Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Courtney X (Epilogue)
Posted on February 28, 2012[Continued from "Courtney X."]
We had talked a couple of times, and it did seem as though we could be friends again. At least for me, it felt as if we’d never stopped; it was all cliché and felt like, to me, that we hadn’t lost any time at all in the three-plus years we hadn’t spoken. It was how I’d always felt with my step-sister after having not talked to her for a while.
Only my step-sister and I had never had any falling outs (fallings out?) where we had told each other what we really thought of each other. And we were family, even if it was by marriage.
Courtney told me that after our first conversation (after several years of not talking) she cried because she had missed me so much. One of the reasons I was friends with Courtney in the first place was because she was so open with her feelings. She was always complimentary and quick to tell her friends what it was about them that she liked so much. That’s nice to hear. One of the other reasons we were friends in the first place was because I was so proud of her bravery.
She had been with the same guy for years. They were engaged. The destination (Hawaii) wedding was planned. She had the wedding dress. And then she broke it off. It was so brave and smart and self-aware an act that I couldn’t help but be drawn to her. Most people say years later, after they’ve been married to someone they probably shouldn’t have married in the first place, that they knew on their wedding day but by then it was too late. Well, Courtney knew and while many would have considered it “too late” considering the investment that had already gone into the wedding, she called it off. Her finacé was devastated but she was absolute. She moved into her own apartment and embraced single life with gusto.
It was years later, when she was in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship, that I realized she wasn’t as brave as I thought. I encouraged her to leave the asshole. My then-husband and I offered to help pack the asshole’s crap and change her locks to help protect her. Except for spending the night at my house a few times when she was truly scared for her safety, she didn’t take our advice or offers of help. She actually told me that being single was worse than being with the asshole.
So she wasn’t all that brave and she was stupid. Then she got pregnant. Holy fuck, so fucking stupid! Just as all her friends had been telling her to leave the asshole, we told her to move the fuck out of the state so it would be that much harder for the asshole to have any parental rights. In the mean time the asshole was still living with her and still being abusive.
We talked – she in Florida, me in Illinois. She asked for my address. Eventually a package from Harry & David came. The amount of packaging was fucking ridiculous because the chicken pie was shipped on dry ice to assure freshness. I still have the Styrofoam ice chest because I thought it should get more than one use before sitting in a landfill for eternity.
The chicken pie is not the chicken pot pie Harry & David now sells. The chicken pie that Courtney thought I would enjoy had a very rich, buttery top- and bottom-crust, chicken, and gravy. That is it. Absolutely no vegetables. The Viking and I ate it, for sure, but because it was so fucking rich that pie lasted the two of us over five separate meals.
Why did she think I’d like it? I think I remember cooking for her, and I would have never made anything like that. I remember one time having dinner at her house and helping her out cooking some sort of chicken-breast-in-tasteless-sauce dish so I think the chicken pie was something she would have liked. Yes, the gift was a nice gesture, but it also highlighted how little she knew me – in 2007 or in 2011.
Nonetheless, I thanked her for the gift and I thought all was good. We talked a few more times. She always talked about her kid as if I was supposed to give a shit, and I pretended to give a shit.
One night I was up very late imbibing in alcoholic beverages. I got to drunk dialing. It was so late that I assumed I’d just leave a message and that would be that. I called a few people that night, and all but Courtney took it for what it was, simple drunk dialing. I’m one of those happy drunks for the most part so I probably said something about how happy I was that we were friends again, in a drunken drawl, of course.
The next day I was walking Isis when I saw there was a message on my phone. My phone is always on silent so I wasn’t surprised that I had missed it ringing. I was surprised when I heard the message. It was Courtney sternly telling me not to call her at 4-something in the a.m. ever again. I was surprised because I had forgotten I had made the call in the first place, and also because she sounded so upset. Who doesn’t like to wake up to a message from a friend making a drunken fool of herself?
Apparently Courtney, that’s who. My call had actually woken her up because she left her ringer on at night and she was “worried” about me because I was up so late. What the fuck‽ I’m a big girl and I can stay up all night if I want to, dammit. I don’t need her to worry about me, and I certainly don’t worry about her. She thought my call was some sort of cry for help. “Hey, friend who lives 1000 miles from me, please help me, I stay up too late.” I don’t fucking think so.
