Thursday, May 31, 2012

Oops. I got angry.

Last night, C's wife said something to me that really stuck. She said, you always think that this city is full of your peers. 

The discussion was over food and how I am always astonished that this city votes Chipotle as the best Mexican restaurant year after year.

The comment made me think that, yes, we assume everyone has the same sensibilities that we do. That people have the same moral compass and would choose the same path because we surround ourselves with those people. If we meet someone who does not meet those standards, we don't become friends with them. They aren't in our lives.

This morning I was driving to work and the local morning show had someone from The Westboro Baptist Church. I would link to their website, but  the title of the website is offensive and I refuse to link to such filth. Anyway, the whole reason that the morning show had them on was to bring awareness to the fact that people were out there like this. That people felt like this. It shook my entire existence. Because, like C's wife said, I do think the city, the country, the world is full of my peers. Yes, people may disagree with things like gay marriage, but they do it in a civilized way. I realize this is naive. It was a personal choice to remain that way. I don't want to know what these people think. After the pastor disconnected, one of the hosts had to leave the rooms she was so upset. I am sure they now regret that decision.

Yet, here I am, listening to this man, this abomination, this scum. And he is using the word "fag" exclusively to refer to homosexuals and saying that he wants to put them in a concentration camp in the dessert and kill them off like the Jews. He is saying hateful, horrible things and I feel the tears streaming down my face. I am not sad for me. I want to make all of this go away. I want to take away all of this pain for the people whose lives this really affects. I want to silence this man, throw him in a cell, and never let him see the light of day again. I want this to STOP. 

I know it's not that easy. I know that there is so much more to all of this than in my little bubble in my liberal city surrounded by a lot of people who don't feel this way. But, I am so sick of hatred being spewed. Of people saying and doing terrible things in the name of a God that they clearly don't understand. I am sick of watching friends of mine have secret relationships with people they love because their partner's family would never accept them coming out. I am sick of watching loving, happy couples struggle through legal technicalities over their own children. I am just fucking over it.

I posted today that if anyone in my life (and I believe some distant family members who I am friends with on Facebook do) want to put homosexuals in a concentration camp, to just cease being in my life. I don't want to know you. I don't want to hear your hate and your fucking irrational, and frankly terrible, arguments. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to know you. Because, while I cannot control what crazy fucking pastors say and do, I can control who is in my life. And if you are a racist or a bigot or in anyway don't accept and love your fellow man, then fuck off. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

You are going to need to know I haven't slept in 36 hours for this post to still not make sense.

Do you ever feel crazy? Like, really crazy? Like one day, at a cocktail party a psychiatrist is going to pull you aside and ask why you are off your meds? To which you will reply, what meds? And immediately you find yourself in a straight jacket in the back of a Mercedes?

I feel like this ALL. THE. TIME. 

If you know me, I hope you find it endearing. Or at least tolerable. But, there are definitely people who are just like. What. The. Fuck.

There is this woman at work who is constantly trying to medicate me. I get, at least once a week, "you should really take a ridalin and see how it feels." She has even brought in her own prescription. Because the shiny things are EVERYWHERE. And it's not just the easily distraction.

I talk to myself. Not just, like, mumbling under my breath. Whole conversation with myself. Is this a good idea? I don't know? I mean, maybe? I'm not really sure? Let's think about it.

Let's who? There is one of you. You of all people should know this. 

And sometimes I feel like an outsider watching my conversations. Not floating above myself. More like the person standing in the back of the room with this face:

And other me is the llama. In fact, I sort of feel like that more times than I am comfortable with. 

(For the record, this picture never makes me not laugh. Never.) 

(Yes, that was a double negative. Shut up. Call it artistic form.) 

(It is so not artistic form.) 


I was just watching a commercial for Humira and I thought that it said "The majority of people were queer or almost queer in 4 months" and I spit my water onto my laptop. I rewound and discovered they said "clear." It makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE NOW. If you were single, would you take a drug to become queer? I am not sure I know my own answer to that question.

Whoa. pardon that train of random that just came through. Where were we? Oh, yes. Shiny. Crazy. 


