dude: Oh, I guess we're both going Inbound.
JoBiv: (Internally: MOTHEREFFER) We are?
Stinky Dude: Looks like you'll have to put up with me for a little while longer...
JoBiv: (Nervous laughter) Looks like it.
We board the train, which comes a little late just to taunt me, but then again there's more free air movement on the platform and I'm not relishing the idea of being stuck inside a closed space with this man. Once we do board the train, it does, in fact, remind me of working as a camp counselor and having to help a kid who lost his watch in the port-o-potty during the sleepover night. Less of the earthy scent of nature, though, and there was far better lighting on the train. I would have taken the flashlight and the latrine over the subway car, all things considered.
Stinky Dude: (Patting the seat beside him) Why dontcha take a seat?
JoBiv: (Looking for Ashton Kusher and his army of cameramen) Um... I'd rather stand.
Stinky Dude: Naw, you're wearing a leg brace, for christ's sake.
JoBiv: I'm much more stable with the brace on, actually.
Stinky Dude: C'mon, sit next to me.
JoBiv: Not gonna do it.
Stinky Dude: Why not?
JoBiv: Because... I'm stubborn... and don't like being told what to do.
Let it be said that I did not lie to this man, but did I do him a disservice by protecting him from the truth? How do you tell a guy, "You're only marginally attractive, and the aroma of an adult diaper isn't helping your game." A leaky diaper. A leaky diaper that someone else peed in before the current wearer pulled it on. A leaky diaper cured in a brine of... Okay, I'll stop.
The end of this story is swift and neat. I got off the train. I never had the guts to tell the dude he smelled. There were simply too many things to point out besides the smell, I told myself, that listing them would be cruel. Let his close friends (assuming he had some) give him the straight talk. I am not in the business of making over divorcees in leaky diapers, and there's only so far that whole Pygmalion thing will take you, really.
I told a shorter version of this tale, along with snippets of others. There are others, of course, and many of them are nearly as pathetic. I think Stinky Dude takes the effing cake, however. But, after the general murmur and laughter died down, one of the Wellesley girls looked at me thoughtfully.
Blonde R: Oh, it just occurred to me that since you're going on dates, you're not dating Sir Knight anymore...
JoBiv: (On the spot in front of strangers, hooray) Yeah, I gave him a list of the ways he didn't love me and he kinda agreed and that was that.
Blonde R: Oh. I'm sorry JoBiv.
JoBiv: Thanks, Blonde R. I think it's mostly a good thing. And after all, he was kind of a whiny bitch.
Blonde R: I thought maybe he just wasn't comfortable around your friends.
JoBiv: Maybe that too, but really... he was a whiny-ass bitch.
Blonde R: Well good riddance, then? You're better off without him, right?
Spen: You're more JoBivvy without him, that's for sure.
JoBiv: Thanks...?
Spen: It's a compliment.
JoBiv: I had hoped so.
Perhaps I am more JoBivvy this way, on my own and making people laugh at the daily incidents that churn my stomach and bring tears of frustration. It's far more JoBivvy to switch trains and find a corner seat where I can hide and hold myself and try not to cry, missing some life I keep trying to have. It's very JoBivvy to walk the few blocks home... I'm sorry, limp the few blocks home... full of self-pity and bubbling with tears and gazing at a huge moon that I can never capture in a photograph. This is the shading around all things that brings the glint of light into greater focus.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Self-imposed grounding and other meaningless gestures
I could easily force a causality between my mental health and the bedraggled state of my bedroom. There is some truth to that, realistically, but the topic exhausts itself rather quickly.
It should be simple enough to say that my bedroom is a mess, but why not indulge in detail? There are more books and sheet music than there are shelves to store them. I have three different laundry hampers (for three kinds of laundry: bedding, towels and clothes) and they are all full, and I have a collection of boxes full of mail I'm afraid to open alongside wedding gifts and baby gifts and Just-thinking-of-you gifts that I may never send. Filling in the cracks, there are sewing boxes, CD's, an old laptop that holds an archive of writing that may or may not be inaccessible, and somewhere in the morass a broken thumb drive that acted as the back-up for that archive. As long as we're in the catalog of things I cannot throw away but should, there is also one Pooh Bear, one stuffed monkey, a small, red, generic stuffed monster, a collection of single earrings, various failed hairstyling products, and a very beat up 10 CD boom box that usually functions, but does not read burned discs. It's that old.
If my building were to catch on fire and I were forced to choose what to save, I would probably grab my bras (hey, they're expensive), my wallet, and not much else.
Knowing this, I thought it would be simple to clean my room. I told myself, "you were too busy before, spending all your time with Sir Knight, and couldn't keep up with the normal flow of things." And then it went something like, "You were too heartbroken over Sir Knight to move, so clearly the effort of cleaning was beyond you." And then, "It's beautiful outside. How could you waste this day in your bedroom?" And also, "You keep the shared spaces very clean, so it's okay if you live in a pool of your own cess."
Mostly I look around the room and think, "none of this is important. Or maybe all of it is important. In this state of mind, I should not be allowed to make decisions."
Then the first relief of a fall breeze whipped through the room. I was reminded of the ol' back to school hustle, when I would clean my room after the summer vacation, or unpack my dorm room, or move to yet another apartment. I've been here for at least six years, although I'm honestly fuzzy about the dates. That's six Augusts of not packing, not gleaning, not moving. True, my mother cleaned and rearranged my room when I had back surgery, but that hardly counts.
So this weekend I had enough of my brattiness and grounded myself to my room until I cleaned it, young lady!
I report that any visitor who might happen by my room would at least feel there was a floor to walk on, and that I could access my bed without hurting myself or others. The space is filled with clean laundry and thus the scent has improved. Art stuff has been stowed in the closet shelves and there are whole square inches of uncluttered territory on the top of my dresser.
