A Response To Eatmisery

Background info: I came across this comment tonight, from one of my longest-time readers, Eatmisery. She's a blogger I respect, and a fellow Chicagoan as well, and I take her words seriously because, for the most part, she's generally on the mark with what she says. In this case, though I understand her thinking, I felt I had to reply in such a way that I could, hopefully, show how "this time is different". Which makes even me think: bleargh.

Her comment is below; my reply follows afterward.

eatmisery said...

I'm betting that you're the one who actually leaves when the lease is up, not them. They'll just latch onto you wherever you go and you'll let them because you're so kind. The only way to get rid of them is to break off contact completely, which includes changing your cell phone number and moving. As long as they can reach you, they've got you right where they want you...every single time.

This is very sad. I feel for you, Gladys. You're the only one who can make the changes you need happen.

Miz...I can completely understand why you would expect that to be the outcome (I leave, they stay in the apt.) but in this case, I'm going to have to say I don't think that's likely. See, in the past, when I've thought about what to do about this situation--at whatever stage the situation was in--I was always worrying about two things at once: one, my own best interests; and two, everyone else's welfare/needs/opinion of me. And that, of course, is where they've got me in the past--as I'm trying to be nice to everyone and take care of everyone, one person gets left out of the equation.

In making THIS decision, however, my process was dominated largely by hard, cold realities: my goals for myself, the ways in which staying in this apartment benefits me, and the ways in which moving to a bigger place with them would actually move me farther AWAY from my goals. When I look at my goals, I don't mind standing still; it's moving backwards that I won't accept, not anymore.

In making this decision, I assumed three options; there are probably more, but I really haven't got any patience with dithering at this late date. So the options I considered were:

a)I stay in my current apartment, while Tim and Squeaky leave;
b)I stay in my current apartment; Tim and Squeaky also stay, and the baby joins us;
c)The three of us move to a larger apartment in preparation for the baby.

I have chosen Option A. Option B is a non-starter on several levels; foremost among them is, as I have explained to Tim, that there is no possible way that another human being, no matter how small, can be added to the population of this apartment without severing the final thread in the fabric of civility here, a fabric which is already paper-thin and strained most exceedingly. Especially in light of recent developments, this apartment is already a ticking time-bomb--when Squeaky figures out that not only did Tim mean what he said about continuing their relationship only in a platonic state, and only for the benefit of the baby--when she discovers that not only did he mean it, but that he has already begun to behave as though it were an accomplished fact--well, put it this way: I fully expect that the police will need to be involved. Squeaky is absolutely certain at the core of her being that not only is Tim secretly thrilled about the baby, but that beneath the surface, he is avidly preparing for their life together, complete with Disney-princess ending and a future devoid of strife. Some of this may be excused by her gravid state, perhaps, but most of it, I believe, is just the magical thinking of a very lonely child who really never grew up. When Squeaky is forced to face reality, there will be no peace for anyone unfortunate enough to be living with her at that time. And even if that day never comes, the fact remains: There is absolutely no room in this apartment for all the accoutrements that go with a baby. It's not a question of making room; the hard truth is, there is no room to be made. Therefore, even if I wanted them and the baby to stay, Option B would not be a possibility.

This leaves Option A and Option C. I will tell you that for the last few weeks of winter and the greater part of spring, Option C was actually my preferred option--to the point that we had discussed it among the three of us, had defined possible locations and price ranges, and had scouted out some preliminary rental advertisements. In considering the plans, I had thought long and hard about what I wanted. I wanted, first and foremost, to get out of Hyde Park. I wanted to move to the North Side, around Logan Square or Humboldt Park--somewhere with coffee shops and grocery stores and bars, someplace more dynamic than here. I also wanted more space; given my choice, I wanted a second bedroom where I could keep all my art supplies, where I could work on complex projects without feline assistance. I was even willing, since I was to be the main beneficiary of the increase in space, to take a greater share of the financial responsibility; I told Tim and Squeaky that instead of each of us paying 1/3, I would consider them as a unit, and split the rent 50-50.

And then I thought about it for a while longer.

First of all: My lease ends at the end of October--four months from now. Taking things by a general estimate, let's say rent would be $1500 for a three-bedroom apartment. Most leases involve a security deposit equal to one month's rent, along with payment for the first month due upon move-in. Therefore, on November first, we would currently need to come up with $3000, plus moving expenses. Moving expenses would be considerable, as my furnishings have long ago expanded beyond the "U-Haul and a couple of guy friends" status; when I moved in here from Casa De Gladys, the movers' bill was nearly $2000. Figuring that half the stuff got moved to Mom's, let's say a move from here would cost, say, $900. This means that I would have to come up with $900 (movers) plus $750 (my half of the security deposit) plus $750 (my half of the first month's rent). This means I would need to save $600/month over the next four months, which is largely outside the realm of MY possibility--to say nothing of the $375/month which THEY would have to save. Between the two of them, they don't even MAKE $375 a month! So realistically, I would end up paying the whole shebang--and there's no way in hell I could amass an extra four grand by Halloween. Then, too, assuming their joblessness continues (which I have no reason to doubt!)I would then end up paying more than twice my current rent, once utilities and the like are factored in. And I would want to do this WHY? For WHAT reason?