It is SO. HARD. to control sometimes. I can't even tell you. Especially around people I am comfortable with. And I don't think other people are like this. Because there are people who can do intricate, tedious things that I am not capable of. Not at all. People can read whole text books without getting 5 pages in and being confused because they realized the whole time they were thinking about what their super power would be if they could have any super power.

You guys. I have said invisibility for years and now...I don't know. I just don't know. I am thinking teleporting now because, well, who doesn't want to teleport. Not time travel. Teleport. Like, hey, I am coming over in 30 seconds. Oh, you live in India. No problem. Hi. Now I want dinner. 

And this is the problem. I write 95% of my posts just like this one and have to go back and tone down the crazy so you all aren't like, holy. fuck. MEDICATE HER. 

I have watched television shows religiously for years and I bet I know half the characters real names. Because I can't pay attention long enough to watch. I always tell people I don't watch movies because I can rarely sit through a whole one. And if I do, I am also reading a book and writing a blog post and milking a cow. 

As I am writing this, I am carrying on two text message conversations and watching TV. And, shockingly, have a pretty good idea about what is going on in all of those things.

The whole reason for this post is to tell you what happened at Kroger. So...I got off work and called the boy because I wanted to know if there was beer because I just worked an 11 hour day and haven't slept since I woke up at 9 am Sunday morning. It is currently 9 pm Tuesday evening. He said no, which immediately made my entire body sag. I needed a beer. So, I drove to the drive thru, all the while sending Big Jed Blip Me messages (like a walkie talkie) about what a spaz I am. So, I am walking through Kroger (just typed cougar) and a Wham!* song came on and all of a sudden, I am walking through Kroger, singing "Wake me up before you go go, don't leave me hanging on like a yo yo" and didn't even realize it was happening because I was thinking about an event at work and what apps I could do for it. Until a woman stopped in her tracks, pointed at me, and laughed. Quite loudly. And pointed. Did I mention pointing? Ugh. 

I stopped in my tracks and turned around to look at what she was pointing at until I realized...fuck. It's me. It's me she is pointing at. 

I wish I could tell you this was a singular incident. I also talk to myself while I grocery shop. And I may tend to kind of pretentiously answer people's produce questions in the checkout. And I always feel like a giant douche when I do it, but I do it anyway because I want that lady behind me in the line to see how cheap Kale is (TWO MEALS, 80 CENTS. TWO MEALS) and know that is SO easy to cook and delicious and so good for you. 

And I am an ADD, shiny object loving douche bag.

And I am not proof reading this until after I hit publish because I will edit the fuck out of it and it won't reflect the point I am trying to make. 

Which is, to the best of my knowledge, I want the power to teleport, I talk to myself and apparently sing while grocery shopping, Humira makes people gay, and llama scares kid is the best picture ever.

*As a kid, my sister and I went through not one, not two, but three Wham! tapes in our little microphone cassette player because we were so obsessed. 

Saturday, May 26, 2012


Hey! Debbie Downer here. Sorry if last night's post seemed a little, ahem, dark. When I was writing it, it didn't seem that way. More flippant? And I reread it today and realized, holy crap, tone down the childhood trauma stories. 

I am a healthy and happy person guys. Promise. That was then, this is now. I can't say that my childhood was all rainbows and unicorns, but it had some good too. 

Not so much the house with the hammock. That was mostly bad. But, there was good everywhere else. 

When I tell stories like that, I often forget that the people hearing them haven't already processed and compartmentalized them. I forgot that some of that shit was pretty bad. It just seems like...I don't know...someone else to me. Like telling stories about a childhood friend. It isn't personal to me anymore. So, it is easy for me to talk about. And, yes, in a very flippant manner. Last night I was just reminiscing about all the houses and, unfortunately, the few memories I have from back then are partying too hard with friends or just kind of sad. 

But, there is also playing restaurant with my little sister. Spending hours coming up with perfect menus that consisted of chicken nuggets and mac and cheese. Then serving all of our little dolls meals. I was always the chef, of course, and my sister was the waitress. There was no such thing as toy kitchens back then, or if there were, we never had one. We had paper plates and plastic forks and stacks upon stacks of construction paper and scissors. The games that we came up with always make me smile. We never had toys. Just lots and lots of imagination. 