I'm a little bit pleased. Another part of me wants to haul everything out and burn it, leave nothing but a mattress and a lamp and a suitcase of clothes. What is the point of things? Why have fancy dresses and high heels and make-up? For what party? Why save books I enjoyed but will never read again? Why keep books I will never read in the first place? Why have three black sweaters of varying shape and warmth? Why have winter socks? Why save the photo album of friends who are either dead or estranged? Why have nail polish? Why can I not throw away old calendars, paychecks, christmas cards, birthday gifts that never suited me? Why why why surround myself in battlements of mediocrity and past lives. Why force myself to feel heartbreak over and over as I come across another letter, a snip of ribbon, a half-empty journal, a mix tape, a broken watch...
Forget it. Put in some Sam Cooke and fold laundry and don't you dare think. Don't think.
It should be simple enough to say that my bedroom is a mess, but why not indulge in detail? There are more books and sheet music than there are shelves to store them. I have three different laundry hampers (for three kinds of laundry: bedding, towels and clothes) and they are all full, and I have a collection of boxes full of mail I'm afraid to open alongside wedding gifts and baby gifts and Just-thinking-of-you gifts that I may never send. Filling in the cracks, there are sewing boxes, CD's, an old laptop that holds an archive of writing that may or may not be inaccessible, and somewhere in the morass a broken thumb drive that acted as the back-up for that archive. As long as we're in the catalog of things I cannot throw away but should, there is also one Pooh Bear, one stuffed monkey, a small, red, generic stuffed monster, a collection of single earrings, various failed hairstyling products, and a very beat up 10 CD boom box that usually functions, but does not read burned discs. It's that old.
If my building were to catch on fire and I were forced to choose what to save, I would probably grab my bras (hey, they're expensive), my wallet, and not much else.
Knowing this, I thought it would be simple to clean my room. I told myself, "you were too busy before, spending all your time with Sir Knight, and couldn't keep up with the normal flow of things." And then it went something like, "You were too heartbroken over Sir Knight to move, so clearly the effort of cleaning was beyond you." And then, "It's beautiful outside. How could you waste this day in your bedroom?" And also, "You keep the shared spaces very clean, so it's okay if you live in a pool of your own cess."
Mostly I look around the room and think, "none of this is important. Or maybe all of it is important. In this state of mind, I should not be allowed to make decisions."
Then the first relief of a fall breeze whipped through the room. I was reminded of the ol' back to school hustle, when I would clean my room after the summer vacation, or unpack my dorm room, or move to yet another apartment. I've been here for at least six years, although I'm honestly fuzzy about the dates. That's six Augusts of not packing, not gleaning, not moving. True, my mother cleaned and rearranged my room when I had back surgery, but that hardly counts.
So this weekend I had enough of my brattiness and grounded myself to my room until I cleaned it, young lady!
I report that any visitor who might happen by my room would at least feel there was a floor to walk on, and that I could access my bed without hurting myself or others. The space is filled with clean laundry and thus the scent has improved. Art stuff has been stowed in the closet shelves and there are whole square inches of uncluttered territory on the top of my dresser.
I'm a little bit pleased. Another part of me wants to haul everything out and burn it, leave nothing but a mattress and a lamp and a suitcase of clothes. What is the point of things? Why have fancy dresses and high heels and make-up? For what party? Why save books I enjoyed but will never read again? Why keep books I will never read in the first place? Why have three black sweaters of varying shape and warmth? Why have winter socks? Why save the photo album of friends who are either dead or estranged? Why have nail polish? Why can I not throw away old calendars, paychecks, christmas cards, birthday gifts that never suited me? Why why why surround myself in battlements of mediocrity and past lives. Why force myself to feel heartbreak over and over as I come across another letter, a snip of ribbon, a half-empty journal, a mix tape, a broken watch...
Forget it. Put in some Sam Cooke and fold laundry and don't you dare think. Don't think.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
The cheese stands alone. Again.
Still? Here's what getting dumped means:
I know I didn't invent loneliness, but this feels quite private and permanent.
How am I different from that girl who first came to Boston to expand herself and stuff lovely things into her brain? Well, no one could have guessed... that's not true, my mother guessed and guessed correctly... that I'd succumb over and over again to sadness. I am, at my very core, diseased with a sadness. My bones are steeped in it and they ache with the extra weight, they hide with the shame of the tint of it.
So I leave this room... I see people... I try to keep my ears open. I try to keep my eyes open. I try to notice birds and leaves and all the tiny living things that want to be on this planet that spins so fiercely without us feeling it.
It was only a matter of time before he figured it out, how doggedly I haunt myself with my own ghosts. How at first it seems like I come from a different planet, I'm a brain you've never encountered and full of strange and quirky beauties, and then eventually he sees that each of my gestures are limited by a kind of lack of vocabulary. I repeat and repeat and fold in and knead and good lord it all ends again.
I imagine how light he must feel, although I know there's sorrow, too. I think of it as the feeling of finally allowing yourself to throw away that broken pot that someone gave you. You should keep it; it was a gift. But you never really loved it especially. The guilt of having to explain why it couldn't sit in its usual spot anymore... it seemed like nothing could reverse that... until one day, you simply decide, and the pot is a pile of shards in the dumpster. Relief, to not have to look at it and feel guilty for hating it. Not even hating! To feel guilty for having no feelings for it, and yet not being able to give it up. And now, to not think of it again, to even think, "I should have done that a long time ago."
I know I didn't invent loneliness, but this feels quite private and permanent.
How am I different from that girl who first came to Boston to expand herself and stuff lovely things into her brain? Well, no one could have guessed... that's not true, my mother guessed and guessed correctly... that I'd succumb over and over again to sadness. I am, at my very core, diseased with a sadness. My bones are steeped in it and they ache with the extra weight, they hide with the shame of the tint of it.
So I leave this room... I see people... I try to keep my ears open. I try to keep my eyes open. I try to notice birds and leaves and all the tiny living things that want to be on this planet that spins so fiercely without us feeling it.