No, Miz, this isn't going to become a squishy, cuddly, world-saving expedition. I realize it HAS been so far, but until now, there hasn't been a concrete, calculable argument AGAINST it on which to hang my hat...well, now I've got one. So far, there was nothing anyone could physically POINT to and say "Do you see what you're LOSING by helping these two?"--or if there was, I could always say "But I can afford to give it, so I'm okay with it." Well, I am NOT okay with losing four grand before Thanksgiving, and I'm NOT okay with the prospect of losing an extra $600-ish per month afterwards because "our" apartment has become "my" financial albatross. So Option C is right out.

This leaves Option A: I stay here, they leave. Again: there is no way that three other people can stay here, even if--ESPECIALLY if--one is a newborn baby. If the baby can't stay, obviously Squeaky can't stay...besides which, I doubt she'll even WANT to, once Tim explains in detail what he's been up to lately. I'm sure the truth will come out, and as I said: I'm pretty sure the police will be involved whenever THAT happens. So there's a possibility that all three will have to go, regardless of ANYONE's wishes.

And while I wouldn't mind if Tim stayed, there are three factors which argue against his continued tenancy. One, which I've heard reflected to me more than once: letting him stay here ALSO allows him to continue his inertia. As long as he has a roof over his head, and can bum a beer and a cigarette from somewhere, he's perfectly content to sleep til noon, then stay up all night flirting with girls on Facebook...which is, I realize, doing him no favors. Secondly, as long as HE's here, there's always the possibility that Squeaky could pull the "you don't want your child and her mother to be HOMELESS, do you? Ask Gladys if we can stay...It'll just be for a couple of nights..." And we've ALL seen how well THAT has turned out in the past.

The third thing, I realize, could (amd probably will) be construed as a case of "out of the frying pan, into the sulfurous, reeking, magma-bubbling mouth of the active volcano" but I don't believe it will: as long as Tim is here, I need to keep CR at a reasonable distance. I'm tired of their feud, and I'm tired of getting a skunk-eye when the caller ID shows his number. I would like, perhaps, even to be able to have CR come over once in a while for a pizza, or to let him use the computer for job-hunting if he needs it, or whatever. (The jury is cautioned to withhold further commentary re: the nature of activities encompassed by "whatever".) In short, I would like my place back, AS mine, where I can do anything I choose to do without having to hasten to change my actions to compensate for someone else's long-ago fights.

Since this post is mercilessly long (AGAIN), I want to end by saying this: I don't mean to sound defensive or bitchy in any way (ESPECIALLY not to eatmisery; she's one of my favorite Chicago bloggers!) And I do understand everyone's concerns about me; I've put my foot down so many times re:Tim & Squeak in this blog, it's starting to get a dent in the floor. But in all seriousness, I have taken these concerns seriously, and I appreciate that you all care enough to speak your minds. Thank you for that; it's easier, sometimes, to see your flaws when other people can point out your positives too, and when they mention them in a concerned and compassionate way.

Finally Pinned It Down

I have now realized what it is about Squeaky that drives me MOST batshit crazy-go-nuts.

There are, as I think you all can agree, two possible classes of response to the question "How are you?" We have Group One, which is "I'm fine, and how are you?" There are, of course, many variants and degrees of this answer, trending all the way up to "I'm blessed and hope you are the same," and all the way down to my personal favorite, "I'd be better if it was Friday." Different as these are, however, they are all part of one continuum of information.

Then there's Group Two. While a Group One reply can often be given while passing a colleague in the hall, the Group Two answer requires the colleague not only to slow their pace, but to STOP, completely, in order to take in the answer without appearing callous and uncaring. The Group Two answer: "Oh, I'm okay, I guess. I mean, my stomach muscles really hurt, but the doctor says that's okay because the baby's expanding and pushing all the internal organs around. And besides, I've already gained eleven pounds, although the doctor says I should gain more because....Oh, and I have a blister on my foot. Well, it's not really a blister; ir started OUT as a blister but it turned into more of a..."

I'm guessing, my dear readers, that you're getting a notion as to which group our dear Squeaky falls into?