There were art lessons every Wednesday with my grandmother. Painting, making books, making clay pots, and collage. I still have a lot of the art I made then hanging on my walls. She had these two finches who would screech and screech and screech, so we would go upstairs into the TV room and listen to Yanni. I laugh thinking about the eye rolling that happened when my grandmother closed her eyes to meditate.

There were proms and first kisses and first loves and first heartbreaks and a lot of really awesome stuff too. 

I learned to cook in those houses. Albeit, not for a really happy reason, but I can thank my mom not being home for my career today. It all started there.

As much as I distance myself from all of that, it is a part of me. It made me who I am today. I don't regret anything back then. Doing a lot of drugs made me realize I don't really like drugs. Hating my mom makes me love her so much more today. As cheesy as it is to say, everything happens for a reason. And if I hadn't spent all those years so fucked up, I may have gone to Cornell and become a lawyer like I always wanted. Maybe I would have been happy, but I wouldn't be me. And I like me. I am happy. 

Friday, May 25, 2012


Thank you, everyone, for your kind words after my last post. I wish that I wasn't so fucking awkward in my head and saw myself the way you all see me. I love you all so much for seeing me that way.

I am in avoidance mode over here. I am avoiding packing, avoiding all of it. I am instead drinking whiskey and hoping that the packing fairy shows up tonight. Ugh. I hate. this. part. 

I moved so much as a kid. My mom and I talked about it the other night and she referred to me as a pro. I am a pro. And it still makes my heart hurt when people say, oh, I remember the phone number of the house I grew up in. Or, just any statement that refers to the house they grew up in. I really wish I had that house. The closest thing I have to that house is my Uncle's house. Which he recently sold and moved out of. That house was bought when I was a toddler. I have been going to that house my entire life. House memories are weird to is that house and the condo.

The first house I remember was when I lived in Ohio briefly before my parents divorced. I remember playing kickball in the cul de sac. I remember my best friend at the time, Rita, and marrying her brother and my sister in the closet. A memory I brought up in the maid of honor speech I gave at her wedding. I remember watching the little boy across the street eat a worm because he dropped his bubble gum on it.

The next house was a rental. It was haunted, according to my family, and my racist dog attacked the mailman over and over because he was black. How do you fix a racist dog? I remember learning there was no Santa Claus and my mom trying to grow out her hair and it looking like a mullet. I remember my grandmother leaving my grandfather and finding him dead the day she served him with divorce papers. I wasn't allowed to see him. Before or after death. I wasn't allowed at the funeral.

The boy next store called me Fido, the wonder dog. I found out later he had a crush on me. I had a crush on his older brother, who mowed our lawn.

I remember laying in the hammock of the next house listening to Gravity Kills and drinking my step dad's beer. I remember stealing his cigarettes and giving them to my friends. He was too drunk to know the difference. I would have my friends over while my mom and stepdad were at work and we would do whip-its and smoke weed and drink. I was scared of my stepbrother. And so protective of my step sisters, who now hate me. I remember violence and anger and sneaking out of the house to get fucked up. I remember having a homecoming party and my best guy friend, Doug, getting the shit beat out of him on the front lawn by a guy who was so fucked up on acid he didn't know what he was doing. I remember the cops getting called and all of the "cool" guys getting arrested on my front lawn. 

I remember sneaking into the house in the middle of the night to get our stuff out of the house so my stepdad wouldn't hit my mom again. I remember my mom never being around because she was dating my now stepdad. I remember her throwing me out of the house because he said I was out of control. I remember my grandmother threatening her and getting to stay. 

I remember my first love breaking up with me in the basement. I passed out in the hallway all the time and my sister would drag me to my bedroom and throw me in bed. I remember knocking on her bedroom window so many times because I forgot or lost my key. I remember learning to cook in that kitchen. And fruit roll ups and private investigators watching us and showing up in the backyard in the middle of the night and turkey bacon and black widow spiders and dropping my favorite ring through the slats of the deck.

Home is a weird word to me. Home is where the people who love me are. This city is my home. The people who come to my house and feel at home make wherever I am my home. This blog, this space, all of you, are my home. 