I called and left a message. I told her that I was sorry that I woke her up, that it wasn’t my intention, that she needn’t worry about me, that I’d take her off my drunk dial list. I thought that was that.
She had also written me a message on Facebook telling me that her kid was sick (don’t care) and that she was genuinely worried (don’t bother) and felt bad because she thought I needed her. Then I remembered how Courtney was.
Courtney was the kind of friend who said she’d do something and then flaked. She flaked because she had overextended herself and didn’t have the balls to say no to anyone. She thought a friend “always” helped out a friend so she had to say yes to everything. I would much rather someone tell me they can’t do something then expect them to do it – because they said they could – and then flake.
She was taking on the responsibility of worrying about my well-being but I hadn’t even asked her. What I did ask her was for the song lists of all the “Courtney” CDs I had ever given her.
I had asked many times. She said they were in storage. Then she moved. I gave her plenty of time to unpack and asked again. Still nothing.
My drunk dial “incident” happened in early December 2011. In early January 2012 I told her what DropBox was and that if she wanted any more music from me that was how I was going to share it rather than burning CDs and mailing them. By late January, when I still hadn’t heard from her, I sent her a message, “I’m assuming you’re not communicating w/me again. That’s fine. Could you just do the minimal and let me know the song lists of the ‘Courtney’ CDs you have? It has literally been years since I asked.”
All I wanted was for her to put the fucking CDs in her fucking computer and let iTunes tell her what songs, and in what order, were on each of the CDs I had made for her. There were less than ten CDs and all she had to do was copy the lists and paste them into an email. When I had made the CDs the song order was very important, as I had crafted the songs to flow into each other.
Though I hadn’t heard from her since early December 2011, on the very same day in late January 2012 that I sent my final request for the song lists, she responded, “Well since you asked so nicely. I do not know the song lists of CD’s you gave me years ago.”
The next message I sent to her was nasty. I told her exactly what I thought of her. I knew that I was burning a bridge and closing a door and it felt fucking fantastic. As a final fuck you I sent her a post card reiterating that we can’t be friends but that I learned from the friendship we had had.
I no longer keep the “Courtney” music in CD-length groups; they’re just “Courtneys.” There’s a lot of good music, but sadly it’s still not all the songs I ever put on the “Courtney” CDs. If you’re interested in getting 175 songs that range from heartbreaking to funny to rocking to plain ol’ bad and you have a DropBox account, let me know and I’ll happily share with you.
I swear. True story.
It’s Just a Tuesday
Posted on February 14, 2012
That’s all it is. A fucking Tuesday.
I’ve ignored all the bullshit about special dinners and so on since I can remember. My ex-husband and I never did anything special for Valentine’s. I think he wanted me to be more “romantic,” whatever that means. How about being nice to each other, going out to dinner together, and fucking because you want to, not because the calendar happens to show a certain date?
I like Dan Savage’s idea that if a couple is going to do the bullshit of an obligation of a “romantic” dinner: if you have to do it, fuck first. Fuck first before their stomachs are too full to want to bother to have sex. Fuck first so that over that silly, overpriced dinner they wiggle in their seats knowing they’ve already gotten their genitals manipulated in a manner they find pleasing. Relieves the pressure to be “romantic.”
The Viking and I haven’t even discussed plans for Tuesday, February 14, 2012, other than preparing the place for some last-minute house guests. Oh, and I need to go to the school where I’ve been taking art classes to pick up some final projects. There will be no romantical dinner or anything else out of the ordinary. On Wednesday we have a date because I happened to plan a date for Wednesday.
If I were to bother with the Necco Wafer heart candy bullshit, I would get the ones pictured. Anyone know where one can procure such items? If I had any I’d keep the good ones for posterity – not the ones that say, “GOLDEN SHOWER” – and not bother to eat any of the others since they are Necco which means they have the taste and texture of sugary chalk, which doesn’t appeal to me at all. I saw someone a few years ago who actually thought Necco Wafers were delicious, something I thought was both disgusting and charming. She said she liked that they were so gross.
I swear. True story.
Lucid Dreaming
Posted on February 11, 2012I’m a lucid dreamer. I wasn’t always, or I wouldn’t have continued to have that childhood nightmare where I was stuck in my father’s Volkswagen Bus when the emergency break was released and it – with me in it – rolled down a hill. My father always ended up “saving” me but I still woke up scared as shit.
