I just need to gripe for a minute. I loathe the following things:
- People who advertise themselves as once who "don't take life too seriously." I want to yell, "You're a fucking idiot! Pay attention! While you're kicking it on your magic cloud in the sunshine, serious shit's going down! Christ!"
- People who say they want someone who is "drama free" or "with no emotional baggage." Son, you should stay soooooo far away from me' and good luck to you, you unfeeling twit.
- Do people seriously like their stuffing in the bird? Really? Soggy and stuffed up the bird's butt?
There's probably some others, too. That's it for the moment.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
All this grateful (and ungrateful) business
Several people I know are naming something they're grateful for on Facebook every day until Thanksgiving. Even though these are friends of mine and very lovely people, this practice makes me a little nauseous. Probably because I am cranky and cantankerous and bitter and jaded.
Still.
I thought I'd do my own version here. I wanted my version to include a lament about the things I am ungrateful for, too.
Please excuse any sap that may follow, and if you think it will nauseate you too much, you might want to take a rain check on this blog entry.
Things I am grateful for:
- Friends I can call when I’m sitting in my car for hours because I don’t know where to go.
- Little birdie belly feathers.
- Getting a teaching job for the spring semester because I will be much less broke in the months to come.
- My grandparents and my aunt, without whom I would probably be dead, in prison, or on crack. Possibly all three.
- Nannette. For being my friend during the most challenging years of my life thus far, even when it was hard for her, and for talking sense into me on one very dark evening. Without her I would have left San Francisco behind already.
- Cindy. For knowing me almost better than I know myself; for being insane in nearly identical ways to myself (and I say that with love), for listening to me at times when I am nearly incoherent, and for being my first grown up best friend.
- Christopher. For loving me when I was unable to love myself.
- My many friends at work who make each day Monday through Friday more bearable, who put up with me dropping into their offices when I need a break, and without whom I would have taken a bazooka to the joint. Ruben, Shayna, Wendi, Laurie, Tamara, Jodi, John, Peggy, and Diana: I love you to pieces.
- For a free washer and dryer in my building. SCORE!
- For Yan, Patrick, Scott, Brian, Amber & Suzie, Judith, Amber, Shannon, Dave, Kelli, Jenny, Tony, Lauren, and Cyrano for taking me out, getting me drunk, calling me, texting me, sending me sweet packages, going to dinner with me, inviting me to their parties, visiting me in the hospital, and letting me crash at their houses even if I was far away (mentally or physically), drank too much, didn't call back, was doped up on morphine, and/or didn't show up.
- Danita and Nan, for treating me as part of the family no matter what.
- The color green for adorning my walls, pants, shoes, umbrellas, and coats and for cheering me up in the most ridiculous and random ways.
- The funniest, weirdest, and most thoughtful book club in the history of the world.
Things I am not grateful for:
- Several days without antidepressants because I am totally broke.
- Four parking tickets waiting to be paid.
- E. for making up his mind, J.H. for not being in the right mental space at the right time, P. for breaking my heart, and J.T. for what amounted to persistent booty calls.
- A very specific person whom I see five days a week who makes me distinctly unhappy, treats me like I am stupid and incompetent, has unreasonable expectations, seems to always suspect that I have or am about to screw her over, and blames me for what feels like everything.
- C.J.B. for leaving without saying goodbye and re-smashing my heart into itty bitty pieces.
- The raccoon fight club that meets nightly behind my house.
Monday, November 23, 2009
"Such sweetness was not meant for me.""
"You never started with me. (You never finished with me.)"
[Go here and listen to "Sabina." My friend Jim wrote it.]
[Go here and listen to "Sabina." My friend Jim wrote it.]
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Thick-skinned, thin-skinned, pig skin
I admit I'm not particularly cheerful at this time. I'm getting hung up on weird things. For example, my mind won't stop going back to the day I left Richmond.