It was only a matter of time before he figured it out, how doggedly I haunt myself with my own ghosts. How at first it seems like I come from a different planet, I'm a brain you've never encountered and full of strange and quirky beauties, and then eventually he sees that each of my gestures are limited by a kind of lack of vocabulary. I repeat and repeat and fold in and knead and good lord it all ends again.
I imagine how light he must feel, although I know there's sorrow, too. I think of it as the feeling of finally allowing yourself to throw away that broken pot that someone gave you. You should keep it; it was a gift. But you never really loved it especially. The guilt of having to explain why it couldn't sit in its usual spot anymore... it seemed like nothing could reverse that... until one day, you simply decide, and the pot is a pile of shards in the dumpster. Relief, to not have to look at it and feel guilty for hating it. Not even hating! To feel guilty for having no feelings for it, and yet not being able to give it up. And now, to not think of it again, to even think, "I should have done that a long time ago."
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Joie de Jo?
English Jo is having a baby, a little nerdy baby with surely extraordinary musical abilities and terrible eyesight and a penchant for Americanisms with a London accent. This is such a good thing.
And yet with other friends of mine, the moment they become parents I tend to clam up and disappear. We all know I like kiddos; in fact, I usually prefer them to the bitter, non-curious, shut-off adults I run into much more frequently. I like watching a baby see things and hear things and touch things for the first time, because I want to remember that the world is always new to someone and there are good things in it.
But, there's also a part of me that feels I will never be a mother, never create a stable little nuclear family with a steady life mate and a mortgage and milk money on the table. I will sustain myself, not out of self-preservation so much as a keen sense of how much I would hurt others if I let myself fade. I will not be so irresponsible as to let someone love me, or create life with that person, or raise a child in such close vicinity to this omnipresent aura of poison that either follows me or is me. And so watching my friends creating their families, my brothers even, feels a little like a sick voyeurism and only makes me long for something I must not allow myself to have.
Turns out, however, that I still haven't learned one of the simplest and most repetitive lessons in life; I cannot control the feelings and thoughts of others. Influence, yes. Control... not even a little. Hell, most of my battles stem from my need and failures to control myself!
So a man grows attached to me. He doesn't know the depths of the shitstorm I carry around in my head, but he also doesn't mind that I'm dealing with one. He laughs with me and at me and worries when I have some small thing he can carry. He talks about "what we'll do for the holidays" in July... "When we move in together..." Not if. When. "We will have to figure that out," he says, like a man buying a slanting, leaky house with every penny he has in the world, simply determined to make it shine. And he has me thinking...
And yet with other friends of mine, the moment they become parents I tend to clam up and disappear. We all know I like kiddos; in fact, I usually prefer them to the bitter, non-curious, shut-off adults I run into much more frequently. I like watching a baby see things and hear things and touch things for the first time, because I want to remember that the world is always new to someone and there are good things in it.
 | |
| When L. Bloom was new |
Turns out, however, that I still haven't learned one of the simplest and most repetitive lessons in life; I cannot control the feelings and thoughts of others. Influence, yes. Control... not even a little. Hell, most of my battles stem from my need and failures to control myself!
So a man grows attached to me. He doesn't know the depths of the shitstorm I carry around in my head, but he also doesn't mind that I'm dealing with one. He laughs with me and at me and worries when I have some small thing he can carry. He talks about "what we'll do for the holidays" in July... "When we move in together..." Not if. When. "We will have to figure that out," he says, like a man buying a slanting, leaky house with every penny he has in the world, simply determined to make it shine. And he has me thinking...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
a baleful bachelorette
Galloping toward me with terrifying velocity, here comes my ten-year high school reunion. Put aside the usual stressors of the holidays and think of the horror of facing high school all over again. I wasn’t so good at it the first time.
I freely acknowledge that I’m not actually going back to high school. It’s not like the movies – we’re not queuing up outside the gym in nice suits and shoulder-padded dresses, playing grown-up in the nursery. The class president (who’s actually not a douche, thank goodness) organized some space at a bar big enough to accommodate a crowd.
Not sure who will show up, but I know I won’t remember names or details. We will ask each other, “So what are you doing these days?” and, “How’s life in
It’s occurred to me that I should have a sentence prepared that I can repeat on command; something simple and only slightly artful where facts are smudged. I need something translucent but not transparent. No one need know how much I’ve struggled over the last ten years, right?
My parents, who were in town this weekend for a chorus concert, bless’m, reminded me that my view of my own life is a bit exclusive these days. My mother reminded me of grad school, travels abroad, publishing, non-profits,
Here’s the fascinating thing, however: my mother kept bringing up my single status. She said that I could tell them I was “in love, and now looking again,” to appease them. I know that a ton of people from my class are married or attached, but it never occurred to me to be uncomfortable as a bachelorette. She mentioned it enough to make me realize how preoccupied she is with my marriage prospects, or total lack thereof. This must be one of the things she worries about when she frets away with thoughts of me. To her, I must be lonely.
So I present to you yet another dimension of parent-induced insanity. While they’re here they not only convince me that I’m unstable, unable to support myself, sickly and pitiful, but now I’m also incredibly lonely – adrift in the world without a captain to steer me right.
Yes, I know that’s ridiculous. I know I should have some rallying anger against the very thought. I should dig up thoughts of all my excellent friends, tepid dates, excellent daily flirtings; all the things that show my own agency in creating connections in this city. Alas, there’s something tempting in my post-parental-visit emotional hangover that pushes me toward self-pity. I am alone. I am lonely. I am unloved… even (gasp!) ten years after High School. I am a hopeless case.
So this is the feeling that propels tv heroines to take a stranger to a party and pretend he’s the fiancée. Silly.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Nuggets
On the summer days or presidents’ week vacation, I’d follow my mother around the house, curious about what she did on a normal day. With the boys somewhat self-sufficient and me always more responsible than they were, she took on the onus of our stuffed house, her parents, and my father. We mostly took up emotional energy, I realize now, and actively undid all her work on the house without realizing it.