And I'm losing my everlovin' marbles, is my point. Last night, she came into and out of my bedroom every five to ten minutes for about four hours. Each time, she disturbed me in my effort to relax after a long--a REALLY long--day. Each time, she told me the same bits of pregnancy-related information I've now been hearing for nearly four and a half months. Finally, after she stretched her shirt over her belly for the eighth time and said "Look--it keeps getting bigger! I think it just grew some more!" I replied. "That may be, but I'm pretty sure it's NOT any bigger than the last time you said that, fifteen minutes ago."

I'm TRYING to be nice, but I mean: my god.

And it's not just the pregnancy stuff, either. Sunday, she went to Taste of Chicago with one of her friends. She came into my room Sunday night to ask me to look at her foot, because she thought she had a piece of glass or something but she couldn't see from that angle whether there was anything in her foot or not. I told her all I saw was a blister--a really nasty-looking one, but just a blister--and that the best thing she could do was to stay off it and wash it with warm water and my antibacterial wash stuff from when I had my attack of the Itchy Whatever-It-Was. Throughout the next 24 hours, every conversation involved the condition of her foot: the fact that it hurt, that it hurt to stand on it, that it was now throbbing; that she had washed it, that she wondered if putting Neosporin on it would help, whether I had any Neosporin; that the Neosporin had helped a little but it still hurt, that if it hurt later she was going to the doctor, that it was turning purple and was that a good thing? Monday evening, when I returned from work, I was informed that she had gone to the doctor and the doctor said it was because of her shoes (who the HELL wears open shoes to the Taste of Chicago?? DUH...) and that she should throw them away; that it wasn't a blister exactly, but it had started out as a blister and then because (something something) it turned into a knot UNDER the blister, and she should keep it clean and covered (did I have a bandaid?) and eventually it would turn into a callus under the skin, but that was no big deal.

Still reading?
Hey.
WAKE UP!
Seriously, if I have to deal with this, the least you can do is READ it.

Imagine every little incident elaborated into so great a detail. Imagine hearing every infinitesimal rendering of every minuscule ache, pain, twinge, or sensation.

Imagine the part where I want to jump off a freakin' BRIDGE. Further, imagine how bad the constant litany is likely to become over the next few months, and you will understand that Tim and I have had a fairly-emphatic conversation, to wit:

I am not moving.
I am staying here.
There is absolutely, positively, no possible Earthly way that this living situation can continue past the end of my lease in October; under NO circumstances will this be the "home" to which the baby is eventually brought. That is not going to happen. The CURRENT living situation borders on "completely untenable"; the addition of a newborn to the mix would send it catapulting over the edge of "untenable", past "impossible", and well into the boundaries of "you've gotta be fucking KIDDING me, right???"
I have no animosity toward anyone, and I am not judging anyone for their actions; however, I am not going to allow the quality of my life to be compromised by my wish to help the two of them.

And that was before I knew how bad the REAL situation was.

See, Tim has a girlfriend.
No, not Squeaky; a different girlfriend.
Tim has told Squeaky repeatedly that he is not "in love" with her, no matter how much he does love her and the baby.
Squeaky has steadfastly refused to hear anything other than "...and we'll live happily ever after, and all the unicorns will poop rainbows and twenty-dollar bills, and everyone will love each other just to pieces."
This is NOT how it's going to happen.

I have told Tim that I won't judge his actions, but that I will state for the record that even if they ARE understandable, they are also extraordinarily shitty, and definitely not the sort of thing I agree with. (So in fact, I -am- judging his actions; but seriously, dude. The degrees of "totally, insanely WRONG" here are pretty comprehensive, you know? Not to mention that you are doing E.X.A.C.T.L.Y the same thing you castigate CR for--you're treating Squeaky just how CR treated me, lying and fucking around and maintaining your relationships on the computer and etc., except the way you're doing it is actually WORSE, since at no time during that whole eighteen-month nightmare was I ever PREGNANT WITH HIS CHILD. So--yeah, I'm judging. I'm not going to repeat my judgement ad nauseam, but it's there, and someday we'll have to discuss it.)

Oh...yeah. About CR. He's still where he is, with no cell phone anymore; with no job, no money, no nothing. He stays with friends--sometimes in the house, other times in the garage. He scrambles for food and for gas money. He wants to come back to Chicago, but there are no jobs; he has a friend in Virginia or somewhere who will give him a manual-labor job, if he can get the gas money to get that far, that is. He is completely, utterly miserable.

I miss him. I'll admit it; he's fun to talk to. Do I want to live with him again? HELL no; the seven years we've been apart have been seven years in which I've learned a lot about myself, and it makes me happy to realize that--I am ME, and I am not willing to give that up to live with anyone.

(Now, if we could work out some kind of situation where he could rent out the apartment next door, I could live with THAT...)