I was way behind schedule in terms of packing and moving. My landlord was due to come and inspect the apartment soon, and I was still packing. The moving truck was nearly out of room, I still had lots of stuff, and I hadn't even thought about cleaning yet. In my growing panic, I started putting everything in the trash. Things I loved, things I'd used, things that were given to me--all flung over the balcony and carted out to the trash cans in the alley behind the building. I threw out the pizza stone my grandmother gave me! I always wanted a pizza stone!
At the moment I am feeling alone and grief-stricken, and this is where my mind has chosen to focus its angst. Fuck my life.
I turned on the television this evening just to hear some noise, some voices, and caught the tail end of the Chicago Bears vs. Philadelphia Eagles football game. Now, I could give two shits about this sort of thing to be honest. But I left it on and observed the last five minutes of the game and a bit of the post-game activities.
Philadelphia won after a last-ditch effort touchdown pass thrown by Bears' quarterback Jay Cutler was intercepted with less than a minute to go. From what I gathered, Jay--a young quarterback--has been struggling lately with many of his passes getting intercepted. After the play ended, Jay took off his helmet dejectedly and walked off the field. Shortly thereafter, the camera showed the Eagles' quarterback, Donovan McNabb, with his arm around around Jay, quietly speaking advice into his ear. This went on for a couple of minutes, and Jay thanked him and they patted each other and went their separate ways. The commentators speculated on the kind of advice an experienced quarterback would give to a relatively new one, and I found myself sobbing with emotion.
Some days it feels like there is not nearly enough good in the world, and I'll grab onto anything I can get. Now I love Donovan McNabb.
I cannot believe I just blogged about football.
I was way behind schedule in terms of packing and moving. My landlord was due to come and inspect the apartment soon, and I was still packing. The moving truck was nearly out of room, I still had lots of stuff, and I hadn't even thought about cleaning yet. In my growing panic, I started putting everything in the trash. Things I loved, things I'd used, things that were given to me--all flung over the balcony and carted out to the trash cans in the alley behind the building. I threw out the pizza stone my grandmother gave me! I always wanted a pizza stone!
At the moment I am feeling alone and grief-stricken, and this is where my mind has chosen to focus its angst. Fuck my life.
I turned on the television this evening just to hear some noise, some voices, and caught the tail end of the Chicago Bears vs. Philadelphia Eagles football game. Now, I could give two shits about this sort of thing to be honest. But I left it on and observed the last five minutes of the game and a bit of the post-game activities.
Philadelphia won after a last-ditch effort touchdown pass thrown by Bears' quarterback Jay Cutler was intercepted with less than a minute to go. From what I gathered, Jay--a young quarterback--has been struggling lately with many of his passes getting intercepted. After the play ended, Jay took off his helmet dejectedly and walked off the field. Shortly thereafter, the camera showed the Eagles' quarterback, Donovan McNabb, with his arm around around Jay, quietly speaking advice into his ear. This went on for a couple of minutes, and Jay thanked him and they patted each other and went their separate ways. The commentators speculated on the kind of advice an experienced quarterback would give to a relatively new one, and I found myself sobbing with emotion.
Some days it feels like there is not nearly enough good in the world, and I'll grab onto anything I can get. Now I love Donovan McNabb.
I cannot believe I just blogged about football.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Fail
Tonight I had the second failed movie attempt of my life.
I felt good today. I slept well. I had my morning coffee and listened to "The Star Report" (astronomy news) at 6:37am on the radio. Saturday is my normal sleeping and relaxing day, but this morning I felt restless and yearning to get out of the house. Fortunately, Nannette was game for lunch and a walk, but even that did not completely satisfy me. So I decided to take myself to an 8:50pm movie: "Precious."
As the time to leave approached, I dragged my feet a bit. It was cold outside and my home was warm and cozy. I told myself to stop being ridiculous and got my butt out the door. As I drove toward the Daly City theater, I came close to turning around. Everything suddenly seemed so sad, and my bed seemed safer.
