They're gone.
I didn't go into it over the past couple of weeks, since I didn't want to jinx myself; but everything went as planned and on Wednesday, Tim and Squeaky moved out.
And for some reason, I've been a big ol' ball of depressed ever since.
Now, if that's not the most ridiculous damn thing I've ever heard of, I don't know what is--but it's true. I can't even articulate what's making me so sad--am I jealous? am I just lonely? And yes, I DO know how ridiculous it is to be anything less than ecstatic about their departure, after eight MONTHS of having them living rent-free, having all their wants provided for, making little or no attempt to find useful employment. I should be happy just to have my space back!
And not only am I sad, which I don't understand, but I'm also pissed at Tim, which I understand perfectly. Here's a hint to everyone: If you ever have to thank someone for doing something extremely inconveniencing on your behalf, it's always best to NOT make it into a litany of every single solitary thing which annoyed you over that time period. (Seriously, that's what he did. It started out as "thanks" and ended up in the most aggravating conversation I'd had in years--at one point, I realized that in one case, he was annoyed because I HADN'T done something that would have annoyed him!! Now, I can handle a degree of illogic, but I mean, damn.) He apologized later, via e-mail, but I'm still too busy being flabbergasted to forgive him completely.
So Tim and Squeaky are in their new apartment up near the northernmost edge of the city, in a building where I used to live with Tim--I took Squeaky to my old landlord when all her other possibilities went to hell. He's a nice guy--kinda gruff, but good-hearted, and has a soft spot for people with bad credit or other liabilities. So now Squeaky's got an apartment in her name alone, and Tim just stays there--it's a tiny little place, but cute, and she's really excited about it. Maybe that's what makes me sad--that I have nothing at all to be excited about anymore. Since I've been 25, with a couple of exceptions, everything has been one disappointment after another, so much so that I've pretty much given up trying. Nothing's worth summoning emotion about, if it will all end in ruin. I wish I still believed in happiness.
And NO, she has NOT yet had the baby. The kid is hanging on for dear life; Squeaky's been in various configurations of early to mid-labor for about three weeks now, and last I heard, if she doesn't go into labor on her own by then, they're going to induce labor over the weekend.
And so THAT'S the news, my readers, and if anyone needs me I'm in my room, under my bed, playing Bingo on my netbook.
Nov 7, 2009
Oct 17, 2009
An Unfortunate Lack of Resistance
So...um...
Remember those other two kittens, the calico and the orangey, we weren't going to keep?
See.....What had happened was.....
Okay, what had REALLY happened was, they were too damn cute to let go of. Squeaky had totally bonded with the little orange one, and when Tim said something to the effect of "When he's adopted..." and Squeaky's face just crumpled up and she started BAWLING. After that, there was no way either Tim or I could take that cat away from her. And once she had her cat, Tim and I figured "in for a penny, in for a pound and a quarter of fluffy, longish calico fur". We've agreed to co-parent her, which is fine; I'll keep her for now, and then when Tim is in a better place, he can take her.
All four cats are still in my room, which is now a scene of kitten-induced madness. And Snickers is terribly upset with me; he's not allowed in my room because the kittens are still carrying some fleas around with them. (Tim and Squeaky are such a pair of drama queens..."Ewww. It's disGUSting. I can FEEL the fleas all built up on their skin." Okay, see, if that's ANYTHING flea-related? It's flea dirt. It washes off. And Tim is so damn particular about how things are to be done; he bought a flea dip and dipped them once, but now all flea control is on hold because the lady at the pet store convinced him that he could not in all good conscience consider himself a cat-lover unless he bought this particular out-of-stock flea powder which was supposed to be in Tuesday. It's Saturday, and it's still not in, and the cats still have fleas, and this whole problem could have been solved if we had just dipped them again, I think. But Tim will do it Tim's way.) My poor Snick just sits outside the door and tries to run in; one of the few times he succeeded, I grabbed him and he hissed at me. My baby--hissed at me!!! So needless to say I'm looking forward to letting him back in the room and letting him have his space back.
But the kittens...OMG, they are completely and utterly teh cyoot. My little calico (currently named Marigold, because in her early awkward days as the runt of the litter, she reminded me of this character....Now, not quite so much.) is so soft and fluffy....and has such WICKED pointy ends....my arms look like I've been juggling chainsaws. But these are the things we live with, when we have no defense against the utterly cute.
(What did Squeaky name her cat? You know, I think I'll make this a guessing game. The winner gets to be the one who wins, and will be applauded for their graspage of the very, very very obvious. I'll even post a pic, just so you can see who's being named.....)
Remember those other two kittens, the calico and the orangey, we weren't going to keep?
See.....What had happened was.....
Okay, what had REALLY happened was, they were too damn cute to let go of. Squeaky had totally bonded with the little orange one, and when Tim said something to the effect of "When he's adopted..." and Squeaky's face just crumpled up and she started BAWLING. After that, there was no way either Tim or I could take that cat away from her. And once she had her cat, Tim and I figured "in for a penny, in for a pound and a quarter of fluffy, longish calico fur". We've agreed to co-parent her, which is fine; I'll keep her for now, and then when Tim is in a better place, he can take her.