And one more great development: Remember Debbi, of Debbi and Cowgirl fame? I think I mentioned that she got married back in the winter, and that Cowgirl hasn't spoken to her since; she was hurt by Cowgirl's rejection, but being happy can take the edge off a whole lot of stuff...and make no mistake, Debbi is happy. In fact, as of last week she's even HAPPIER; she went in to the doctor for what she THOUGHT was a recurrence of a uterine cyst, and discovered that in about eighteen years, that cyst is gonna need college money...Debbi is now about two months pregnant. I was--I AM--thrilled for her; I even managed to display that happiness and excitement til I hung up the phone, whereupon I bawled my eyes out, and spent the next few days in a funk of "I'm 39, I'm alone, I'm wasting my life, and everyone around me is having babies." I'm solid in my decision not to have kids of my own--I realize I'm not cut out for parenthood...but oh, sometimes I really wish I was more like everybody else.

Important Facts, June 2009

1. Birthdays are alternately sucky and awesome. The "pondering the passage of time, the wasted years and my own eventual death" part = sucky. The "really awesome present from Mom, upon which this blog entry is being written from the privacy of my own room AND wirelessly" = awesome. Also, not being in the hospital for my birthday, a la 2005 = also awesome.

2. My boss is a....no, don't want to be QUITE that profane.
My boss is a....no, I'd probably get sent straight to hell just for TYPING that.
My boss is...Okay, look. My boss is a FU----G B---H, is the point I'm heading towards here. (In fact, I'll even go back and redact the middle letters there, just so no one can go tut-tut at me. But she IS that, and worse, to the uttermost degree.) Today was the Office Picnic. It was moved inside due to an infestation of mud in the usual picnic ground; otherwise, though, it was a repeat of last year...in all aspects but one. See, last year, the picnic ended at 2, and afterwards everyone could go home. THIS year, however, Ms BossLady decided to buttonhole a departing Help Desk staffer and question his decision to leave. When my immediate boss objected, saying "that's not what happened last year," she insisted that it WAS. So while EVERY DEPARTMENT BUT OURS left to go home for the day, my colleagues and I labored on--even though we are a technical-support department and there was no one to support but ourselves! AND--to add icing to this crapcake--Ms BossLady left at 5, my immediate boss left at 4:15, and I? Had to stay til 6:30, just like every day. What a crock of crap.

3. I am not moving in November. I have told Tim this; I am not moving. It is not in my best interests to move. He and Squeaky are welcome to stay and work out what they're doing next, but the baby will not be brought "home" to here in December. We all have limits. Tim understands this and thinks it's fine, and he says he's grateful for my straightforwardness. Despite his many flaws, I will not be shaken from my opinion: Tim is a good guy, with bad judgement and worse luck, who's gotten himself in waaaaaaaaaaaaay over his head in life. He isn't trying to take advantage; if it does come out that way sometimes, it's unintentional. I fully expect that Tim and I will end up as roomies in the old-age home, if his liver makes it that long.

4. Squeaky, though, I can take or leave, and would prefer to leave. She spent Mother's Day with me at my mom's house--a last-minute invite for dinner, since Tim had gone all Asshole-Boy and went off to hang with his friends--and even my MOM said Squeak is extremely self-centered. Every conversation came back around to "I'm pregnant!" She's not a bad person--in fact, I think the thing that disturbs me most about her is that I see in her a lot of who I might have easily become, had my life not turned in the direction that it had. If I had continued on the pampered-darling path I was heading down when I was 18 or 19 or 20, I could very well have remained unconscious, invested my entire energy, heart, and soul into a Man, and been somebody's little shadow, someone's mouthpiece, for the rest of my days. I can't pinpoint the moment my life turned--it was before I met JP, probably, but not LONG before--but I thank X every day for it.

4a. "You thank WHO? Who's 'X'?" Okay, look. I know some of you might be religious, and I begrudge no one their deity, but seriously: if people do not stop whacking me upside the head with their Lord and Savior, I'm gonna get REAL heathenish, REAL quick. Yesterday I left work early with a bad stomach; before I left, my cubemate PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER (big no-no--I'm practically Asperger-y about unsolicited touch) and PRAYED that I would be HEALED in the name of JESUS. (And no, there was NO irony intended at all--he was dead serious.) Today, when he brought his wife and kids in for the picnic, he announced to them "I prayed for Gladys yesterday when she was sick, and she got better." I WANTED to say, "I was gonna get better ANYWAY, nimbot--this happens pretty much EVERY month for a day or two," but I figured, if it made him happy to believe that he'd "cured" my monthly case of premenstrual bubbleguts, who was I to harsh his God-buzz? But seriously: between him, Mom, and random kindly strangers who take entirely too much interest in the condition of my alleged immortal soul, I am distancing myself ENTIRELY from this whole Judeo-Christian-normativity complex. In other words: please remove your higher power from my grill. He is not happy there; it's not the kind of 'hood He wants to inhabit. K, thx, BAI!!!