I thought of everyone that I miss intensely, and wanted to cry. A truck with an attached trailer full of cows pulled up next to me on 19th Avenue--seeing chickens and cows in the backs of trucks always breaks my heart. The cows peered out of the narrow slats that served as windows, wide-eyed and anxious. They blinked against the glare of the street lights, and their breath steamed out in puffs. I wanted to turn around again.
I was listening to NPR on the radio, and a portion of Rose Tremain's The Road Home. It was beautiful and sad and careful in its observations of struggle and loneliness and, once again, I wanted to turn around.
I made myself keep going. I was determined to go to a movie tonight.
I parked in the crowded garage full of teenagers laughing and cars honking, so I turned up my radio and closed my eyes to finish listening to the story about Lev the widowed, Russian immigrant trying to make his way in a new world. When the story ended, I thought briefly of starting the car and going home, but I got out of the car and plodded toward the theater.
Standing impatiently in the long line of young couples holding hands, bubble gum-popping adolescents, and kids weaving between and around legs, I shifted my weight from foot to foot and promised myself that I would be so happy I came once I sat in the darkened theater, warm and among fellow humans with their eyes fixed on the screen. When I finally made my way to the front of the line, a bored Vietnamese girl behind the glass flatly informed me that my movie was sold out and the next one was in an hour and a half.
I stood for a few seconds with my mouth open to say something, and then mumbled, "nevermind" and turned to make my way back to the garage. I tried to keep it a secret from myself that I was relieved.
I felt good today. I slept well. I had my morning coffee and listened to "The Star Report" (astronomy news) at 6:37am on the radio. Saturday is my normal sleeping and relaxing day, but this morning I felt restless and yearning to get out of the house. Fortunately, Nannette was game for lunch and a walk, but even that did not completely satisfy me. So I decided to take myself to an 8:50pm movie: "Precious."
As the time to leave approached, I dragged my feet a bit. It was cold outside and my home was warm and cozy. I told myself to stop being ridiculous and got my butt out the door. As I drove toward the Daly City theater, I came close to turning around. Everything suddenly seemed so sad, and my bed seemed safer.
I thought of everyone that I miss intensely, and wanted to cry. A truck with an attached trailer full of cows pulled up next to me on 19th Avenue--seeing chickens and cows in the backs of trucks always breaks my heart. The cows peered out of the narrow slats that served as windows, wide-eyed and anxious. They blinked against the glare of the street lights, and their breath steamed out in puffs. I wanted to turn around again.
I was listening to NPR on the radio, and a portion of Rose Tremain's The Road Home. It was beautiful and sad and careful in its observations of struggle and loneliness and, once again, I wanted to turn around.
I made myself keep going. I was determined to go to a movie tonight.
I parked in the crowded garage full of teenagers laughing and cars honking, so I turned up my radio and closed my eyes to finish listening to the story about Lev the widowed, Russian immigrant trying to make his way in a new world. When the story ended, I thought briefly of starting the car and going home, but I got out of the car and plodded toward the theater.
Standing impatiently in the long line of young couples holding hands, bubble gum-popping adolescents, and kids weaving between and around legs, I shifted my weight from foot to foot and promised myself that I would be so happy I came once I sat in the darkened theater, warm and among fellow humans with their eyes fixed on the screen. When I finally made my way to the front of the line, a bored Vietnamese girl behind the glass flatly informed me that my movie was sold out and the next one was in an hour and a half.
I stood for a few seconds with my mouth open to say something, and then mumbled, "nevermind" and turned to make my way back to the garage. I tried to keep it a secret from myself that I was relieved.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
'"E" is even more than anyone that you adore...'
Once or twice a year, I became incredibly hopeful about my finances. This was when the Power Ball jackpot reached at least 200 million dollars--the prize amount was prominently displayed on the large billboard over the interstate near my house. Similarly hopeful folks began to line up to buy tickets at local gas stations and convenience stores, and the news ran nightly updates about how large the pot had grown.
