Month: August 2002 Page 1 of 3

Clean. Yesterday I cleaned the apartment. The good news is that the apartment is now clean. The bad news is that Lee couldn’t find the set of keys with the housekeys on it, so I had to pop out a screen, get snagged on something, and shatter the glass as I tried to get unstuck. Thin glass. No injuries. I lie. I spent five hours cleaning, including chipping ice out of a freezer that wasn’t defrosting fast enough for my taste. I woke up last night in more pain than I’ve ever felt since I went through labor, my hands swollen and sore enough to make me nearly vomit. Weird. I got up, nursed the baby, woke up Lee somehow, accepted pain meds from him, and went back to bed. It’s hard to hold a pen today, but fine to type.

Turns out when you have a cruisin’ bebe, you have little hanny prints from the base of the wall to waist height. So you end up washing some walls while you’re waiting for the damn freezer.

I had to do it. I’m still pissed off about the way the former roomie chick left the place, still pissed about the glass. Ray found (and nearly ate) a BB yesterday (Lee caught her).

I went to drop off the key today, got all the way down there, checked for any leftover mail, and realized that we still hadn’t found the key. This is De before nap.

Don’t get me wrong.

The guys moved stuff today. I went to work.

“Are you sure? I can get the day off. I can watch Ray. I promise I won’t get in the way…”

Nope.

I get home. They want me to go take a nap with Ray while they unload all the stuff. Can I help?

Nope.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no love of moving stuff, and there’s still a ton of work to do.

I get to do the, um, girly things. And since Joe’s on a diet, he and Lee don’t want to eat the same things.

Hamburgers for Lee; baked pork chop with sauteed onions and mushrooms (nonfat skillet spray. That’s how), smoke seasoning (just a little, in place of a bacon wrap), and worchestshire sauce.

Joe says, “I don’t want salad.”

‘Kay. I’m just wondering whether I should brine the chop first. Off to the store as soon as I get Ray cleaned up. They corralled her in a bedroom with a teething cracker. This could be ugly; I’m doing the “I used to clean houses for a living” move-out clean tomorrow.

Raspberry Milanos.

Some things are just too damn good for this world. American commercially shipped chocolate usually isn’t one of them.

Oh, when Milanos go on sale…

Sorry. Hee hee!

Bluebroad (Snippet)

Attachments can be so difficult to sever — unless one has, ah ha, a knife sharp enough to cut to the point. A heart-shaped scalpel. A straight razor to the affections.

Ah ha.

Brian had gone all to pieces when I’d confronted him about his behavior. No more cheating, no more lies, no more excuses. (What a relief — I’d been running out of clever ones.) He denied, despite the overwhelming evidence, ever having opened the forbidden door downstairs. He made all sorts of unfounded accusations (perhaps not inaccurate, but that’s not the point), blamed me for all the problems in our relationship (I kept too much hidden, he said. One room, I ask. Is a little privacy too much to ask?), and refused to listen to a word I said. He’d been hysterical. He’d said my laughter would drive him mad!

Ah ha.

He’d always been too curious about the locked room in the basement. He’d resorted to all sorts of tricks to get me to open the door. He’d threatened to leave me. He’d threatened to stay. He’d tried forcing me to open the door. He’d tried — not forcing? — withholding himself sexually to get me to open the door. He tried to pick the lock; he tried to batter the door itself down. He’d had to hire a locksmith, finally.

The room itself hadn’t contained anything mysterious or of any particular horror except some old pop albums from the late seventies and early eighties and a dead Chia pet. There was a comfortable chair, a shelf of romance novels, a secret package of cigarettes and some air freshener, shelves full of junk and old craft projects, a velvet Elvis, and a box full of winter coats.

The painting was slashed off its backing, the albums smashed, the chair cushions shredded and the stuffing scattered, the old coats ripped open at the seams, the romance novels…well, let’s just say that all the romance was gone.

“The money! Where is the money?” He’d grabbed me by the shoulders and shaken me; he’d hit me.

Fortunately the money, as with my other toys, was elsewhere.

Ah ha.

Finding nothing, his passions ebbing, he slapped me a final time, accused me of being the most banal and boring person on the face of the planet, and left. Then he came back. Then he left again. And back again. He waffled for weeks. I realized he’d never have the courage to leave me, so I helped him. It was my house, after all.

“I hope you don’t need any more closure than this,” I said. Then I threw his heart on the floor and walked all over it.

Ah ha.

Other, scarier types of fools, a Rumor.

Got this today from a chica at work:

hello my favorite people. take this for what you will.

a friend of a friend of mine was in a minimart up in washington during the weekend and was standing in line behind a man of middle eastern origin. he was $3 short for his purchase, so this lady passed him the money and went on about her business. he was waiting for her outside the store and told her “since you were so nice to me let me return the favor. Don’t drink any pepsi products after the 25th.” truth or hoax i don’t know, but the police have been talking to her non stop.