All four cats are still in my room, which is now a scene of kitten-induced madness. And Snickers is terribly upset with me; he's not allowed in my room because the kittens are still carrying some fleas around with them. (Tim and Squeaky are such a pair of drama queens..."Ewww. It's disGUSting. I can FEEL the fleas all built up on their skin." Okay, see, if that's ANYTHING flea-related? It's flea dirt. It washes off. And Tim is so damn particular about how things are to be done; he bought a flea dip and dipped them once, but now all flea control is on hold because the lady at the pet store convinced him that he could not in all good conscience consider himself a cat-lover unless he bought this particular out-of-stock flea powder which was supposed to be in Tuesday. It's Saturday, and it's still not in, and the cats still have fleas, and this whole problem could have been solved if we had just dipped them again, I think. But Tim will do it Tim's way.) My poor Snick just sits outside the door and tries to run in; one of the few times he succeeded, I grabbed him and he hissed at me. My baby--hissed at me!!! So needless to say I'm looking forward to letting him back in the room and letting him have his space back.
But the kittens...OMG, they are completely and utterly teh cyoot. My little calico (currently named Marigold, because in her early awkward days as the runt of the litter, she reminded me of this character....Now, not quite so much.) is so soft and fluffy....and has such WICKED pointy ends....my arms look like I've been juggling chainsaws. But these are the things we live with, when we have no defense against the utterly cute.
(What did Squeaky name her cat? You know, I think I'll make this a guessing game. The winner gets to be the one who wins, and will be applauded for their graspage of the very, very very obvious. I'll even post a pic, just so you can see who's being named.....)
Oct 8, 2009
New Post
Um.
Let's see.
Short version, for condensedness:
Spent a weekend with CR; he came in from Bunglepoot, HL (Hickland--it's a state!) I nearly cried when I saw him...he looked really, really bad. His health is probably way worse than he's telling me. But overall, the weekend was pretty good....
...until.
I got an e-mail from CR's sis-in-law, saying that she'd got an e-mail from CR's ex, claiming that CR's brother and I were holed up in a hotel together. This made her laugh, because the brother in question was at that moment in a hot tub with her, eleventythousand miles away. But CR had apparently told her that he was going to Chi to see his brother.....anyway, the tone of things changed markedly after that.
The tone STAYED changed, however, after CR left on Monday. In my infinite wisdom, I'd decided he was screwing me over and was back with the ex when he didn't call for a few days; where he WAS, however, was the Hickland bus station (overnight--his ride didn't show to pick him up and drive him the 90 minutes back to Bunglepoot); then, he was trying to keep his ACTUAL living situation from exploding, an effort which ended in failure when his friend beat the hell out of his wife, snatched their baby, and took off. When he finally got in touch, it was after I wrote him two really, REALLY nasty, fuck-you-lying-asshole e-mails....
...which I had to apologize for when he told me the whole story, and then informed me that he was on the way to the E.R. because his back was killing him. They kept him overnight and told him it's either kidney stones or something requiring back surgery. He finds out this week, and in the meantime he's on pain pills so strong that he can barely stay awake for a paragraph at a time.
And then....
....there were kittens.
Squeaky's friend Bella (also pregnant, and a couple years YOUNGER than Squeaky) and her family were moving to a new place last weekend. Unfortunately, they were leaving one apartment where there were no pet restrictions, for a place that said "One cat only. ONE. And we're watching you move in to make sure that's ALL." This, unfortunately, left Mamacat and her four kittens in the lurch. Mamacat was a stray, a brownish-calico they let into the house; Squeaky was the one who figured out she was having kittens. The kittens, three girls and a boy, were about eight weeks old when Bella informed Squeaky that because of the move, Mamacat and her brood would be turned loose to fend for themselves when moving day came around.
This was what Bella told Squeaky. The REAL mistake, though, was Squeaky telling ME. There are a few things I cannot tolerate, no matter what, and one of those is just discarding a living creature as though it were an empty wrapper or a torn shirt. That goes double for kittens, alas; it's pretty hypocritical of me to value certain creatures more because they're cute, but there it is. I got an I-Go car after work, and we drove up north to Bella's old place.
When we got there, we put Mamacat and three kittens into the carrier; kitten #4 was in the hands of Bella's stepdad, who was holding it like a baby and crooning to it in Spanish. In broken English, he explained that he had promised that one to a friend, but the way he was cuddling that kitten, I would bet the farm that the "friend" in question is imaginary. (And there is nothing cuter than a grown man playing with a little kitten--just nothing. Also, I think I may be adding "speaks Spanish" to my list of attributes for the perfect guy.) We drove home with Mamacat and the three kittens, then ensconced them in.....my bedroom closet. (Well...we had to keep them separated from our four, in case they had any illnesses; and mine is the only room other than the bathroom that closes off from the rest of the apartment. And I surely wasn't going to have them running amok through my room while I was trying to sleep!) The only one who seems to mind the confinement is Mamacat, who was apparently an indoor-outdoor dweller and who sees staying indoors as the ultimate insult.