I am letting go. These walls, these floors, these are not my home. My home is with the boy and my friends and my family and all of you. As fucking cheesy as it is, home is where the heart is. And my heart lies with people, not places. And I have an amazing, amazing home.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Guilt is not sympathy.

Earlier this year, I got a request from violence unsilenced to do a post for their survivors video. I didn't respond. For several reasons. One of them is that I don't want my face on the video. Yes, there were more anonymous options I could have pursued. But, I didn't. I also just still feel like I don't "belong" to that community. I am fine. I don't have flashbacks or any real residual problems. Yes, I hate being touched. Yes, I have issues with intimacy and trust. But, not TERRIBLE issues. I function. I feel fine almost all of the time. I told my story because it felt like the right thing for me to do to move on. And it was. I told the story because I wanted 16 year old me to read it and say, fuck. That wasn't right. And to do something about it. I didn't really do it for 30 year old me.

I don't comment on the site. Ever. Because I feel like "I am so glad you posted here, you are so brave and loved" is just contrite. Of course those women (and men) are all of those things. And I never know the right thing to say.

As I was reading today's post, I was texting with Big Jed. I was reading it thinking about loss and tragedy and how I really have not had a whole lot of either in my life. Yes, there are those years, those incidents, those times that happened to me, but I don't know what loss is. I have never lost anyone I truly, truly loved. Big Jed's babies are the closest I can come and they were just an idea. My heart was broken more for her than for them, if that makes sense. I didn't know them like she did. I only knew the image of them in my head, the idea of them, their story that was unfolding. Kobi was the biggest lost I have ever faced personally.

So, I read these stories thinking these things week after week.

Big Jed and I talk almost everyday. We haven't talked for a week or so because she was out of town and my job hates me. Well, loves me. Either way, it was a 65 hour problem last week.

During our texting she brings up that a coworker and friend of her and Krackle's died last week. Then she tells me that this woman was 7 1/2 months pregnant and that the baby was lost too.

I don't know this woman, I am not telling her story or the story of her death, although I am not sure a greater tragedy could befall someone. 

I find myself once again, with my best friends in the whole world, stuck in this awkward state of sympathy. All I want, all I ever want in these situations, is to make it better. To fix it. To make them laugh like in the movies where they forget all their troubles.

And I can't. I know I can't. But, I am not good at sympathy. I say all the wrong things. I awkwardly pat people on the shoulder. I say, "you are in my thoughts" because saying you are in my prayers would be a lie. And it feels wrong to lie to someone at a time like this. I hug and I listen and I show up with food, because I do food. I can do food. 

But, it all feels contrite. It always has. It's not that I don't care. Because I do. I care so much. To see someone I love in pain is heart breaking. But, the bottom line is...I don't understand. I just don't. I don't know what that feels like. I feel guilty, so I say these things. I feel guilty that they feel this way and I don't.

I realize that none of these moments are about me. And please do not think I am making them about me. And believe me when I tell you, I am so grateful that I don't understand because it means I have never lost anyone that means THAT much to me.

I just always want to say to people, no bullshit, how do I help? I have no kind words for you. I suck at those. I am better at action. I will cook for you, clean your house, wash your hair, hold your hand, drive you anywhere you want to go. I will BE THERE. But, I will say all the wrong things. Because the right things are fake coming out of my mouth. Not because I don't mean them. Because they are just not me...just not things I would say. 

I will make dead asian baby jokes at the funeral home. It's just who I am. I am the girl to bring in when you want to laugh in spite of it. I am the girl you bring in when you can't cry and you need to drink and watch terrible reality TV and judge everyone. I am not the girl you bring in when you want sympathy. Not because I don't genuinely feel bad. Not because I don't want to understand. I just don't. And I really, really hate contrite.