Brr. I don’t know what’s up. Hopefully just a hoax.

Fools, a ramble.

Fools!

As I grew up, I often only realized that my illusions had been shattered (melted? eroded? robbed blind?) by noticing that other people still have the same illusions. Pop music is good…Alternative music is good…franchise sequels are good…fast food is good…fashion is important…makeup will make you more attractive…pretending to be cool can actually make you cool…being smart is stupid…I’m the center of the universe…you know, little illusions like that.

Another illusion is gone: A fool is something special, something unique, something outrageous.

Hee hee hee hee hee…

Fools are funny. I’ve often played the fool, and I’ve often been laughed at. But taking foolishness seriously invests a fool with power, whereas laughing at a fool provides nothing but a good giggle.

Sarcasm isn’t the same thing, and neither is cynicism: both sarcasm and cynicism contain too much seriousness. Mockery is a kind of obsession with foolishness, and it creeps into you and makes you a little bit like the thing you mock.

Sometimes laughter isn’t enough. Some kinds of foolishness require seriousness — the kinds of foolishness that cause pain and suffering. (You’d punish a child for hitting her playmate; you wouldn’t put her down, mock her, or tell her that she’d never be anything but a bully.) Even then…a little laughter couldn’t hurt.

I will suffer fools lightly.

The first time I laughed at a fool with an open heart…Thinking back…yes. When we drove past that anti-abortion march in front of Planned Parenthood and I burst out laughing. Had the window rolled down…what fools, packed in double rows on that busted-up sidewalk, so careful to stay off the grass, and so quiet that I’m sure they could hear me a block away. That was…a month ago?

It wasn’t until today that I realized that that illusion was gone. I was reading the news and some commentary thereon. The fool of the day…was a fool! Who could believe it! What a fool! (On the other hand, most of the national-level republican party in the news deserves a good spanking. See pain and suffering reference.)

If I were a tarot card, I’d be a fool, and I’d just like to say that all these fools touting these minor asses as fools, well! Dress me in robes and a pointy hat and call me the pope. Some people have too much fun exaggerating on a slow news day and clearly should burn in hell.

Hm… So far, there have been two door-to-door kids selling things. No Mormons. Those cowards! Come to our door and get politely turned away just like everyone else!

Speaking of cowards, using school-age kids as fundraisers is inhumane. Ends, means. Means, ends. What a beautiful friendship.

Our cat has moved in. He sniffs, he circles, I just know he’s going to be pooping somewhere.

He was a good kitty on the ride over, a bit freaked out, but there you go.

Closure. Damn it. I can’t find that study about the different ways men and women deal with breakups. If you happen to know, pass it on, eh? The results, as I remember them, were that men rate breakups differently depending on who they did the leaving, and women found both kinds of breakups equally painful. Also, men were more likely than women to feel that there wasn’t any closure if the woman did the leaving.

Anyway. Closure. We’ve moved into Joe’s place, and the ex-roommate has moved to Denver. Technically, that means that the woman has done the leaving, I guess, because Joe’s complaining about closure. She left some stuff — a microwave and a few other things. I suggested he email her and tell her what she left behind and note that if she doesn’t let him know what to do with it by a certain date, he’ll do with it whatever he likes. But it started me thinking.

I have no problems with closure. When a relationship is done, I’d just as soon be the fuck away from it as soon as possible. Whatever I leave behind — is gone. Books that I’ve loaned out, clothes, letters, gifts — you can keep ’em. This doesn’t mean that I’ve dealt with all the issues raised in the relationship. Oh, no. I drag them on and on. Self-doubt and other emotional scars are carried around for a long, long time. But — I don’t obsess over whether the relationship is truly over or not. I know. There’s a moment — sometimes almost a literal second of time — that I can usually identify as being the point where I never want to see the other person again.

There have been exceptions. My first boyfriend is an incredibly sweet guy that got married to a friend of a friend, and I was happy to see him again — I left because I knew I wasn’t the kind of person that could be happy with incredible, untainted sweetness. And in the other direction, I had to see an ex-boyfriend for a long time after I’d (to put it bluntly) dumped him, because we were both living in the same group house, and that was a situation made of several moments, going from “don’t want to date any more” to “it wasn’t really me, was it? it was you” to “if I hate anyone, it’s this guy.”

The people I don’t have closure with are the old crushes that didn’t get a chance to get going in the first place. Now, they are the people that are going to hang around in the back of my mind for the rest of my life; they have a kind of mythical status up there with a couple of movie stars. The not-quite-real sex idols. Don’t get me wrong. There isn’t anybody that can’t yank on my gonads like Lee when he has a twinkle in his eye. With half-real sex idols, it’s all about what the mind imagines. With the love(r) of your life, it’s what the mind imagines, what the heart delights in, and what the body just plain knows.

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