Mamacat is a darkish calico, kind of a black background with an orange and brown foreground. The kittens are a motley bunch; a long-haired calico girl, an orange tabby boy, and a silver tabby girl. All four, including Mamacat, have a slight upper respiratory infection; all three of the kittens had pinkeye, but a couple days of eye ointment has tamed that rather nicely. Someone is coming over on Friday night to take a look at the kittens, with an eye towards adopting probably two of them, or maybe Mamacat and one kitten. Though Squeaky wants to keep the boy kitten, and Tim's grown attached to the gray, and the calico just charms the socks straight off of me...yeah, no. We really don't need to up the census any further, and Squeaky and Tim already have two cats they can barely take care of.
I'll stop here, since I promised everyone a new post; it's been bonkers around here, for those reasons and one more, job-related one; but all in all, everything's good. Now, if you're still jonesing for bloggage, how 'bout you go over to eatmisery's blog) and say "congratulations!!" twice...?
Let's see.
Short version, for condensedness:
Spent a weekend with CR; he came in from Bunglepoot, HL (Hickland--it's a state!) I nearly cried when I saw him...he looked really, really bad. His health is probably way worse than he's telling me. But overall, the weekend was pretty good....
...until.
I got an e-mail from CR's sis-in-law, saying that she'd got an e-mail from CR's ex, claiming that CR's brother and I were holed up in a hotel together. This made her laugh, because the brother in question was at that moment in a hot tub with her, eleventythousand miles away. But CR had apparently told her that he was going to Chi to see his brother.....anyway, the tone of things changed markedly after that.
The tone STAYED changed, however, after CR left on Monday. In my infinite wisdom, I'd decided he was screwing me over and was back with the ex when he didn't call for a few days; where he WAS, however, was the Hickland bus station (overnight--his ride didn't show to pick him up and drive him the 90 minutes back to Bunglepoot); then, he was trying to keep his ACTUAL living situation from exploding, an effort which ended in failure when his friend beat the hell out of his wife, snatched their baby, and took off. When he finally got in touch, it was after I wrote him two really, REALLY nasty, fuck-you-lying-asshole e-mails....
...which I had to apologize for when he told me the whole story, and then informed me that he was on the way to the E.R. because his back was killing him. They kept him overnight and told him it's either kidney stones or something requiring back surgery. He finds out this week, and in the meantime he's on pain pills so strong that he can barely stay awake for a paragraph at a time.
And then....
....there were kittens.
Squeaky's friend Bella (also pregnant, and a couple years YOUNGER than Squeaky) and her family were moving to a new place last weekend. Unfortunately, they were leaving one apartment where there were no pet restrictions, for a place that said "One cat only. ONE. And we're watching you move in to make sure that's ALL." This, unfortunately, left Mamacat and her four kittens in the lurch. Mamacat was a stray, a brownish-calico they let into the house; Squeaky was the one who figured out she was having kittens. The kittens, three girls and a boy, were about eight weeks old when Bella informed Squeaky that because of the move, Mamacat and her brood would be turned loose to fend for themselves when moving day came around.
This was what Bella told Squeaky. The REAL mistake, though, was Squeaky telling ME. There are a few things I cannot tolerate, no matter what, and one of those is just discarding a living creature as though it were an empty wrapper or a torn shirt. That goes double for kittens, alas; it's pretty hypocritical of me to value certain creatures more because they're cute, but there it is. I got an I-Go car after work, and we drove up north to Bella's old place.
When we got there, we put Mamacat and three kittens into the carrier; kitten #4 was in the hands of Bella's stepdad, who was holding it like a baby and crooning to it in Spanish. In broken English, he explained that he had promised that one to a friend, but the way he was cuddling that kitten, I would bet the farm that the "friend" in question is imaginary. (And there is nothing cuter than a grown man playing with a little kitten--just nothing. Also, I think I may be adding "speaks Spanish" to my list of attributes for the perfect guy.) We drove home with Mamacat and the three kittens, then ensconced them in.....my bedroom closet. (Well...we had to keep them separated from our four, in case they had any illnesses; and mine is the only room other than the bathroom that closes off from the rest of the apartment. And I surely wasn't going to have them running amok through my room while I was trying to sleep!) The only one who seems to mind the confinement is Mamacat, who was apparently an indoor-outdoor dweller and who sees staying indoors as the ultimate insult.
Mamacat is a darkish calico, kind of a black background with an orange and brown foreground. The kittens are a motley bunch; a long-haired calico girl, an orange tabby boy, and a silver tabby girl. All four, including Mamacat, have a slight upper respiratory infection; all three of the kittens had pinkeye, but a couple days of eye ointment has tamed that rather nicely. Someone is coming over on Friday night to take a look at the kittens, with an eye towards adopting probably two of them, or maybe Mamacat and one kitten. Though Squeaky wants to keep the boy kitten, and Tim's grown attached to the gray, and the calico just charms the socks straight off of me...yeah, no. We really don't need to up the census any further, and Squeaky and Tim already have two cats they can barely take care of.
I'll stop here, since I promised everyone a new post; it's been bonkers around here, for those reasons and one more, job-related one; but all in all, everything's good. Now, if you're still jonesing for bloggage, how 'bout you go over to eatmisery's blog) and say "congratulations!!" twice...?