Now, when I have that type of dream – where I’m in danger or scared or think that this horribleness cannot be my life – I tell myself to wake up. And I do. I wake up and have that horrible feeling still, but I’m also relieved to know that I’m not in danger, that I have no reason to be scared, and that I’m not in high school.
My latest recurring nightmare involves me being in high school. Not at the age when I was actually in high school – that would be a different kind of nightmare – but my age now, a ripe 38. It always involves me having to attend for just a short time, to finish. My overwhelming feeling is of being completely trapped. The latest one had me trapped with my step-sister whom, though we are the same age and lived in the same household, I did not attend high school. Also there were my ex-husband and his girlfriend, or at least the backs of their heads.
My step-sister, as per usual, knew the rules and the cool kids. She warned me that I would get my cell phone taken away if I even had it out at an assembly we were attending. I had my old Android phone as well as my current iPhone but I couldn’t figure out how to make the Android phone shut the fuck up. And then I saw the backs of the Ex’s and Roomie’s heads. So they couldn’t see me I dug down in the sand and hunkered down behind my step-sister. I thought that they might have trouble finding childcare since they were both in high school.
I know why all this shit was in my head. I’ve recently talked to my step-sister on the phone and we had a nice conversation, but one that, as per usual, made me feel inferior. She doesn’t do it, but it gets done nonetheless. I listened to a podcast that talked about Google’s employees (I’m not even going to type “Google^$.”) using their Android phones for various things on the Google campus. I talked to a friend who asked after my ex-husband. I told her again that I hadn’t had any communication with him since January 2010. So all those things were on my mind. Why they were on my mind in the forced adult high school setting I’ll never know.
What I do know is how to get out of the dreams. I just wish it didn’t take me so long to realize that they are dreams. I suppose I have no reason to try to get out of the good ones so I don’t even try until they go horribly, terribly shitty. If I realize I’m dreaming before the point that I just want to wake up to get the fuck out of it I’ll be able to do some fun shit.
I’ve done the Inception thing where I am in complete control. It’s usually just a pointless dream that’s causing me neither bliss nor anxiety and I randomly tell people that it’s my fucking dream and I can make anything happen. I swear even in my dreams. I’ve said to someone – an overweight black guy who was helping me “move” – that it’s pretty fucking cool that I can do shit as I pointed and made a wall appear.
I’ll have to work on being able to know I have control and doing things like punching my ex-husband in the back of the head. Or using my fucking cell phone in a high school assembly and daring someone to kick me out considering I’m an adult and have been for over 20 years.
I swear. True story.
Photo Lotto 27
Posted on February 08, 2012
This is appropriate for those who are feeling the winter doldrums. If you are, like me, in Chicago, chances are you've not had the opportunity to feel the winter much. It's only my second winter in Chicago, so I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure this is a damn mild winter. So far there have been only two or three instances where snow stuck on the ground for longer than a day. Christmas wasn't white. New Year's wasn't white. February hasn't been white so far.
I'm not complaining. Not at all. I've been able to take Isis to Oz Park on many more days than I did last winter. It hasn't been such a horrible pain in the ass to leave the house – even if I do regularly forget one of all the things needed to go out in the cold: gloves, hat, coat, scarf, keys, phone, sunglasses, iPod, lip stuff, tissue, and whatever else is meant for the outing, like my school supplies, book, or grocery shopping trolley. And there hasn't been nearly as much trudging through the snow as there was last year.
I know the Viking will think these ladies are too thin. And I know that even in my wildest dreams I would never have been that thin, but every once in a while I wonder what it feels like to be able to wear bikinis with impunity. Even before I felt fat – but after my step-mother told me that I shouldn't wear certain clothes because I was neither tall nor thin enough (but her daughter was) – I worried about body hair in unsightly places; these ladies don't seem to have the same concern.
Or maybe I'm just assuming. Maybe these ladies who appear to be content and carefree with their flat stomachs could be so concerned with those same stomachs that they have eating disorders, drug habits, or both and more. And there is waxing ….
Spring – and summer – is coming but I'll not be dressing like this. In the mean time, those of us in the Northern Hemisphere can dream.