5. Summary: I'm good. Not great--sometimes not even functioning, alas--but taking things on the balance, I'm doing okay. A few improvements could be made, but that will come in time, I hope.

(but my boss is still a bitch...)

Moving Right Along...

In the interest of not having to defend myself, which is one of those EXTREMELY non-enjoyable tasks which got old almost immediately after I became old enough to hold an opinion, I will say only the following: A conversation was had; issues were cleared up. Most plans have been suspended pending various people's unrelated decisions. And I still totally adore their cat. (Not QUITE as much as my Snicker-kitty; just NEARLY as much. Seriously: adorable freakin' cat, with a purr like an outboard motor.)

Right now, my main problems are twofold: technical problems, and dental problems. (Well, threefold, if you count the fact that the dental problems will lead to financial problems, most likely....even WITH insurance!)

Technical problems first: Foolishly, I accepted a recommendation from one of my colleagues to work on a computer for one of the staff where I work. The person who owns the computer is a very nice lady, with a very nice husband who works for the same employer in a different department; and they live about a mile from me. So after work one evening, I walked to their house thinking "This should be easy enough..."

I had forgotten about the doctrine of Famous Last Words, alas.

The problem: their computer, an old-ish machine custom-built by a friend of theirs several years ago, could no longer connect to the Internet. They had AT&T/Yahoo DSL service, and a quick (hour-long) phone call to their help desk revealed that the problem was not on their end. So at about 9 PM, I said: "I think I'll need to come back tomorrow and try a few more things." And they said "Sure, fine, what do we owe you?" and I said, "Nothing, til I fix it."

I tell you, for the next four days, I did every single solitary thing that one could possibly do to get a computer to connect to the network, and it would NOT do it. I restarted the machine; I restarted the router. I tried IPCONFIG and received an error message telling me that "this command is not supported" (huh??? This was where I knew I was in deep weeds.) I talked, each day, to all of my colleagues, brainstorming possibilities. "Blow away the TCP/IP stack." "Reset the WINSOCK." "Try this link here..." "Did you try what they recommended on that site there?"

And each night, I did it all. I uninstalled every single client, service, and protocol related to networking. I ran NETSH. I ran CHKDISK to make sure it wasn't the hard drive. I even, as a last resort, recommended a new network card. None of it did a damn thing.

Finally at the end of the fourth night, I had to admit that I was completely out of ideas. They were very nice about it; they said they had known for a while that they'd need a new machine soon anyhow, but they'd been trying to stretch the life on this one, and so on and so on. I wouldn't take their money--I hadn't, after all, solved the problem, and in fact I'd taken up their time for about ten hours. So the net result was a loss of ten bucks--I had to take a cab home one night because the rain was coming down so hard I was afraid I'd drown just trying to cross the street.

Needless to say, this did nothing for my self-confidence.

And somewhere in this block of time, I also had a dentist appointment. This is a new dentist; my old dental clinic closed down unexpectedly, and sent my X-rays--done a few months ago--to be photocopied or microfiched or whatever it is they do now. So my x-rays were unavailable, and my new dentist had to take a whole new set, which my insurance refused to pay for because apparently they approve only one full set of x-rays per three years. Whatever.

Then, after the X-rays, the doctor went over the treatment plan. Just by the numbers: Four root canals. One (possibly two) extractions. Six (possibly seven) crowns. Fillings in all but two teeth--this is in addition to the fillings already there, and in some cases replacing those fillings. End cost for the whole shebang? $14,000. Now, granted: this was meant as a three-year process, with the big costs coming now and at the end (root canals now, crowns at the end); I have dental insurance and a flex-spending plan which, in foresight of all this, I ramped up to the full amount allowable. But all the same: can you imagine the amount of time I'm going to have to spend in the dentist's chair? Or the amount of novocaine I'm going to take on board?? Or what I could have spent that $14,000 on? (Hint: I really want a car!)

So: yeah. I have OTHER concerns too, you know. Currently foremost among them: will I break my now-two-week-old streak of picking the WORST cabdrivers in Chicago for my ride home from downtown on Saturday? The last two weeks I've practically had to kiss the ground after slamming the door behind me; seriously, I've never felt so much like I was taking my life into my hands, even when I used to shoot heroin. I didn't used to wear seat belts in the back seat of taxicabs; the past two weeks have TOTALLY changed my mind about THAT.

Wish me luck...

Circling

I am not having an easy time of things, mah peeps.

Okay, fine, YES it's spring and YES to some degree that makes me happy; but spring carries with it a certain burden of expectations, and if there's one thing I can't live up to anymore, it's expectations.