We always joked about my mother leaving glasses of water all over the house. In her bustling she’d realize she was thirsty, forget she’d already filled and left a glass of water around the kitchen, and bring the next cup of water with her wherever she was headed. She’d get busy or called away by her obnoxious kids, and later that evening we’d have to collect her water glasses when we ran the dishwasher. More often than not, one of the glasses would end up spilled before the day was over. Thus they were christened, “water bombs.”
I suppose in a house of six people the logic goes thisaway: Look, there’s a glass of water; I wonder if it’s mine. It can’t possibly be mine, there are five other people, plus guests, roaming this house right now. At least three of them have hacking colds, too. If I move it, one of the kids will yell about me throwing out his glass of water. I will leave it.
So when some skinny elbow or flailing overexcited hand brushed one off a shelf, or the hearth, or the washing machine, or the end table… the permutations are endless. We all did it, and we all smiled patiently, laughed together, and screamed out, “Water Bomb!” My mother rolled her eyes, surely thinking they couldn’t all be her glasses of water, and handed us the paper towels.
Just as a game, though, when I was following my mother around on those rainy vacation days, I’d count myself lucky if I found her morning tea. It was never anywhere near the kitchen. I figured out it was closest to the location of the first errand of the day, left cold and lonely in a linen closet, the basement, the shelf above the recycling in the garage, next to the stack of library books that needed to go back. I’d find it and rejoice privately, the real thing after ten false-gold nuggets in the form of water bombs. And before I’d wander back to the kitchen with it, or offer it to her wherever she was, I’d take a sip.
Black tea, English breakfast or the equivalent, not enough sugar for me, a lot of skim milk, stone cold. Maybe this explains why I can never drink mine hot.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
and dreams
Lately it’s every time I go through
He has brown eyes, big bear build, colorful, detailed tattoos sleeving strong arms. His head is shaved shiny. He wears brown and jeans and has a wallet chain. When he sings into his mic, his voice surprises me with its flannel softness.
In my work I don’t waste time with shyness, or coyness for that matter. The café is a stage and I act my ass off. The day flies by in a series of vignettes – this customer likes to be courted with sweet how-was-your-weekends and how-is-your-handsome-sons, the other one likes to be teased, told we’re out of his favorite things, made to pout before delivering his order exactly as he likes it. Old Man T comes in for his bagel, toasted darkly, one butter, small coffee, and sings vaudeville tunes to me as I hustle for him, trying to smile in appreciation when I can.
It’s funny that Park Street Guitar Guy leaves me tongue-tied. Musicians in general, performers in general, leave me tongue-tied. Perhaps it’s my own discomfort as a performer – it’s nice to be told someone enjoyed your performance, but also unmanageable. You say, “Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” and try to sound sincere, but really you know all the little things you missed and mangled and want to tell everyone how unworthy of praise you feel at the moment. And so what do you say to an artist you admire?
As I lean on the fourth metal column, past the second fan, across from the big subway map, I think of how to talk to him.
“My timing’s off. I always miss your music now…”
What would he say to that? Sounds like the start of an awkward conversation. And even though we make eye contact fairly often, I don’t know if he remembers seeing me. If he does remember seeing me, perhaps he won’t like the familiarity. Who needs a stalker?
“So, do you make any real money?” Hmm, seems rude. As does, “Do you play anywhere… else? Like, real gigs?” How could I put that better? “Nice elbows.” Thinking that, I laugh to myself. He looks up and I hide behind the column for a minute.
Well, I console myself, he could be a douche. He does play a lot of Dave Matthews, after all. He’s probably like all the pseudo-hippie frat boys I’ve learned to avoid, trying to get laid with a little heartfelt tune here and there, playing the misunderstood, suffering artist. Ugh. If he has a pocket-sized dog-eared copy of On the Road or Howl on his person at all times, it’s already over.
Still, there's something to be said for hormones and dreams, isn't there? A crush is a crush. It makes your heart bubble, makes you sweep your hair back, straighten your back, and hope.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Found an old notebook...
I was looking for blank pages so I could take notes on my scary phone call of the day (Mass Rehab) and found pages of doodles and poetry. Only a few pages had anything on them and I believe all the of the material came from my trip to NYC last year. At the time I was unsure of The Novelist and of myself, in a very dark moment.How's this for indicative poetry?
Shoes and Lovers
Shoes and lovers hurt you
From knowing you too little
And knowing you too well
You can never know how long
You linger in the middle
The best days of the pair
I should tell you that I had a date last night -- a good one, I thought. It involved tea and a bookstore, so how could it be bad? The slight complication is that the gentleman in question works in the same offices as The Novelist. I don't want to hurt my wee writer. Well, I mostly don't want to hurt my wee writer... There's a part of me that is still angry.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
un edit ed
I don't know where to start, so I'll just start. I worked a my first shift back at Starbucks yesterday. My doctor said I could go back to work so I took a shift that someone bailed out on. Three hours in my scar started puffing up. By the time i got home it was bleeding. I was tired, of course, and aching everywhere and not even useful in the store and completely unsure of how many hours I could work, and then... bleeding.
I have no money coming. My surgeon's assistant never mailed the forms he was supposed to mail, despite my constant calls, so I missed the file date with my insurance. My parents finally got a big fat envelope of forms postmarked january 7th. Clearly the guy didn't touch it til at least a week after he got back from vacation. By the time my parents forwarded the envelope, I opened it to find out it said I could go back to work immediately. Good? Not good? I had no idea, considering I hadn't seen the surgeon again.
I had an appointment the next day, actually, and brought up the forms. I asked my surgeon to extend the date because I couldn't get hours at starbucks and can't afford to shut off the income from the insurance til i start getting hours. This is all assuming that the insurance will work out.
As an extra happy surprise, I got several statements from my insurance detailing my surgery and the parts they'll cover. Apparently I owe about $3,000. Honestly, it wouldn't matter if it were $30, I can't pay anything. I've saved that freakout for another day.