Sep 10, 2009
Mysteries of the Universe, Continued
Normally, faced with the statement that follows, I would immediately reply (at least inwardly) "What a frickin MORON." Because...well, here, let me give you the statement, and we'll go from there...
(I regret that I am unable to offer you the remainder of the quoted statement, or the replies of the rest of the group being addressed, as upon hearing the word "EVil", I was seized with a sudden violent urge to leave the room, an urge to which I succumbed instantly. Anyhow...)
I do not believe that I am stepping too far over the line in saying, "What a frickin MORON." Because in my opinion, that is a patently moronic statement, for several different values of moronicity. First of all--attempting to demonize a passing pop-culture fad is the hallmark of an uptight mind. In fact, attempting to claim that ANYTHING--any belief system, any lifestyle choice, any inborn quality, any random action--is based in EEEEEEEVil, should be the Godwin's Law of any discussion. "It comes from EEEEEEEEVIL," in my book, translates as "I don't like it, it scares/disturbs/disquiets me, and I cannot articulate the reason in a reasoned adult fashion because this is a reaction based purely in emotion, superstition, and a stunted sense of the workings of the universe. Therefore I pronounce it bad, and demonize it and all who are not as offended by it as I am."
Also, I'm sorry...reality, anyone? Vampires living in New York, catered to by advertisers? What a frickin MORON. Those are idiot Hot Topic kids who've read one too many Twilight books. The only EEEEEEEEvil they represent is the EEEEEEEvil of unthinking consumerism, faddishness, and the well-marketed urge to "do your own thing" by buying exactly the same trend-item that everyone else buys to show that they're "doing their own thing". And that's not EEEEEEEVil, that's just STOOOOOOOOpid.
On a related note, how an evangelical Christian thinks that exhibiting this level of spiritual paranoia--or rather, announcing it in reply to another co-worker's perfectly innocuous Seinfeldian question of "And what's with these kids and the whole zombie/vampire thing?"--how he believes that this response is going to assist in his stated goal of converting me, I fail to grasp.
But because it was offered as a statement based in the speaker's religious beliefs, rather than a random chunk of crackpottery from the fringey set, I had to keep my mouth shut. Which is sad, because no matter where it comes from, it's the same moronic statement; having to ignore it and silence myself, because of what someone believes about their God, only legitimizes it in their eyes, even as it puts me further off the notion of belief as a whole.
And frankly, that's a notion that's already stretched a little thin around here these days. CR is coming to town in a couple of weeks; we've talked online quite a bit, and today he decided to tell me exactly how sick he really is. I knew a bit already, but the whole picture was much more grim. His list of ailments is extensive; high blood pressure, diabetes, vascular disease, sleep apnea, lung problems, kidney problems. Since I know him well enough to know he'll resist any changes to his diet or exercise habits, I've pretty well been forced to conclude that any attempt to plan a long-term future with him would be an exercise in futility. I know that's probably true for anyone--after all, anything can happen to any of us at any time--but in his case it's pretty much a certainty that I'll outlive him.
So here we are: he's had all these insights and totally turned around his view of relationships, of me, of what our life together could be--all well and good mentally, but physically it sounds like he's not in any sort of condition to join me in any of the things I want to do with the rest of my life. (Put it this way: we were discussing changes we both needed to make, and I mentioned, in the context of little things we could try, "taking a walk in the morning". His reply, after a series of large-font "ha ha ha ha ha"'s, was "not w this breathing--i would definitely die". After a while, he agreed, with a few stipulations--but...wow.) If a short morning walk is beyond his ability at this point, I don't think I'm exaggerating matters when I wonder just how long he's gonna be around.
And, as I told him, I'm not prepared to deal with losing ANOTHER partner. I told him I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep him around, but as I said: I know this man. He's a lot like me; we're both stubborn as hell, and we both like the things we like--full stop. Losing the fried foods and the sweets would be a good idea for both of us; but each of us needs to make that committment. I have--though right now I'm in a bit of a holding pattern til the Happy Campers leave--but I can't demand that CR do the same... and as stubborn as he is, I don't believe he will do it on his own.
I'm finding it a little hard to keep from being cynical here. I mean, let's recap, shall we? Let's for a moment assume the existence of God or someone like him...1991, I meet JP and each of us feels an instant connection, but various issues--pride, anger, miscommunication--keep us apart for nearly three years. We steal seven months sneaking around, then live together for eleven blissful months...whereupon he dies. 1997, I meet CR, and again each of us feels an instant connection to the other. But he's got a lot of baggage from his family and from past relationships, baggage that has accumulated to make him a giant asshole. Regardless, we keep together in an on-and-off relationship til 1999, when we move in together--but at no time does his assholeishness subside. He lies to me, he cheats on me, he emotionally abuses me; finally, in 2002, two months after we married, he leaves me for another woman, in a burst of emotional cruelty that destroys what little self-esteem I'd managed to keep til then. Six years later he calls me to apologize; we start to talk again, and he tells me all he's been through; he talks about all the revelations he's had about his past, his behavior, and the way he treated me. He apologizes, many many times, and tells me that he never wants to be without me again, for the rest of his life. But circumstances--largely financial, but also connected to the Happy Campers I'm harboring in the interim--keep us apart for several more months....Meanwhile, during the seven years apart, he's neglected his health to the point that, by the time he makes it back to me, he's got several potentially-lethal disease processes working; has no health insurance; and--being frank here--probably won't live another ten years without some serious medical intervention he can't afford. Somehow I don't see health-care reform progressing far enough to make possible the kind of interventions he'd need.