And that makes me feel like a horrible person.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

#10 may be a whole blog post

  1. I started on salary this week. Guess how many hours I have worked so far...just guess. Oh, 35 you think? Then you would be right. I have a 12 hour shift tomorrow and then another 9 hour shift on Saturday. Whoopie! Salary is fun. Can I go back to hourly please? Thanks.
  2. Can you pull a muscle in your foot? Because I think I did. Walking up the stairs? Well, sort of bounding up the stairs. And now my foot hurts (I typed hurt foots) and boo. I kind of want to just whine about it. Because I am tired. And whiny.
  3. So. About this CRAZE that is the Fifty Shades series...I was skeptical. And I was wrong. It will not win any literary awards, but the books are fun. And I couldn't put them down. And when I was done, I missed the characters. This doesn't happen to me very often (most notably with Harry Potter) so that is kind of a good endorsement. Plus, you know, the sex and stuff. I recommend them. Take that or leave that.
  4. I HATE PRETENTIOUS DOUCHE BAGS. If you say to me, during the first conversation that we ever have, "Oh, honey, it's not my first rodeo," and you are wearing a three-piece suit to a catering event, you are a pretentious douche bag. Please, I repeat, please go away. Our restaurant may be fine dining, but we aren't that kind of fine dining. We are stunt cooking, pulling shit out of our ass kind of fine dining. There may be elegance to the food when it reaches the table, but there sure as fuck isn't in the kitchen. So, go work at some corporate bullshit job with your peers and leave us alone. I feel better.
  5. Moski started at my work today! It's going to be weird being her supervisor, except probably not because she's not really someone who needs supervising. I am excited for another girl on my side too. Holy shit, I am so sick of the boys and their bullshit. And their abuse. There was a spoon fight not that long ago that left lasting marks on my arm. The whole "you can't hit me, I am a girl" thing has finally worn off. Shit.
  6. So. Had a family weekend. Wherein my aunt genuinely thought that Obama was a Muslim. Look. I don't  need you to agree with my politics. I don't need you to agree with anything I say or do. Because that is the point of this entire country, this entire system. BUT I need you to be intelligent enough to see through bullshit being spewed by radicals to slander someone's reputation. Whether that be bullshit for or against your opinion. Be intelligent, read, and for the LOVE OF GOD DO NOT BASE ALL OF YOUR OPINIONS ON FOX NEWS. Or any other biased news source for that matter. Ugh. Muslim? Really? How am I related to these people?
  7. They also think that 1984 is coming true. Just. What?
  8. I am currently on the phone with my grandmother who is telling me everything that is on TV tonight and what she watches and what she doesn't watch and what I should watch (American Idol, Person of Interest) and what I shouldn't watch (those sluts on Grey's Anatomy.) Then she got off the phone with me so I could go to bed. It is 7:30.
  9. It has become so normal to me to smell like onions that I don't even notice it, until I take down my hair. And you know how onion kind of smells like bad body odor? Yeah. Days where I choose not to shower after work (sometimes I just can't bring myself to take two showers in one day) I would recommend following me around with FeBreeze. And maybe that spray on bath stuff for dogs. 
  10. Goodwill loves us. I can't even tell you how much shit we have brought them. And the woman, when we appear, jumps out of her chair and has a stupid grin on her face because most of the stuff we have brought is virtually unused. Let this be a lesson to all...if your family is a bunch of hoarders, and you are not, they try to make you one. And you shove shit in a closet every holiday and birthday and try to pretend like you will one day use it. YOU WON'T. YOU WILL MOVE AND TAKE IT ALL TO GOOD WILL AND IT WILL BE EXHAUSTING. Is it rude to refuse gifts? Because you know what is an awesome gift to me? An amazing dinner out. An event. Time with the people I love. A gift certificate to someplace I enjoy shopping. For things I need. Please, for the love of God, no more relaxing water fountains or candles or pedicure spas. I hate to sound ungrateful, but I like simple, clean, uncluttered. And I can't have manicured nails because nail polish is toxic. And pedicures last like two seconds. And scented anything alters the palate. So, I apologize for the rant, but if you ever bring me a gift, bring a bottle of wine. Or some really cool artisanal cheese. Or just show up because, really, I would rather spend time with you than get a candle.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Reason number 712 I should not be a blogger.


I needed to get that off my chest. Only, I needed to actually scream. SCREAM. At the top of my lungs. 

Things are not great right now. Not bad. I am happy, safe, and healthy. I have a job and a house and a family and a cat that is trying to kill me. Everything is good. 

But, it seems like the universe is playing darts. On my face. Money shit. A couple hundred here, a couple hundred there. Credit cards are getting used when just two months ago we would have laughed at the thought of putting things on credit cards. We don't do that. We aren't those people. Yet, here we are. Charging away.