Though my grandpa devotedly played the lottery in all its forms--not just Power Ball but also Pick 3, Pick 4, and various scratch-offs--I never really played. Every Sunday evening when I spoke to him on the phone he would update me on how he had done in the lottery the previous week. Usually he had a couple of Power Ball number or, on especially lucky weeks, had won $5 on a scratch-off ticket. "I'm still working on that million dollars," he would tell me, "and when I win you'll never have to work again." I would laugh and usually tease him about how he was certainly taking his sweet time winning this million dollars. "One day, hon," he would assure me, "one day." Even though I wasn't a player, I always felt like I had a chance of winning because he was playing on behalf of the family.
In the winter of 2004 when the Power Ball reached 300 million, I broke down and bought a ticket; Chris and I both bought one. I believed firmly that we should each buy our own ticket and that only one per person should be purchased. I felt that one special ticket was much luckier than some bulk amount of tickets. I also liked choosing my numbers myself: specifically ones involving 2's, 4's, and 8's. I felt that I was more likely to win if each number was carefully chosen with intention and meaning, the way one might choose apples for a special pie, or a greeting card with just the right words for the occasion.
Chris and I got our tickets and sat in the living room waiting for the 10:59pm drawing before the nightly news. I had never before been so certain of winning, and in anticipation I mentally and verbally spent my money. "I want to go to Fiji," I gushed, and stay in one of those huts on stilts over the water with a glass table top that I can open and feed the fish." I went on. "I will pay off my credit cards and buy a cockatoo and a jet ski. I'll spend time in Germany and Italy and France, and I'll go to Norway to see a fjord." Chris listened as I rattled off my selfish desires, and then I went on to plan how much money I would give to each of my family members and close friends. Then he cut me off.
"You're telling me you would give out money?" he asked. I was startled out of my reverie.
"Of course," I answered. "My grandpa and I've always planned who to give our money to if we won."
He shook his head is disbelief. "You'd GIVE money away?" he reiterated incredulously.
I was surprised that he was so surprised, "Yes," I answered again. And then something dawned on me. "Wait. You wouldn't?"
"No!" he answered without hesitation. "It would be MY money."
I couldn't hide me shock. "You wouldn't give any money to your mom? or your grandma? or your brother? What about me?" He relented that he would buy gifts for people; he would make sure I had something if I needed it and he would buy our birds golden cages, but that he wouldn't give away any money. It would be his. Period.
I felt a growing sense of alarm rising in me. I kept insisting that it wasn't possible for him to be so selfish with so much money and really? He wouldn't give any to me? I began to reassess the millions of dollars I had mentally allotted for him. He stood firm. He also didn't believe that I would actually go through with giving any money away were I to win.
"But, but," I sputtered, "my grandpa and I ALWAYS talk about who we'd share our money with!"
"I think everybody SAYS they would share their money, because they won't actually win and it doesn't really matter. I'm just being honest."
By this point I was angry.
"Why are you getting so upset?" Chris asked in bewilderment. "It's not like it matters. It's not like we're going to win. You're getting mad at me for something that's not even going to happen!" I insisted it was the principle that was disturbing to me, and that I still couldn't believe he wouldn't share.
This conversation has come back to me many times over the years. Part of me feels like there is at least one moment in every long relationship during which you look at your partner and don't recognize them. Another part of me wonders...was this it? Was this the turning point at which we began a descent into irreconcilability? Could I have stopped it? Should I have pretended to agree with him?
I often wonder if he remembers this conversation, and if he still feels the same way. I wonder if and how aging and wisdom have affected his reflections on us, if at all. I wonder if and how I am described to other people he encounters. Does he blame me? Does he refer to me as batshit crazy? Does he thank his lucky stars I am no longer near? Does he make allowances for us having met so young and for trying to navigate a relationship when we had no idea what we were doing? Does he neglect to mention me at all? Does he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Does he hope he never lays eyes on me again?