So now... today... I dunno. I have to call Starbucks and tell them I'm bleeding and I do want hours but I can't DO anything. I should maybe, okay definitely call the surgeon's office to let them know the wound opened up and find out if that's a big deal or not. I have to call insurance people every day for the rest of my life until they can help me. I have to take a shower and brush my teeth and wear clothes and read mail and every little thing seems impossible.
I'm so tired. How do I stop being tired?
I've been going on dates willy nilly, too. I was going to omit that, but it's important. I'm in this very juvenile frame of mind these days where I need constant approval and attention, and so I throw myself at people and beg beg beg them to like me. I'm so fucking pissed that I have to wear a brace and can't walk properly can't earn money and I want some proof from the world that I'm still some kind of adorable human being. So I let men buy me dinner and tell me all the things about their lives that would normally make me say, "I think I hear my mother calling," and leave. I let them kiss me and try to feel convinced. And of course, as predicted, none of it works for the positive, except maybe getting dinner or coffee for free.
It's my brother Chris's birthday today. Also The Novelist's. My chest kind of squeezes around that weirdly. Everything, everything is so uncomfortable.
Trying to find a positive note, but then again we talked about that, didn't we? How i try to be positive for you sometimes, try to make other people more comfortable with my hardships. Maybe I don't have the strength today.
I have no money coming. My surgeon's assistant never mailed the forms he was supposed to mail, despite my constant calls, so I missed the file date with my insurance. My parents finally got a big fat envelope of forms postmarked january 7th. Clearly the guy didn't touch it til at least a week after he got back from vacation. By the time my parents forwarded the envelope, I opened it to find out it said I could go back to work immediately. Good? Not good? I had no idea, considering I hadn't seen the surgeon again.
I had an appointment the next day, actually, and brought up the forms. I asked my surgeon to extend the date because I couldn't get hours at starbucks and can't afford to shut off the income from the insurance til i start getting hours. This is all assuming that the insurance will work out.
As an extra happy surprise, I got several statements from my insurance detailing my surgery and the parts they'll cover. Apparently I owe about $3,000. Honestly, it wouldn't matter if it were $30, I can't pay anything. I've saved that freakout for another day.
So now... today... I dunno. I have to call Starbucks and tell them I'm bleeding and I do want hours but I can't DO anything. I should maybe, okay definitely call the surgeon's office to let them know the wound opened up and find out if that's a big deal or not. I have to call insurance people every day for the rest of my life until they can help me. I have to take a shower and brush my teeth and wear clothes and read mail and every little thing seems impossible.
I'm so tired. How do I stop being tired?
I've been going on dates willy nilly, too. I was going to omit that, but it's important. I'm in this very juvenile frame of mind these days where I need constant approval and attention, and so I throw myself at people and beg beg beg them to like me. I'm so fucking pissed that I have to wear a brace and can't walk properly can't earn money and I want some proof from the world that I'm still some kind of adorable human being. So I let men buy me dinner and tell me all the things about their lives that would normally make me say, "I think I hear my mother calling," and leave. I let them kiss me and try to feel convinced. And of course, as predicted, none of it works for the positive, except maybe getting dinner or coffee for free.
It's my brother Chris's birthday today. Also The Novelist's. My chest kind of squeezes around that weirdly. Everything, everything is so uncomfortable.
Trying to find a positive note, but then again we talked about that, didn't we? How i try to be positive for you sometimes, try to make other people more comfortable with my hardships. Maybe I don't have the strength today.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Forgotten poem
I wrote this when I was with The Novelist and never published it here. Trying to get back in my poettish frame of mine, so I'll share it, even tattered as it is.
I've noticed that we've learned to fit each other.
We take turns, leave space in our breath
for each other. We crawl around time
and give hours to each other. We
slice open our inner ears for each other.
We leave our hands empty and wait
for each other. We break all our eggs,
but tiptoe for each other. Perhaps
we save up our best lies for each other.
(And I wonder; would one of us die
for the other?) We keep sacred one drop
in the eye of the other. We conquer
the others, submit to each other.
3/26/06
I've noticed that we've learned to fit each other.
We take turns, leave space in our breath
for each other. We crawl around time
and give hours to each other. We
slice open our inner ears for each other.
We leave our hands empty and wait
for each other. We break all our eggs,
but tiptoe for each other. Perhaps
we save up our best lies for each other.
(And I wonder; would one of us die
for the other?) We keep sacred one drop
in the eye of the other. We conquer
the others, submit to each other.
3/26/06
Friday, January 04, 2008
riding the crazy train
I got my brace fitted on Monday, New Year's Eve. It's purple with bright planets on it, because that's how I roll. Er... limp. Understand, please, that I need the brace because my foot is still dead and my calf muscles only partly work. This, according to my surgeon, is not a hopeful sign.
On Tuesday I decided to test out the brace a bit and took myself downtown to my former place of work. The T ride was the most entertaining part of the day. Of course there were the hungover young folk still wearing their stained party clothes and reeking of greasy food and appletinis. Then there were First Night families trying to figure out why Boston SUCKS on New Year's Day when it was ever-so-fun the night before. I sat facing one family with three middle school aged kids. The littlest one was absolutely beautiful with her awkward glasses and sweet cowlick.
Then two blue-collarish guys got on, walked past me and sat lengthwise across back-to-back double seats, so as to assert their masculinity, one can only guess. One was a short latino with ridiculously long eyelashes and a baby face. The other was red. Red hair, red skin, red bloodshot eyes. I caught him looking at me and looked right back, then turned away. Apparently, this was an invitation.
He got up while the train was in motion. He sat across from me on the edge of a double seat, knees jutting into the aisle, leaning forward.
"Hi," said Red.
"Hello," said Jo.
"Do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar to me," said Red.
"That's funny, because I have no idea who you are," I said, countering my rudeness with a wee smile.
"Oh. Well I just thought I knew you..."
"I'm pretty sure I've never met you," I said.
"Okay. Well. How was your New Year's?" asked Red.
"It was okay." (Actually, it was dead quiet. I didn't manage to leave the apartment.) "How was yours?"