I was watching a movie the other night on TCM, and Robert Osborne (Mr. Voice of TCM, and what they'll do for a host when HE's gone I'm sure I don't want to see) said something about an actress who "lost the will to live, and died shortly thereafter..." And I thought to myself How, exactly, does one go about doing that? Losing the will to live, I mean; it seems like the sort of thing only actresses would have the luxury of doing. If you're an actress and you just wither away and die, you're instantly a glamorous heroine for the ages; if you're NOT an actress or any of the other pretty things, withering away is seen as a self-indulgence. Oh, I'm swimming in an EXTRA-special pond THESE days; if you're feeling brave, try to wrap your brain around the notion that I'm taking my nonfunctionality as a sign of laziness and bad character, and my sadness as quantifiable proof that I'm NOT the wonderful person I wish I was--because if I was wonderful, I'd be able to just blaze on through the sadness without a flicker. Beat yourself up much, Gladys?

There's a lot of crap floating around in my life right now. I'm basically supporting, in whole or in part, four-point-three human beings and four cats--there's me, Tim, Squeaky and the Fetus, CR; Snick, Bad, Cassidy, and Tangerine (the last two being Tim and Squeaky's cats. Cass is a veteran of my various residences; Tangie is an absolutely precious little ball of fluff who literally followed Tim to Squeaky's one night a few months ago. I would resent Tangie's presence more if she wasn't so damn freaking ADORABLE and if her presence didn't make me smile at least once or twice a day. This is a seriously cute kitty, folks--almost, but not quite, as cute as my Snick was when he was a teeny kitten.) I've been sending CR money on my own--he only asked once, but I know he's in a baaaaad place right now, maybe even more bad than I am, emotionally speaking. At least HE appreciates it, which is currently more than I can say for the Tim-Squeaky unit.

See, Squeak has a part time job, and what with various delays and red tape, it's taken a while to get her paperwork to go through and blah, blah, and everytime she's borrowed money from me she's promised me: "I'll pay you back when my check comes." Now I don't expect to be paid in full by any means, but just throw me $30 and say "hey, this is all we've got but I do appreciate it..." etc.

Her check came yesterday. Last night when I got home I said something about having to get up early today, and she said "yeah, us too!" I said "Really? Where are you going?" and she replied "Just out."

I knew immediately something was up; this is the same woman who talks my ear off about every infinitesimal crumb of trivia she experiences through the course of a day, but now suddenly "we're just going out." Yeah, okay.

So this morning, I get up at 6:10 to get ready for work, and the two of them were up and dressed and moving around. "Hey," I said to Tim. "Where are you guys off to so early?" "Oh," he said. "We're just going to Great America." (Hint for my non-Chicago readers--Great America is a big amusement park about 50 miles north of here. When I was in grade school, tickets cost $40 each; I can't imagine what they cost now, to say nothing of what the food costs (and the Fetus dictates that Squeaky needs to consume her own weight in junk-food every six hours or so, apparently.)

So, let's see. $40 x 2 = $80 for tickets (though they probably got a discount); plus food for at least 1= about $20 at the least; transportation (I'm guessing they took the train) = $15 or so...what are we up to now, $115? They're going to spend a third of her check and I have not seen, nor even been offered, a DIME, despite the fact that I have boarded them for the entire spring thus far. Like I said, I don't expect to get a big wad of cash from them--just a token and a fuckin' ACKNOWLEDGEMENT would be plenty.

Tim told me where they were going as I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth; by the time I finished, they were gone--without so much as a "have a good day!" I sent a couple of mildly pissed-off text messages, but basically the response was "this was a spur of the moment thing, you have to work, and anyway you've been too busy to talk lately." Uh-huh, I have been busy--with my FUCKING JOB, which goes to support YOUR no-money-having, jobless pregnant asses!!!

I can't wait til the next time "Tim needs cigarette money" or "man, I'm really craving (whatever)". My reply is going to be very simple: "Wow, I'm sorry to hear that. Hope you work something out." I'll spend it on myself instead, or --this would REALLY smoke Tim's hindquarters--I'll send it to CR and then tell Tim I sent it! (And yes, I know I don't need to be helping CR, either, but there's a difference; unlike Tim, I trust CR will actually GET a job and not just TALK about paying me back someday.

There's a lot of other crap going on too--computers which won't work and which I've been trying to fix for someone after-hours; too damn many things in the world changing all at once, and other things staying the same no matter WHAT I would wish for; and this crushing sense that I am doing precisely NOTHING with my life--but the roomies were the sprinkles on the Chest Hair Cake of disaster. (Welcome, my friends, to the OTHER thing that's kept all my cracked little bits Scotch-taped together for the past few weeks: CakeWrecks. Go to the search box on that site and type "Falker Satherhood", and read the whole post, and snort beverage through your nose.)