Though my grandpa devotedly played the lottery in all its forms--not just Power Ball but also Pick 3, Pick 4, and various scratch-offs--I never really played. Every Sunday evening when I spoke to him on the phone he would update me on how he had done in the lottery the previous week. Usually he had a couple of Power Ball number or, on especially lucky weeks, had won $5 on a scratch-off ticket. "I'm still working on that million dollars," he would tell me, "and when I win you'll never have to work again." I would laugh and usually tease him about how he was certainly taking his sweet time winning this million dollars. "One day, hon," he would assure me, "one day." Even though I wasn't a player, I always felt like I had a chance of winning because he was playing on behalf of the family.
In the winter of 2004 when the Power Ball reached 300 million, I broke down and bought a ticket; Chris and I both bought one. I believed firmly that we should each buy our own ticket and that only one per person should be purchased. I felt that one special ticket was much luckier than some bulk amount of tickets. I also liked choosing my numbers myself: specifically ones involving 2's, 4's, and 8's. I felt that I was more likely to win if each number was carefully chosen with intention and meaning, the way one might choose apples for a special pie, or a greeting card with just the right words for the occasion.
Chris and I got our tickets and sat in the living room waiting for the 10:59pm drawing before the nightly news. I had never before been so certain of winning, and in anticipation I mentally and verbally spent my money. "I want to go to Fiji," I gushed, and stay in one of those huts on stilts over the water with a glass table top that I can open and feed the fish." I went on. "I will pay off my credit cards and buy a cockatoo and a jet ski. I'll spend time in Germany and Italy and France, and I'll go to Norway to see a fjord." Chris listened as I rattled off my selfish desires, and then I went on to plan how much money I would give to each of my family members and close friends. Then he cut me off.
"You're telling me you would give out money?" he asked. I was startled out of my reverie.
"Of course," I answered. "My grandpa and I've always planned who to give our money to if we won."
He shook his head is disbelief. "You'd GIVE money away?" he reiterated incredulously.
I was surprised that he was so surprised, "Yes," I answered again. And then something dawned on me. "Wait. You wouldn't?"
"No!" he answered without hesitation. "It would be MY money."
I couldn't hide me shock. "You wouldn't give any money to your mom? or your grandma? or your brother? What about me?" He relented that he would buy gifts for people; he would make sure I had something if I needed it and he would buy our birds golden cages, but that he wouldn't give away any money. It would be his. Period.
I felt a growing sense of alarm rising in me. I kept insisting that it wasn't possible for him to be so selfish with so much money and really? He wouldn't give any to me? I began to reassess the millions of dollars I had mentally allotted for him. He stood firm. He also didn't believe that I would actually go through with giving any money away were I to win.
"But, but," I sputtered, "my grandpa and I ALWAYS talk about who we'd share our money with!"
"I think everybody SAYS they would share their money, because they won't actually win and it doesn't really matter. I'm just being honest."
By this point I was angry.
"Why are you getting so upset?" Chris asked in bewilderment. "It's not like it matters. It's not like we're going to win. You're getting mad at me for something that's not even going to happen!" I insisted it was the principle that was disturbing to me, and that I still couldn't believe he wouldn't share.
This conversation has come back to me many times over the years. Part of me feels like there is at least one moment in every long relationship during which you look at your partner and don't recognize them. Another part of me wonders...was this it? Was this the turning point at which we began a descent into irreconcilability? Could I have stopped it? Should I have pretended to agree with him?
I often wonder if he remembers this conversation, and if he still feels the same way. I wonder if and how aging and wisdom have affected his reflections on us, if at all. I wonder if and how I am described to other people he encounters. Does he blame me? Does he refer to me as batshit crazy? Does he thank his lucky stars I am no longer near? Does he make allowances for us having met so young and for trying to navigate a relationship when we had no idea what we were doing? Does he neglect to mention me at all? Does he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Does he hope he never lays eyes on me again?
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