So once again, barring a miracle, I will very likely preside at the death of another man I love more than I can even describe. Someone, someday, is going to need to explain to me how this is even remotely fair. I've had, in my life, four major relationships (relationships where, at any point, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with that person). I broke off two--my first boyfriend and my first marriage--and in neither of the breakups was I at all proud of my actions. For a long time I considered JP's death to be some sort of celestial retaliation for the way I'd handled those breakups, or for loving him too much, perhaps--but now, thinking about the future, I find no explanation at all. I would like to believe that my old age will not be spent alone; I would like the luxury of believing that the man I love will be there on the front porch, side-by-side in our rocking chairs. In a way--and yes, I realize this is the same kind of childish, magical thinking I was railing against only a few paragraphs ago--but in a way I feel like losing JP should somehow be enough; that the universe or God or whoever, before it takes away another love of mine, should take into account what I've already been through. I know it doesn't work that way, but knowing how this relationship will likely play out, and the kind of grief that comes after, has a very good chance of making me really bitter.
And I know, I'm letting my worries about the future cloud the present; I'm robbing myself of the happiness I could have, even if it is for only a short time...but dammit, I feel completely powerless to help here. I can nudge him in the right direction, mainly by going in that same direction myself--but his health issues have gone much further than I'd guessed, and I don't think little nudges will be enough. Maybe seven years ago--before he'd spent half a decade living with a family he described as "like the Klumps from the Nutty Professor movies", eating what they ate, in the quantities they ate it...yeah, I'm angry there too; if he'd been here, or with someone responsible, when his health problems started to manifest, something could have been done, maybe. I'm not being fair, I know--but as I said before, how is this situation fair at all to me? How is it when many 39-year-old women are married and have kids, and have at least the possibility of spending their later years with the man they love, how is it fair at all that I've already lost one, and am pretty likely to lose another? How is it fair that I've done my damndest to make up for my past mistakes; that I've fought against all the pressure for "training" one's partner to behave in a female-approved way, which so many of my female acquaintances have subscribed to--in short, that I've done everything in my power to be a good girlfriend and to let my partner be exactly who he is, without trying to change him--and for all my effort, my great reward is to spend the rest of my life alone?
I have to say: I'm furious about all this. For one thing, CR doesn't deserve it; not that anybody does, but there's a lot he wanted out of life that he's not going to get to do. And for another thing--I've said this about losing JP, and I'll say it again about this--it's just not fair. And yeah, I know, "nobody said life was fair", and I know I've been infinitely luckier than most people, so I have no grounds to complain--but it feels even more unfair somehow that on the few occasions that my life HASN'T been completely charmed, the bad things have been bad in precisely the way I have always feared the most, and in precisely the way from which I can least recover.
My co-worker, he of the Eeeeevil New York vampire contingent, can talk all he wants about God's great Plan, and all those other things...but the older I get, and the more I live, the more I believe that one of two things is the case: either there is no "great plan", or if there IS a plan, great or otherwise, it's somewhere been decided that I am destined to spend my life alone. It's easier to accept randomness than to justify paranoia, so I'm leaning toward the no-Plan option; but in a way, that's almost worse, since it puts me in conflict with the beliefs of practically everyone....which, in its way, is the same as being alone.
"I can tell you what (the current vampire craze in popular culture) is about...It's about EVIL! There are bands of vampires in New York City--LIVING in New York City!--and there are advertisers--no, I'm serious here!--who are just CATERING to them and...."
(I regret that I am unable to offer you the remainder of the quoted statement, or the replies of the rest of the group being addressed, as upon hearing the word "EVil", I was seized with a sudden violent urge to leave the room, an urge to which I succumbed instantly. Anyhow...)
I do not believe that I am stepping too far over the line in saying, "What a frickin MORON." Because in my opinion, that is a patently moronic statement, for several different values of moronicity. First of all--attempting to demonize a passing pop-culture fad is the hallmark of an uptight mind. In fact, attempting to claim that ANYTHING--any belief system, any lifestyle choice, any inborn quality, any random action--is based in EEEEEEEVil, should be the Godwin's Law of any discussion. "It comes from EEEEEEEEVIL," in my book, translates as "I don't like it, it scares/disturbs/disquiets me, and I cannot articulate the reason in a reasoned adult fashion because this is a reaction based purely in emotion, superstition, and a stunted sense of the workings of the universe. Therefore I pronounce it bad, and demonize it and all who are not as offended by it as I am."
Also, I'm sorry...reality, anyone? Vampires living in New York, catered to by advertisers? What a frickin MORON. Those are idiot Hot Topic kids who've read one too many Twilight books. The only EEEEEEEEvil they represent is the EEEEEEEvil of unthinking consumerism, faddishness, and the well-marketed urge to "do your own thing" by buying exactly the same trend-item that everyone else buys to show that they're "doing their own thing". And that's not EEEEEEEVil, that's just STOOOOOOOOpid.