God, I try so hard not to just be a draggy bag of sad...it's just a hard, hard road to walk. Cats and cakes and blogs and Froot Loops, and sometimes all four at once...they help, I guess, a little, but sometimes it's just hard to smile and act like everything is fine--especially when so much of my world is populated by people who either a)don't know me well (or shouldn't know me well), b)people who know me well but find me difficult; and c)opportunists who claim they appreciate the things you do until they're actually supposed to SHOW their appreciation--all those people to interact with every single day, and not a JP in the crowd. (Oh yeah: according to my shrink? I'm "idealizing" that relationship--apparently in her opinion, this isn't "real" grief at all, it's just a lack of a social life. I HUGELY beg to differ, but like any other crap I encounter, I just shrug it off and go along my way. It would be nice if even the people who are PAID to understand me would acquire a clue.)

This is a test post. If you can read this, then my awesome new cellphonetoy is even awesomer than I thought.

Catastrophic Decompression at 50,000 Feet

Recapping, for those innocent of this blog: Tim, my male roommate, and Squeaky, my female roommate, are now expecting their first child together. (It's actually the second child for each, but as each of their other-parents-of-the-first-child won't let either of them see their respective offspring, I guess we're consigning them to the category of "starter children" and walking away until the wee ones are self-supporting.) Both of them are my roommates only in the sense of "friends who live in the same place"; in terms of financial contributions to rent and incidental expenses, they are both woefully non-participatory by reason of joblessness. Sadly, I see no likelihood that this will change, and so I have accepted their presence as Just One Of Those Things despite their constant bickering (which invariably causes me to wordlessly pick up my belongings and retreat to my room).

Tuesday afternoon my mother called me at work. This is unusual; usually we talk in the evening. It was made more unnerving because I knew she had a doctor's appointment early that morning. Long story short: the doctor wanted her to go in ASAP--in this case, Friday morning--for an angiogram, which would then be followed immediately, if needed, by admission for an angioplasty or possibly more--up to and including open-heart surgery. Needless to say, she was scared; needless to say, so was I.

On Wednesday when I arrived home, I had several voice mail messages. All of them were from CR, all marked "URGENT". When I called him back he told me: he had lost his job. They had run out of hours to give him, they said; "cutting back" and "the economy" and all the rest of the crap they tell you, and then the real truth: "well, you only have a cell phone, and you're living in hotel rooms and with friends, so you're unreliable"--this, though he hadn't missed a single day's work, nor been late, since The Woman put him out. People suck, you know?

You would have to know CR to understand: you can take literally EVERY SINGLE THING away from him--his money, his family, his friends, his place to live, his car, his weed, his cigarettes--and he will survive, and in fact he'll fight all the harder for those things being gone. But if you take his work away from him--particularly if it's work that he's good at, work that he takes pride in--and you will unstring him completely. As long as he can earn a paycheck, he is largely all right; take that ability from him and he crumbles. When I talked to him Wednesday night, he was crumbling.

"I want to come home," he said, several times. Since he's basically the last black man in his part of the state, I don't doubt it; even before The Woman put him out, he would talk to me about how much he missed his city. He wants to be on his own; wants to be able to get an apartment for himself ("I really don't care if I've got no furniture--if it's like, a blanket and a pillow and a TV and a lamp, and I'm sleeping on the floor--as long as it's MINE and I got it for myself") ....which is good, beyond belief, as it's the first time he's ever said that. Losing the job was an even harder blow to him, I think, because for the first time he'd realized that he needed to be independent for real--no woman taking care of him, and in exchange controlling his life.

He wants to be independent, yes...but he also wants me back. I wish I could say I was entirely indifferent to that option, but...The things that went right, when he and I were together, went right very thoroughly (no, I'm NOT being all euphemistic about sex; that was always a bit of an issue, what with all the cheating and the like.) One thing about CR and I--we could TALK. I mean, we were like the People Who Wouldn't Shut Up. Movies, TV, the news, music, politics....one of the things I missed most about him was our conversation. Fortunately we can talk even if we're not sleeping together--an ideal balance, if ever there was one.

But before any of that can even be considered, he needs a job, money, an apartment, a place to live til he gets the apartment (and my place is right out, since he and Tim would shred each other to bits at first sight, like angry wildcats.) I'm gathering information for him but that's really all that I can do.

As you can tell, between the Bicker Twins, CR and his catastrophic decompensation, and Mom--well, let's just say I didn't sleep much this past week. I still have no adequate response for the first two, but at least Mom is okay; her angiogram came back with no blockage whatsoever, and there was much happiness and wOOt-ing on my part. She may be sneaking up on eighty years old, but we've been getting along fairly well lately, and I'd like to keep her around for a while.

Meanwhile: if any of you Chicagoans have connections to any sort of emergency transitional housing; jobs for people with felony convictions in their past, even if it's over fifteen years ago; basically, anything I can access to help this guy (I've already poked around at work, and gotten a few names and phone numbers)...any and all help would be GREATLY appreciated.