Work is like driving a train into an inferno of clowns all popping fucking balloon animals.(For some perspective, the sound I hate most in this world is balloons popping.) Events, lack of staff, and just general bullshit. 

EVERY SINGLE HIGHWAY WAS CLOSED ON THE WAY HOME. All of them heading west. ALL OF THEM. Do you how many stoplights there are driving through downtown and out to the west side? Let me tell you. SO MANY FUCKING STOPLIGHTS. I left at 4:15. I got home at 6:00. Fuck. Traffic.

I am overwhelmed by how unorganized the events part of my work is. Imagine taking your filing cabinet at work, emptying it on the floor. Then, set it on fire. Then put it out with, oh, honey. Then shit on it. Then put it all in a trash bag and let it sit there for two months. That is more organized than the events at my work. I spent my day returning calls from March. No, that is not a typo. I did not mean early May. I meant March. Needless to say, I got yelled at a lot today. I also got hung up on once. I did not book a single event. Which, for the record, I need to book to make my commission. I suddenly feel like someone selling ice to Eskimos. Eskimos holding better ice in their hands and glaring at me because my ice is made from water that someone used to wash their herd of donkeys. 

Remember how I don't do marketing? Huh. Seems like you are the only one.

And stress makes me ramble and talk fast and poor C got subjected to me tonight and I got off the phone and was like, FUCK. I am a crazy, rambling ass hole. He probably expected a 15 minute phone call and I hijacked his life for an hour. ASS. HOLE.

But, you guys, YOU GUYS...16 days. New house in 16 days. Yes, everything is happening all at once and the stress level is high. Yes, the boy and I may kill each other before then because of the stress. But, it is happening. We are moving. And I am thrilled.

I plan to do a video tour of the house for all of you. I am not sure that you care, but I am probably going to do it anyway because I am crazy excited. Mostly I just want to walk up and down the cobblestone streets and show you that yes, WE ARE MOVING SOMEWHERE WITH COBBLESTONE STREETS. And exposed brick. AND A MOTHER FUCKING WHITE PICKET FENCE. Soon. We priced them today.

This blog post was probably pointless. It appears that I ramble and type fast too. Hmph.

Monday, May 7, 2012


I packed all the picture frames and decorations in the living room tonight. I know that this may seem early...we have a little over three weeks until we move. But, work is about to get real and I want to make sure that the boy isn't stuck doing it all himself. 

I am...sad? happy? A little bit of both. The walls are empty. I have spent 10 years making those walls look exactly how I want them to look. And slowly...I am tearing down 10 years. 

I don't think the boy totally understands. I am not really making a huge effort to help him understand. This place is me. It is my entire adult life. And I am walking away from it. 

And here is where I tell the story. The story I wasn't sure I would ever tell here. It's ridiculously personal in a way that I am not comfortable with. 

I am, quite literally, walking away. Financially, that is. I am foreclosing on my condo. 

My dad bought the condo a few months before my 21st birthday. So, I have been here for 10 years. (Yes, I have said 11 a lot, but that is just evidence of my math skills.) I paid all of the expenses and then bought it from him about 7 years ago. 

Since then, property values have soared (if I sold in 2008, I would have made about $40k) and plummeted. The neighborhood is getting questionable. The condo association is broke. Our basement leak? They don't have the money to fix it. We are starting to get mold. There are so many condos for sale, I can't even tell you. The walk I take to get to the track I run on has 6 alone. It's a 3 minute walk. 

If I put the condo up for sale today, the most I can hope for is retaining my mortgage for $20k. 

The condo a few doors down has been on the market for a year. 

I can't rent the condo because of the basement. Which the condo association has all but refused to fix. And I could never rent it for the amount of money that we are paying per month. The average rental price is about $200 less a month than our mortgage.

I have consulted a lawyer. The lawyer, after much deliberation, has advised that I take the exact action that I am taking. I am regarding it as a business decision. I say this partly because I want you all to understand that I have done my research. I am not walking into this decision lightly. And because I don't want any of you to worry that legally, or financially, I am at risk. That work has been done.

