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.

#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.

Reason number 712 I should not be a blogger.

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

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.

Bittersweet

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.

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. 

Overwhelmed. So. So. So Overwhelmed.

I am in agony. We had the inspection eight days ago. It took 7 days for the owner to respond to our demands on what to fix. Which, let me tell you, were NOTHING. Not compared to the repairs that we took on. Then he comes back haggling over a mere $850 dollars and we are being stubborn. Because, fuck, we are THOUSANDS of dollars out of our comfort zone here. And I am going from excited to pissed. Fucking. Fuck. Pissed.

We may have to walk away. From this house that we have already in some weird way made a home. Despite both of us cautioning against it, we fell in love. And now we are sitting here, both of us knowing that last $850 is a deal breaker. Because that leaves us with almost nothing. That leaves us vulnerable. I am not sad, I am mad. This is often how I find myself reacting when I put myself out there and am let down. I don't get hurt, I get fucking pissed. And spiteful. It's silly, this amount of money. The haggling that is taking place right now is just petty and it PISSES ME OFF. Because it is important to us. And I am 99% sure that $850 is not important to them. If it comes down to it, will we walk away? I don't know. Maybe. It's not a good feeling.

All of this has lead to me not sleeping for (almost exactly now) 36 hours. Like, I did not sleep last night. I started to doze off around 5:45 and was up by 6:00 at which point I turned the light back on to read. My eyes hurt. Burn. I have been putting eye drops in all day like I was 20 again. 

Work is equally as stressful. I found out that I will be cooking food on Thursday that Hubert Keller will be eating. If you don't know who that is...pick a sport. Then pick your favorite athlete. Then play him in your favorite sport and tell me that you didn't almost shit your pants when the TV station dropped off the fucking fuck menu inserts with his picture all over the front. Tell me that you didn't almost hyperventilate when your plan was a fucking goat cheese crostini and you had THREE DAYS to come up with a dish that would make this man remember your name. Because, oh yeah, the owner put MY NAME AND MINE ALONE on this food. Tell me you didn't want to walk away and cry all day long because you hadn't slept and you were exhausted and overwhelmed. BECAUSE YOU WERE TOLD TO JUST COME UP WITH A QUICK, SIMPLE APPETIZER FOR PEOPLE TO MUNCH ON. Yes, I get that he is a man like any other man. Please don't patronize me with that bullshit. Because when one of your idols is about to eat your food, you don't give a fuck which leg he puts in his fucking pants first. You just want him to eat your food, raise his eyebrows, and say, "this is excellent." (there was a lot of "he puts his pants on like any other man" bullshit today that made me stabby. Clearly.)

And then tell me you didn't almost murder your coworker who called off for a hangover. !@#$!%!$!#$#!

I don't even have words.

I have gotten so much better at handling stress. This industry has taught me self control and to expect everything and nothing. It has taught me to just take the blows as they come and that tomorrow is a new day. It even taught me to sleep, because when your body is exhausted, it is hard not to. 

But, fuck, if everything doesn't come all at once and I am so overwhelmed sometimes it is hard to breathe. I am on the edge of everything I want. And I am SO. FUCKING. SCARED. Because what if it all falls apart? It is somehow harder for me to prepare for this. 

Because if it all fucking works? If everything turns out perfect? I can deal with that. I will have no idea how to and I will probably stare at things and excessively blink a lot, but that is easy. That is just easy.

It's really hard to be standing in front of everything you want and wondering when it will all get taken away. Because I am still a pessimist at heart. And I am thinking so many positive thoughts that I worry I will, quite literally, shit out rainbows. I am sending so much happy out into the universe it makes me gag. 

I just want all of this to work. For Hubert Keller to say, yeah, that was some good ass food. For all of the seven gazillion other things going on at the restaurant to work out (I can't share this publicly, but things are grim for the moment.) To get this house. To be able to afford all of the expenses that come with fixing up this house, moving, just being there.

I just want to BE THERE. In so many aspects of my life. I just want to be there.

Something tells me I won't be sleeping tonight either.

The hoarding story, as promised

I am a blogging fool this week. Also, that phrase just made me want to punch myself. I am leaving it so that you all also want to punch me.

Tonight was operation guest room. And here is where the hoarding story comes in. The guest room is kind of a black hole in our house. (Because we never have guests. AHEM. COME VISIT ME.) If we don't know what to do with something, it ends up in the guest room closet. If I get a gift that I hate, it ends up in the re-gift pile, in the guest room closet. If I have a pile of mail that is taller than me on the kitchen counter and someone is coming over for dinner, it goes in the guest room closet.

The only thing remaining in the guest room closet are the board games we want to keep (we got rid of about 25) and clothes. There was a point in time where that closet would barely close. And I was always terrified guests would open it and in turn hate me for my closet (ha! see what I did there) hoarding.

Out of it...we got an entire car trunk full of stuff for my dad's church garage sale, an entire city issued trash can full of trash, and about 4 boxes of stuff to actually keep. Oh, and all of our bookshelves are in that room as well, which is SEVENTEEN boxes of books. I love books. I really, really love books. (hoarding books)

But, the real hoarding tragedy is the mail. I have lived in this condo for 11 years. That is a long time. In that 11 years, I have never thrown away a single piece of mail. At first this was because I didn't have a shredder. (YES I REALIZE I COULD HAVE THROWN AWAY THE RANDOM CATALOGS, LEAVE ME ALONE.) Then I bought a shredder and it was too much. This is a thing of mine. If I get really overwhelmed by a project, I sort of abandon it. I do not do well when overwhelmed because I just don't know where to start and then I see something shiny and I am like, ooh, shiny and the project is forgotten. There is probably a therapist somewhere sensing dollar signs, but I prefer to just not think about that and find something shiny. Please don't diagnose me.

I went through EVERY SINGLE piece of mail in this house. I sorted them out into trash and shred, shredded them and this was the result:

Yes, that is in fact TWO 50 gallon trash bags of shredded mail. And three trash bags of junk mail.

My name is erratic. I am a hoarder. Please still love me.