Ten Thousand Brain Cells--In Memoriam

Paraphrase: A Conversation with Squeaky

"Pregnant. Pregnant preg pregnant, nauseous pregnant pregnant, pregnant pregnant. Pregnant, preg pregnant, preggers preg preggo preg gestate. Pregnant? Tim's an asshole, pregnant pregnant, asshole not-enough-attention, pregnant pregnant, preg preg McBoobs-Hurt. Tim's an asshole. Preggo preg preggo, pregnant pregnant preggers, preg hungry nauseous nauseous, preg preggo pregnant Tim's an asshole Pregnant."

Seriously. Every single topic, from the time of day to the basketball scores, can SOMEHOW be brought back to the fact that she's expecting. It's like she's the only woman in the world who ever carried an embryo. If this was even HER first time, I'd have more empathy, but she has a 5-year old son (who lives with his father--because when the baby was born, Squeaky was a 15-year-old ward of the state and the dad was 27 and had a job. If I ran the world, any 27-year-old male who impregnated a 15-year-old DCFS kid? Would get custody of his own testicles in a jar of formaldehyde, not custody of the resulting BABY. But--again, to my everlasting dismay--I do NOT run the world. I do often wonder, though, assuming there is a God, whether or not he/she/it/they are paying attention.)

So, as I said, pregnancy is not entirely a new experience for Ms. Squeak; one would think, then, that she might be able to complete a sentence without referring to her gravid state. Alas--not so. Any sentence barely about to escape a pregnancy reference will immediately be used to hold a "Tim's an asshole" commentary. The combination of these two things--one in which I am interested only in passing, the other with which I have, if not complete disagreement, at least a conflict of interest--makes it really, REALLY hard to talk to Squeaky right about now.

And why, should you wonder, is Tim an asshole?

(Hey! I heard that! Stop listing reasons, over there. I'm serious--don't make me turn this blog post around and come back there.....)

No, dear visitors to Gladystopia, Tim has not been doing any of his usual asshole things. He has been drunk but once in my presence, recently; he's not spending all his time out of the apartment hanging out with his male and otherwise non-pregnant friends; really, in the past weeks, the most time he's intentionally been away from Squeaky is the past couple of days, when he was helping his friend move. So what could be wrong?

Apparently, Squeaky feels that every moment of his attention should be focused on herself and--to a lesser degree--the fetus. Instead, Tim has been doing--sit down, my friends, for the horror should not envelop you while in a standing position--OTHER STUFF. Watching SPORTS. Playing on the computer--talking on Facebook--playing Farm Town and YoVille. (I am ambivalent at best re: YoVille; Farm Town, on the other hand, is Teh Awsum, without a doubt.) In other words: not paying 100% attention to HER. Apparently, one of her pregnant friends has a hyper-attentive man--fluffs her pillows and massages her feet and brings her any strange pregnant-food concoction she desires. Personally I think this is a large bag of lies with a side order of "you CAN'T be serious", but That's Just Me--and regardless of its truth, Squeaky has embraced this fable as the ideal for her pregnancy.

Now, there are several reasons this sort of expectation is doomed to the annals of Epic Fail. One, Tim is nobody's ideal guy. I'm not talking about all the things you probably think I'm talking about--the joblessness, the drinking, the bouts of irresponsibility--that's not what I mean. That's the same Tim she got pregnant by--Tim the unemployed, irresponsible alcoholic--and if that wasn't what she expected then she should have thought about the Pill. No, what I mean is this: Tim is not--is not now, has never been in my experience--Mr. WarmFuzzy McCuddlePuss. It's not his way. He's matter-of-fact, alternately serious and goofy, with a skewed sense of humor, not a lot of patience, and a fierce sense of independence and his own personal space. When Tim doesn't want to interact, you don't interact with Tim, and everybody's happy. When Tim doesn't want to talk, he won't; all attempts at conversation will be met with monosyllables at best, grunts and mumbles at worst. I can live with this because I, in my more-depressive moods, am much the same.

Lately Tim has, for the most part, not wanted to talk. For one thing, he claims he's in a great deal of pain; his back and particularly his neck, he says, are killing him, and no amount of Advil or Tylenol or anything seems to help. I wonder how much of it is tension-based; he's confided to me that he's really nervous as to how everything is going to work out once there's a third mouth for them to feed. I have kept my commentary to myself, but he has good reason to be worried. The other thing--and one I understand--is his constant sense of inferiority and persecution by fate. Tim is one of those guys who feels like he cannot get a good break to save his life; while some of his attitude is pure paranoia, some of it actually seems plausible.

(Stopping here, since I'm not going to have much more time to post today...)