It is hard to put all of these memories in a box. It is hard to just walk away. I catch the boy wanting to fix holes in the wall and I think to myself, this house is going to be empty for years. YEARS. Nobody will buy it with the basement in the state it is in. Nobody wants to live in this neighborhood. And I can't help the waves of sadness that wash over me as I picture this home, my home, empty and abandoned. 

It breaks my heart. I know that I am talking, for all intents and purposes, about wood and drywall and paint. About an inanimate object. But, it feels real to me. I feel bad leaving my home. Just leaving it to a bank that is going to do nothing to take care of it. To, honestly, the only home I have ever known. 

I am so excited for the next step, for the next home, for making a home with the boy. Our home. 

But, I didn't have that house I grew up in. I had 7. I don't have memories of houses, I have never had a home until here. And it feels...raw. 

We close June 1st and the movers are scheduled for June 2nd. It is happening. Obviously, everything is going in the boys name. And we are selling my car. I am committing to 7 years with him (although I would commit to forever) because I will quite literally be at his mercy. My credit will be shot. I will have no car. I am someone who has been independent my entire life. This is, well, hard.

No. Hard  is the easy road. I am absolutely, bone chillingly, terrified. Not that the boy will leave, or that I will leave. Not that I will get stranded in this life with nothing. About relinquishing control. 

I find myself trying to control everything. And yet, controlling nothing. I feel so out of my element I can't even put words to it. My entire adult life, I was in control of everything. And letting go is not coming that easy. 

Being at someone else's mercy is just not me. It's just not who I am. And, yet, here I stand. I love and trust the boy. I want this life with him. I want that stupid white picket fence we are planning to put up in the front yard. I want the 2.5 kids. I am not holding my breath for the walk in closet.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Promotions, houses, and racism.

So...that kind of maybe promotion? Now it's a real promotion. With a raise. You guys, I am making a salary that is ABOVE THE POVERTY LINE. Can we just talk about how awesome that feels? I am actually contributing to our household again. Without revealing too much information, this increases my monthly income by 1/3. That is a pretty big raise. 

Unfortunately, this also means that I no longer qualify for a bunch of state-funded programs that I keep saying I am going to use and never do. But, dammit, I am getting that free teeth cleaning before my salary kicks in if it kills me. If only this promotion came with health insurance...

Anyway. I got side tracked. Seeing as how unstructured my work is, my new promotion is equally as unstructured. The owner has been trying to hire a marketing person for months to no avail. He just wants someone to coordinate all events at the restaurant, so now that is my job! I am not going to actually do any marketing because I have no idea how to market things. But, I am going to do all the food, coordinate all the events, and execute everything. I may or may not do a little marketing, but that is way down the road. I start May 21st, which is oddly enough, the date of the mead dinner I am coordinating.

This is a ton of responsibility and I am honored. And I am approaching this with a very can do attitude because  otherwise you will all yell at me. Because you're right and I'm wrong. I'm not just saying that. I mean it.


We had a somewhat final meeting with the current homeowner which has left me confident that this is happening. Holy. Shit.


Something happened to day at work that REALLY upset me. Our dishwasher during the day is schizophrenic, but medicated. He is in his forties, has 3 kids who he doesn't see, and lives with his grandmother. He is a nice guy that will do anything for anyone. He is also black. And he may or may not indulge in some recreational drugs now and then.

Today, I watched him get cuffed as he was taking out our recycling because someone reported an armed robbery in the area and described a "slender black man" as the suspect. We ran across the street and told the police officers that he was with us all day working and that this man would never hurt a fly. He does not own a gun. He has never owned a gun. He makes an honest living and takes care of his grandmother. Yes, he is mentally ill. But, being black and not quite all there does not a crime make.

I may or may not have called the cops racist dicks. To their faces. Yes, he was in a T-shirt and jeans, because he was at work. Where he washes dishes. And gets dirty. Yes, he could not sufficiently explain where he was that day. I do actually get that part. But, that was after you saw a black man crossing the street that fit your extremely convincing witness statement. Something tells me that doesn't warrant THREE COP CARS. Or cuffing an innocent man for no reason.

We got back to the restaurant and he was so embarrassed. I wanted to hug him. 

All three cops were white. And I was ashamed for them.