"Oh mine was... blah blah... worked all night... been driving... blah..." he said, I think. There were huge gaps in his speech during which the train squealed or rumbled and he spoke too quietly and I couldn't hear a thing he said.
"What?" I said.
"I was driving with my buddy from... ...and we .... and then... so we're tired as hell..."
"Do you get to go home and rest?" I asked.
"Yeah, we're headed to the North End. I'm staying in the North End," said Red.
"Cool," I said, nodding and smiling.
"You have a really nice smile," he said.
BLUSH, I said. "Thank you."
Awkward silence.
"So," I said, "You're not from around here?"
"No," he said, "I'm from... ... up by... ... just in town for a while, thinking about moving here..."
I nodded, not bothering to have him repeat. At this point I realized the entire First Night family was watching us fiercely, especially the little girl. Her eyes fled from one face to the other like she was watching a ping pong tourney. I thought I should be a little more polite.
"And you? Are you from here," he asked.
"No, I'm from western New York. Six hour drive away."
"Ohh, and you live around here?"
"Yep, I'm not going back," I said. "I found a good place in Brookline."
"Brookline," he repeated.
"I came here for grad school and I'm staying," I said.
"Grad school," he repeated.
It was then that I realized I sounded like a prick. Red lost some of his gusto as the interview continued. For some reason, I felt like I had to efface myself a bit to make him more comfortable. I started babbling about how my grad degree didn't lead to a good job and I'm barely making it, like everyone else in the city. Through all the jabbering there were longer moments of stilted silence. When was he getting off this train? We'd been on it from Kenmore.
"I'm Chris, by the way," he said, reaching out his hand for me to shake.
"I'm Jo," I said, finding no reason to lie to him.
"It was really good talking to you, Jo."
"Yeah, well I hope you get some rest. It was nice talking to you, too."
"So could I get... ... if you don't..."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Could I... ...my number? Or could you... ... your number?"
My mind raced a bit. The little girl across from me peered intently, watching my every gesture. I thought about myself first, all the things that are currently fractured in my life and how undateable I am right now. I thought about him, not really living here, just some random dude to whom I was not all that attracted. I thought about getting a free dinner out of him - a practicality I could certainly use. I thought of excuses I could give him to make him feel better. In the end I said,
"No, I don't think so."
He smiled and took it well, then repeated the whole "It was nice talking to you" bit.
In the sudden and absolute silence there was nothing to do. I looked out the window at the dark tunnel, I looked across to the little girl, who was squirming in shared discomfort. I smiled back at Red a bit. I decided to get off at Boylston to end the awkwardness. I could just hop on the next train and keep going.
I got up, gathered myself, and just then remembered the brace. Red's baby-faced friend got up, too, hovering by the stairs. Shit.
"This is my stop, too," said Red.
Shit shit shit.
"You really do have a great smile," he said.
"Thanks," I said, flushing from the compliment and the coming gaff.
The doors opened and I let myself down the stairs one at a time. Red followed. I limped along and Red and Baby-face passed me. Red said a nice goodbye. Baby-face turned around, pointedly looked at my leg and gave me a pitying look. "Have a good New Year," he said.
I thanked him and whipped out my cellphone, pretending to check messages, not wanting to pass the gates and have to pay again.
A man waiting for a Lechmere train saw the whole thing. I waited for the next train, leaning on a column, regaining my composure. I bent to hide the brace a bit more. No use.
This, I thought, is your New Year.
On Tuesday I decided to test out the brace a bit and took myself downtown to my former place of work. The T ride was the most entertaining part of the day. Of course there were the hungover young folk still wearing their stained party clothes and reeking of greasy food and appletinis. Then there were First Night families trying to figure out why Boston SUCKS on New Year's Day when it was ever-so-fun the night before. I sat facing one family with three middle school aged kids. The littlest one was absolutely beautiful with her awkward glasses and sweet cowlick.
Then two blue-collarish guys got on, walked past me and sat lengthwise across back-to-back double seats, so as to assert their masculinity, one can only guess. One was a short latino with ridiculously long eyelashes and a baby face. The other was red. Red hair, red skin, red bloodshot eyes. I caught him looking at me and looked right back, then turned away. Apparently, this was an invitation.
He got up while the train was in motion. He sat across from me on the edge of a double seat, knees jutting into the aisle, leaning forward.
"Hi," said Red.
"Hello," said Jo.
"Do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar to me," said Red.
"That's funny, because I have no idea who you are," I said, countering my rudeness with a wee smile.
"Oh. Well I just thought I knew you..."
"I'm pretty sure I've never met you," I said.
"Okay. Well. How was your New Year's?" asked Red.
"It was okay." (Actually, it was dead quiet. I didn't manage to leave the apartment.) "How was yours?"
"Oh mine was... blah blah... worked all night... been driving... blah..." he said, I think. There were huge gaps in his speech during which the train squealed or rumbled and he spoke too quietly and I couldn't hear a thing he said.
"What?" I said.
"I was driving with my buddy from... ...and we .... and then... so we're tired as hell..."
"Do you get to go home and rest?" I asked.
"Yeah, we're headed to the North End. I'm staying in the North End," said Red.
"Cool," I said, nodding and smiling.
"You have a really nice smile," he said.
BLUSH, I said. "Thank you."
Awkward silence.
"So," I said, "You're not from around here?"
"No," he said, "I'm from... ... up by... ... just in town for a while, thinking about moving here..."
I nodded, not bothering to have him repeat. At this point I realized the entire First Night family was watching us fiercely, especially the little girl. Her eyes fled from one face to the other like she was watching a ping pong tourney. I thought I should be a little more polite.
"And you? Are you from here," he asked.
"No, I'm from western New York. Six hour drive away."
"Ohh, and you live around here?"
"Yep, I'm not going back," I said. "I found a good place in Brookline."
"Brookline," he repeated.
"I came here for grad school and I'm staying," I said.
"Grad school," he repeated.