On a related note, how an evangelical Christian thinks that exhibiting this level of spiritual paranoia--or rather, announcing it in reply to another co-worker's perfectly innocuous Seinfeldian question of "And what's with these kids and the whole zombie/vampire thing?"--how he believes that this response is going to assist in his stated goal of converting me, I fail to grasp.
But because it was offered as a statement based in the speaker's religious beliefs, rather than a random chunk of crackpottery from the fringey set, I had to keep my mouth shut. Which is sad, because no matter where it comes from, it's the same moronic statement; having to ignore it and silence myself, because of what someone believes about their God, only legitimizes it in their eyes, even as it puts me further off the notion of belief as a whole.
And frankly, that's a notion that's already stretched a little thin around here these days. CR is coming to town in a couple of weeks; we've talked online quite a bit, and today he decided to tell me exactly how sick he really is. I knew a bit already, but the whole picture was much more grim. His list of ailments is extensive; high blood pressure, diabetes, vascular disease, sleep apnea, lung problems, kidney problems. Since I know him well enough to know he'll resist any changes to his diet or exercise habits, I've pretty well been forced to conclude that any attempt to plan a long-term future with him would be an exercise in futility. I know that's probably true for anyone--after all, anything can happen to any of us at any time--but in his case it's pretty much a certainty that I'll outlive him.
So here we are: he's had all these insights and totally turned around his view of relationships, of me, of what our life together could be--all well and good mentally, but physically it sounds like he's not in any sort of condition to join me in any of the things I want to do with the rest of my life. (Put it this way: we were discussing changes we both needed to make, and I mentioned, in the context of little things we could try, "taking a walk in the morning". His reply, after a series of large-font "ha ha ha ha ha"'s, was "not w this breathing--i would definitely die". After a while, he agreed, with a few stipulations--but...wow.) If a short morning walk is beyond his ability at this point, I don't think I'm exaggerating matters when I wonder just how long he's gonna be around.
And, as I told him, I'm not prepared to deal with losing ANOTHER partner. I told him I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep him around, but as I said: I know this man. He's a lot like me; we're both stubborn as hell, and we both like the things we like--full stop. Losing the fried foods and the sweets would be a good idea for both of us; but each of us needs to make that committment. I have--though right now I'm in a bit of a holding pattern til the Happy Campers leave--but I can't demand that CR do the same... and as stubborn as he is, I don't believe he will do it on his own.
I'm finding it a little hard to keep from being cynical here. I mean, let's recap, shall we? Let's for a moment assume the existence of God or someone like him...1991, I meet JP and each of us feels an instant connection, but various issues--pride, anger, miscommunication--keep us apart for nearly three years. We steal seven months sneaking around, then live together for eleven blissful months...whereupon he dies. 1997, I meet CR, and again each of us feels an instant connection to the other. But he's got a lot of baggage from his family and from past relationships, baggage that has accumulated to make him a giant asshole. Regardless, we keep together in an on-and-off relationship til 1999, when we move in together--but at no time does his assholeishness subside. He lies to me, he cheats on me, he emotionally abuses me; finally, in 2002, two months after we married, he leaves me for another woman, in a burst of emotional cruelty that destroys what little self-esteem I'd managed to keep til then. Six years later he calls me to apologize; we start to talk again, and he tells me all he's been through; he talks about all the revelations he's had about his past, his behavior, and the way he treated me. He apologizes, many many times, and tells me that he never wants to be without me again, for the rest of his life. But circumstances--largely financial, but also connected to the Happy Campers I'm harboring in the interim--keep us apart for several more months....Meanwhile, during the seven years apart, he's neglected his health to the point that, by the time he makes it back to me, he's got several potentially-lethal disease processes working; has no health insurance; and--being frank here--probably won't live another ten years without some serious medical intervention he can't afford. Somehow I don't see health-care reform progressing far enough to make possible the kind of interventions he'd need.
So once again, barring a miracle, I will very likely preside at the death of another man I love more than I can even describe. Someone, someday, is going to need to explain to me how this is even remotely fair. I've had, in my life, four major relationships (relationships where, at any point, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with that person). I broke off two--my first boyfriend and my first marriage--and in neither of the breakups was I at all proud of my actions. For a long time I considered JP's death to be some sort of celestial retaliation for the way I'd handled those breakups, or for loving him too much, perhaps--but now, thinking about the future, I find no explanation at all. I would like to believe that my old age will not be spent alone; I would like the luxury of believing that the man I love will be there on the front porch, side-by-side in our rocking chairs. In a way--and yes, I realize this is the same kind of childish, magical thinking I was railing against only a few paragraphs ago--but in a way I feel like losing JP should somehow be enough; that the universe or God or whoever, before it takes away another love of mine, should take into account what I've already been through. I know it doesn't work that way, but knowing how this relationship will likely play out, and the kind of grief that comes after, has a very good chance of making me really bitter.