It was then that I realized I sounded like a prick. Red lost some of his gusto as the interview continued. For some reason, I felt like I had to efface myself a bit to make him more comfortable. I started babbling about how my grad degree didn't lead to a good job and I'm barely making it, like everyone else in the city. Through all the jabbering there were longer moments of stilted silence. When was he getting off this train? We'd been on it from Kenmore.
"I'm Chris, by the way," he said, reaching out his hand for me to shake.
"I'm Jo," I said, finding no reason to lie to him.
"It was really good talking to you, Jo."
"Yeah, well I hope you get some rest. It was nice talking to you, too."
"So could I get... ... if you don't..."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Could I... ...my number? Or could you... ... your number?"
My mind raced a bit. The little girl across from me peered intently, watching my every gesture. I thought about myself first, all the things that are currently fractured in my life and how undateable I am right now. I thought about him, not really living here, just some random dude to whom I was not all that attracted. I thought about getting a free dinner out of him - a practicality I could certainly use. I thought of excuses I could give him to make him feel better. In the end I said,
"No, I don't think so."
He smiled and took it well, then repeated the whole "It was nice talking to you" bit.
In the sudden and absolute silence there was nothing to do. I looked out the window at the dark tunnel, I looked across to the little girl, who was squirming in shared discomfort. I smiled back at Red a bit. I decided to get off at Boylston to end the awkwardness. I could just hop on the next train and keep going.
I got up, gathered myself, and just then remembered the brace. Red's baby-faced friend got up, too, hovering by the stairs. Shit.
"This is my stop, too," said Red.
Shit shit shit.
"You really do have a great smile," he said.
"Thanks," I said, flushing from the compliment and the coming gaff.
The doors opened and I let myself down the stairs one at a time. Red followed. I limped along and Red and Baby-face passed me. Red said a nice goodbye. Baby-face turned around, pointedly looked at my leg and gave me a pitying look. "Have a good New Year," he said.
I thanked him and whipped out my cellphone, pretending to check messages, not wanting to pass the gates and have to pay again.
A man waiting for a Lechmere train saw the whole thing. I waited for the next train, leaning on a column, regaining my composure. I bent to hide the brace a bit more. No use.
This, I thought, is your New Year.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Quantifying
Things The Novelist never liked about me:
1. spinach
2. exercise
3. family
4. outer space
5. the military
My inability to share an umbrella
My fluctuating ability to sleep (countered with incredible powers of tossy-turny, nightmare-induced fits)
The way I pointed out his eye boogers. At least I stopped trying to pick them out myself.
The way I hated myself.
The way I left his bed messy in the morning. His bed is impossible; old sheets, old mattress, egg-cup foam thing – all askew (see above referenced tossy-turny abilities)
My disdain for frozen vegetables.
My abundant social life. (I kid you not. I’M the social one.)
My untouchable subjects.
My tendency toward disappearance…
Things I never liked about The Novelist:
His fervent need to spread the joy of military history to ME, though repeatedly told of the unwillingness of his audience.
The great agility with which he dismissed my nightmares.
Things I really don’t like about The Novelist now:
His un-love for me.
Friday, February 02, 2007
And the Lord sayeth unto JoBiv, I shall destroy you further!
The Novelist. JoBiv. No longer. He's done with me. Near the anniversary of hospitalization and our first dates.
I am not strong enough for this.
I am not strong enough for this.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Sleep is for the weak. And JoBiv.
The weak and JoBiv - not mutually exclusive.
I slept through the past week. No, really. I showed up for work here and there, but I didn't exist for anything else outside my bed. Sometimes I took off my pants before I slept. Sometimes I had funny hair when I woke up. I'm sure I had funny hair lots of times but had no proof because I was not inclined to look in mirrors. I was inclined to sleep.
Not so much inclined as fully horizontal.
Everyone I know thought I was injured or hospitalized, except my co-workers. They saw me for four-hour periods of time.
List of people who thought I was dead, injured, hospitalized, or incarcerated:
1. My therapist. I was not in his presence, where I ought to have been, the two times a week I ought to have been there.
2. My psychiatrist. But that was nearly purposeful. He thinks I'm bi-polar and I'm sick of his shit.
3. My chorus. I had a nightmare during that sleep. Someone had pooped in the bathtub and no one would clean it. I kept getting filthier and filthier and wished there were cleaning supplies so I could clean everything and myself.
4. My boyfriend. He actually yelled at me a little (in his way - he generally doesn't yell unless his brother is coming at him with a spatula.) I finally got in touch with him and he was pretty mad. He wants me to be okay.
5. Becca, English Jo, Major Healey, choir Melis, my boss... all people with whom I had made plans. All people who I disappointed.
6. My brother Tom, who has called me twice in the past month, which is weird considering he forgets how to pronounce my name sometimes.
7. My parents. They called, paged, voicemailed, messenger-pigeoned. I was not awake.
Where was JoBiv?
In my bed, having nightmares, waking for short periods of time during which I hated myself utterly for sleeping during the day, ate sliced bread, and went back to my bed. Sometimes I drank tea to wake myself up, but I'd get dizzy and my eyes would slip shut and I found myself in bed again, dreaming of research facilities where little girls forcibly underwent CPR and made papier mache collages of huge serpents, where deformed people were kept standing in stalls with blue curtains that showed their heads and feet, like dressing rooms, where a teenager had to seduce her nextdoor neighbor to keep him from kicking her little sisters' dogs, where I walked up to people who had to hear me but I would walk through them, mute and transient. Or else I was half-awake, pulling out the bad hairs and trying to distract my mind with a funny book or movie or thought - anything.
Is she back to stay?
It's hard to be back but it was hard to be there, too. When I informed my mom that I am alive she mentioned that maybe I shouldn't be working. This year has been hard, after all, and I'm not strong enough to work two jobs, earn my own rent, run my own life.
It hurts, but not because she doubts me when I need her support. It hurts in the place between my ribs and lungs where I can see myself going home to my girlhood bed, her hand sweeping my hair from my forehead and encouraging the tears.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Now that I'm over myself...
I have to tell you how beautiful the wedding was, how blue-sky 18th century American it was. How amidst opulent surroundings (and food to which I would build altars), there was my stunning Sus in her simple, elegant dress, entirely herself, entirely joyful.
While I dodged social bullets, I got to talk with Liz, my old guitar teacher, for a good long time. I got to catch up with Meredith and Rob, Sus's sister-in-law, various old friends of Sus's... I got to slow dance with my beautiful boyfriend, who, as always, maintained his sparklingly gentlemanlike manners. He watched me and celebrated for me as I was celebrating.
The day after the wedding there was a slightly awkward trip to the Honey Pot Hill Apple Orchard. It was completely slammed with families taking advantage of a gorgeous, summer-like autumn day on Columbus Day weekend. The apples seemed ready for us, waiting patiently in heavy clusters. The first one I tasted was hot on one side from the sunlight, the other side tart and cold.
I walked with my friends, but often couldn't talk for fear of letting something monstrous out.
And on Tuesday I got more time with Sarah and Kristin (and Meredith, who works so close to my apartment that she might as well work in my armpit). I got some good quality SarahandJo time, catching up on all the things a person can't quite speak about in letters or postings.
So, it was a confusing weekend. And because I'm obnoxiously fragile these days, I'm having a hard time sorting out the hurt from the joy. I hate the ambiguity. I hate feeling out of control. I miss my friends so much and we had so little time.
I had some cool-ass shoes to wear for the wedding, though. I'll cling to that.
While I dodged social bullets, I got to talk with Liz, my old guitar teacher, for a good long time. I got to catch up with Meredith and Rob, Sus's sister-in-law, various old friends of Sus's... I got to slow dance with my beautiful boyfriend, who, as always, maintained his sparklingly gentlemanlike manners. He watched me and celebrated for me as I was celebrating.
The day after the wedding there was a slightly awkward trip to the Honey Pot Hill Apple Orchard. It was completely slammed with families taking advantage of a gorgeous, summer-like autumn day on Columbus Day weekend. The apples seemed ready for us, waiting patiently in heavy clusters. The first one I tasted was hot on one side from the sunlight, the other side tart and cold.
I walked with my friends, but often couldn't talk for fear of letting something monstrous out.
And on Tuesday I got more time with Sarah and Kristin (and Meredith, who works so close to my apartment that she might as well work in my armpit). I got some good quality SarahandJo time, catching up on all the things a person can't quite speak about in letters or postings.
So, it was a confusing weekend. And because I'm obnoxiously fragile these days, I'm having a hard time sorting out the hurt from the joy. I hate the ambiguity. I hate feeling out of control. I miss my friends so much and we had so little time.
I had some cool-ass shoes to wear for the wedding, though. I'll cling to that.
Monday, July 10, 2006
At first, we thought it was laughter. The Novelist and I lay on my bed, on top of the quilt, mumbling about things; how nice the day was, I think. Suddenly we heard it, and we both grew quiet. Then the only sound was that of my hair brushing the pillow as I turned toward the window to hear it.
Laughter? We lay perfectly still, straining to hear.
Was she pleading? Was she angry? The Novelist said, “I thought she was laughing.”
The man raised his voice again. “You need… settle… be fine… You’re okay.”
“Stop it!” screamed the girl between choking fits. “I have to cry… Stop it!”
We listened for a long while. My ribcage seemed to shrink. I had to remind myself to breathe while I thought and remembered.
Those were the sounds I didn’t make when Grandma died. I started to cry. Someone silenced me. We were in the hospital. I’d disturb people. Those sobs are all the sounds I stopped making.
Uaahh huh huh huh huh
Uaaaahh huh huh
Uaahh huh huh huh
“It’s stupid to tell her to stop.” We were silent again, listening.
“It’s a terrible thing to hear a soul being ripped apart,” The Novelist said. For some reason, this angered me. I found my throat clenching and my leg muscles flexing.
“That might not be what it is,” I snapped. “She’ll be… I hope she’ll be fine.”
“It’s amazing how close laughter is to crying, and how laughing can lead to crying and…”
“Crying can lead to laughter, yeah, I know.” Was I being bitchy? Why?
“Maybe. I just wonder when it started. And whether it’s a trait of a more sophisticated animal. How does it help us?”
“Well there’s so much we don’t know about the brain…”
“I know,” I said. We both took a breath. “I wonder if it’s a trade-off, somehow. Like we get these complicated brains that are capable of amazing things which got us ahead, but there’s a glitch in the system. This brain makes us cry.”
“Hmm.”
We mumbled a while longer, until I was so mumbly that The Novelist declared beddy-bye time. He patiently helped me out of my skirt and let me lie like a dying fish.
“I get so tired,” I said.
“I know you do,” he said.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
boithday
There was summa dis
And summa dat
Not so much of this
But a very spicy dash of
THIS!
A prezzie from Becca and co.! Framed! Matted! BIG!
Aaaand, itsy bitsy sharpies, telescoping pens, squishy hold pens, sketchpad, colored pencils... all from Sir Novelist! Cuz he's the bestest!
I'm not even going to tell you how I got peed on today, then rained on, then abandoned, then to 4 hours of chorus dress rehearsal... That was all just fine, because it all ended with a 80 voices singing Happy Birthday in perfect harmony, and tiramisu and chocolate bomba at Vinny's Testes with chorus friends.
Tired.
Old.
G'night.
And summa dat
Not so much of this
But a very spicy dash of
THIS!A prezzie from Becca and co.! Framed! Matted! BIG!
Aaaand, itsy bitsy sharpies, telescoping pens, squishy hold pens, sketchpad, colored pencils... all from Sir Novelist! Cuz he's the bestest!
I'm not even going to tell you how I got peed on today, then rained on, then abandoned, then to 4 hours of chorus dress rehearsal... That was all just fine, because it all ended with a 80 voices singing Happy Birthday in perfect harmony, and tiramisu and chocolate bomba at Vinny's Testes with chorus friends.
Tired.
Old.
G'night.
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