And I know, I'm letting my worries about the future cloud the present; I'm robbing myself of the happiness I could have, even if it is for only a short time...but dammit, I feel completely powerless to help here. I can nudge him in the right direction, mainly by going in that same direction myself--but his health issues have gone much further than I'd guessed, and I don't think little nudges will be enough. Maybe seven years ago--before he'd spent half a decade living with a family he described as "like the Klumps from the Nutty Professor movies", eating what they ate, in the quantities they ate it...yeah, I'm angry there too; if he'd been here, or with someone responsible, when his health problems started to manifest, something could have been done, maybe. I'm not being fair, I know--but as I said before, how is this situation fair at all to me? How is it when many 39-year-old women are married and have kids, and have at least the possibility of spending their later years with the man they love, how is it fair at all that I've already lost one, and am pretty likely to lose another? How is it fair that I've done my damndest to make up for my past mistakes; that I've fought against all the pressure for "training" one's partner to behave in a female-approved way, which so many of my female acquaintances have subscribed to--in short, that I've done everything in my power to be a good girlfriend and to let my partner be exactly who he is, without trying to change him--and for all my effort, my great reward is to spend the rest of my life alone?
I have to say: I'm furious about all this. For one thing, CR doesn't deserve it; not that anybody does, but there's a lot he wanted out of life that he's not going to get to do. And for another thing--I've said this about losing JP, and I'll say it again about this--it's just not fair. And yeah, I know, "nobody said life was fair", and I know I've been infinitely luckier than most people, so I have no grounds to complain--but it feels even more unfair somehow that on the few occasions that my life HASN'T been completely charmed, the bad things have been bad in precisely the way I have always feared the most, and in precisely the way from which I can least recover.
My co-worker, he of the Eeeeevil New York vampire contingent, can talk all he wants about God's great Plan, and all those other things...but the older I get, and the more I live, the more I believe that one of two things is the case: either there is no "great plan", or if there IS a plan, great or otherwise, it's somewhere been decided that I am destined to spend my life alone. It's easier to accept randomness than to justify paranoia, so I'm leaning toward the no-Plan option; but in a way, that's almost worse, since it puts me in conflict with the beliefs of practically everyone....which, in its way, is the same as being alone.
Labels:
CR,
grief,
religions,
the unfairness of everything
Sep 7, 2009
(=.=)
(That title, incidentally, is a squinchy-face, such as normally accompanies the response "Oh you DO, do you.")
I am saying exactly this much on the subject, and no more.
It's very easy to say what you would, or wouldn't, do in a given set of circumstances. I'm fairly good at it, myself; when people tell me of an encounter with some rude individual, I immediately go into "Oh, man, if I'd have been there I'd have told that S.O.B. where to get off...", generally complete with illustrative uppercuts and chest-puffings-out--and when I run into the same style of rude person, I shrink like a violet, and benignly smile as I get the hell out of their way. It's easy to know what someone should do, when "someone" isn't you.
It's a little more difficult, though, when you have the actual PEOPLE in front of you; one person who, despite the current state of affairs, was once your friend; and the other, seven months pregnant and with nowhere to go (LITERALLY nowhere; that's not a rhetorical device). What each of them has or has not done really doesn't come into consideration when it comes to kicking people out of your home.
There is a deadline; at least one party is making an effort; and honestly, that's about all I feel comfortable saying right now. I'm going to confess that this is starting to feel less like my blog and more like an inquisition, and I don't like that feeling. I have enough inquisitors in real life.
I am saying exactly this much on the subject, and no more.
It's very easy to say what you would, or wouldn't, do in a given set of circumstances. I'm fairly good at it, myself; when people tell me of an encounter with some rude individual, I immediately go into "Oh, man, if I'd have been there I'd have told that S.O.B. where to get off...", generally complete with illustrative uppercuts and chest-puffings-out--and when I run into the same style of rude person, I shrink like a violet, and benignly smile as I get the hell out of their way. It's easy to know what someone should do, when "someone" isn't you.
It's a little more difficult, though, when you have the actual PEOPLE in front of you; one person who, despite the current state of affairs, was once your friend; and the other, seven months pregnant and with nowhere to go (LITERALLY nowhere; that's not a rhetorical device). What each of them has or has not done really doesn't come into consideration when it comes to kicking people out of your home.
There is a deadline; at least one party is making an effort; and honestly, that's about all I feel comfortable saying right now. I'm going to confess that this is starting to feel less like my blog and more like an inquisition, and I don't like that feeling. I have enough inquisitors in real life.
Sep 1, 2009
Yawn
This is the third post I started today. Both of them got out of hand fairly fast; the first one bogged down by details, the second one just too damn hard to write, and the effort has worn me out.
I'm going to bed. It will probably seem strange to say it, but I am mostly happy right now; it's just that being happy is a tangly thing for me, and talking about my current happiness brings up memories that make me sad. So yes, I am okay; better than okay, really, but not in a way I can express at the moment.
More later.
I'm going to bed. It will probably seem strange to say it, but I am mostly happy right now; it's just that being happy is a tangly thing for me, and talking about my current happiness brings up memories that make me sad. So yes, I am okay; better than okay, really, but not in a way I can express at the moment.
More later.
Aug 20, 2009
Yupdates
8/31/09: Note: I thought I posted this, like, DAYS ago, and only the recent "Hey Gladys! New post?" alert from Miz made me realize that I hadn't. So here, in its incomplete entirety, is the Post You Didn't See...
Since there seem to be long strings trailing from a few of my recent posts, I figure I'll just toss out a couple of updates.
First things first: Eatmisery's blog is once again in the land of the living!!! Glad to have you back, Miz...I can't imagine losing six years of posts, so I can only guess how terrifying that had to have been for you, finding that message where your blog should have been. (Incidentally, short of printing it or publishing it to your own personal website, the only way to back up a blog is to use Blogger's "export" function, which sends an .xml copy of your stuff. Not ideal, IMHO; I think I'm going to start making a Word file out of this one, just in case.)
In other news, I actually had a reasonably productive conversation on Facebook with the girl who posted the link to that racially-fraught blog. She started out the next day with a status message wondering "why is it that concern for out children is automatically labeled as racism". Needless to say, I called bullshit on THAT line of inquiry, and as the conversation went on, she explained that HER predominant concerns were: 1)the barbecuers were inside the fenced-in playlot area, which--along with being meant for KIDS, not grown people--is heavily posted with signs saying "No alcohol/no open flame"; 2) that the kids playing in the playlot were being engulfed in smoke clouds from the grills; and 3) that the adults were drinking in the playlot (illegal), acting like drunken d-bags, and generally NOT being good examples. She also explained that the park renovation had been paid for with a special tax levy, directly by the residents of that area, and that it seemed unfair that their kids couldn't even play there, due to misbehavior from people who didn't even pay for it. I came back with a reply, agreeing with all those points--but then pointed out that neither the "officer's" quotes from the original blog, nor the responses posted in the comment section, made any mention of ANY of the VALID points. I took up a sequence of five Facebook comments to explain that what I was reading indicated less of a problem with WHAT was happening in the park, and much more concern regarding WHO was in the park.
At this point, one of her other friends--someone I don't know, mercifully--came back with words to the effect of "I DO have a problem with WHO, and I don't care who knows it--at least I'm being honest! Now go ahead and call me ignorant or whatever--I don't care." I replied that I had no plans to call her ANYTHING (well, not out loud--my thoughts are my own) and that we were each entitled to our own opinions, and no harm done. Normally, that would be that--right?
Well, apparently this person didn't get the memo, because she just kept going. "I think I'll take a bunch of MY friends, a grill, and a cooler to THEIR park this weekend. I'm sure NOTHING will happen to me..." As far as I can tell, she's the only one among the people I talk to who is actively celebrating her own narrowmindedness in this way; I do wonder, though, how many agree with her and just say nothing.
Since there seem to be long strings trailing from a few of my recent posts, I figure I'll just toss out a couple of updates.
First things first: Eatmisery's blog is once again in the land of the living!!! Glad to have you back, Miz...I can't imagine losing six years of posts, so I can only guess how terrifying that had to have been for you, finding that message where your blog should have been. (Incidentally, short of printing it or publishing it to your own personal website, the only way to back up a blog is to use Blogger's "export" function, which sends an .xml copy of your stuff. Not ideal, IMHO; I think I'm going to start making a Word file out of this one, just in case.)
In other news, I actually had a reasonably productive conversation on Facebook with the girl who posted the link to that racially-fraught blog. She started out the next day with a status message wondering "why is it that concern for out children is automatically labeled as racism". Needless to say, I called bullshit on THAT line of inquiry, and as the conversation went on, she explained that HER predominant concerns were: 1)the barbecuers were inside the fenced-in playlot area, which--along with being meant for KIDS, not grown people--is heavily posted with signs saying "No alcohol/no open flame"; 2) that the kids playing in the playlot were being engulfed in smoke clouds from the grills; and 3) that the adults were drinking in the playlot (illegal), acting like drunken d-bags, and generally NOT being good examples. She also explained that the park renovation had been paid for with a special tax levy, directly by the residents of that area, and that it seemed unfair that their kids couldn't even play there, due to misbehavior from people who didn't even pay for it. I came back with a reply, agreeing with all those points--but then pointed out that neither the "officer's" quotes from the original blog, nor the responses posted in the comment section, made any mention of ANY of the VALID points. I took up a sequence of five Facebook comments to explain that what I was reading indicated less of a problem with WHAT was happening in the park, and much more concern regarding WHO was in the park.
At this point, one of her other friends--someone I don't know, mercifully--came back with words to the effect of "I DO have a problem with WHO, and I don't care who knows it--at least I'm being honest! Now go ahead and call me ignorant or whatever--I don't care." I replied that I had no plans to call her ANYTHING (well, not out loud--my thoughts are my own) and that we were each entitled to our own opinions, and no harm done. Normally, that would be that--right?
Well, apparently this person didn't get the memo, because she just kept going. "I think I'll take a bunch of MY friends, a grill, and a cooler to THEIR park this weekend. I'm sure NOTHING will happen to me..." As far as I can tell, she's the only one among the people I talk to who is actively celebrating her own narrowmindedness in this way; I do wonder, though, how many agree with her and just say nothing.
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