I swear. True story.
Staycation (Part 1)
Posted on February 07, 2012I get alerts from various “deal” sites like Groupon, LivingSocial, PopSugar, and so on on a daily basis. Most of the deals I pass up, but the ones for Brazilian waxes, manicures and pedicures, and neighborhood eateries I usually buy. Every once in a while I go for an inexpensive tooth cleaning or a massage. For the most part I pass up the “getaways” because, well, that sort of lifestyle, even at discount prices, currently eludes us.
So it must have been when we were feeling flush that I saw a deal for a newly remodeled local hotel and asked the Viking if we should spring for a staycation. We did. The deal was for a single night’s stay between January and March, a slow time for tourism in most of the Northern Hemisphere, and especially slow in Chicago since that’s when it’s fucking cold, snowy, and generally miserable.
There the “coupon” sat waiting for me to make a plan for some time between January and March. I had plenty of time. One of the things I had to iron out was arranging for someone to take care of the animals. Well, the animal. Joaquin would have been upset but fine for one night. Probably quite upset. Joaquin, you see, is a very needy kitty. He has a litter box, so he doesn’t have to go outside, and he doesn’t overeat so dry food can be left out all the time. However, Joaquin likes company. He likes company to the degree that every time I take Isis outside he cries at the back door. At least that’s what the Viking has told me. I know he cries from the living room if we’re in the bedroom and all the lights are out. He’s dumb but sweet, and would survive a single night on his own, albeit unhappily.
Isis, on the other hand, needs frequent care and can never be left home alone overnight. She’s not nearly as energetic as she was just a year ago – I guess her 11 years of life have caught up with her quickly – so she usually sleeps through the night, but she has a lot of needs. She needs to go out last thing before she goes to bed and first thing when she wakes up. She needs medication twice a day. She needs wet food mixed in with her dry food at least once a day, though I sometimes do it for her twice a day because I spoil her. The food, by the way, is high-calorie puppy food because though Isis a senior she is also a skinny girl who seems to be a gourmand who only likes her dry food if it’s mixed with fancy canned food. I really wish she had gotten her slender ways from me, but it just seem she’s not that into food. (Yes, I do understand that my dog did not inherit my slow metabolism or my proclivities for overeating; I’m not a moron.)
I had asked my friend Viola – who had puppy sat for a whole week back in late April 2011 when the Viking and I had gone to California and Nevada – if she could stay over for a night. Her living situation had changed so that staying at our place on weekdays was no longer possible. That meant I had to plan our staycation on a weekend. I worried. I figured the coupon deal had the sort of blackout dates similar to airlines even if it wasn’t explicitly noted.
What was explicitly noted – but which I had not noticed – was that the reservation had to be booked by November 1, 2011. It was some time into November 2011 that I bothered to take a look at the small print of the “coupon” and first saw the single caveat. Crap! I didn’t want to forfeit the value of the deal just because I was too dumb to look at its limitations.
I called the number on the voucher and asked to make reservations. I said I was using the deal. I did not preface with an apology for calling after November 1. My plan was to play dumb if I was told that it was too late to make a reservation.
[To be continued ….]
I swear. True story.
I’m a Dummy
Posted on February 06, 2012I have many epic dreams that involve my family members. I figure it has something to do with my subconscious need to connect with them.
I’ve realized that I am the one who has made the point to connect with each of my siblings and they’re the ones who’ve not bothered to contact me in return. I last had contact with my (step-) brother when I called him on his birthday in November. I last saw my step-sister when my father (and step-mother) were at her house at Christmas and my step-sister’s daughters had gotten iPads with FaceTime. I can’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation with my sister.
No one in my family makes a point of contacting me. We’re not a particularly close family. Years ago my step-sister told me she regularly talked to her mother – my step-mother – about once a week, which shocked and surprised me. It shouldn’t have been considering it was a mother and daughter. By that time I’d already stopped communicating with any regularity with either my stepmother or my mother.
I had, for a few years when we both lived in Southern California, been very close with my mother. I had house- and puppy-sat when she was out of town. I had cleaned her place (for compensation) when she couldn’t be bothered to clean up the clutter. She was a slob, but she wasn’t a true hoarder until later. You see, people who grow up with nothing but abusive fathers and “purposefully” ignorant mothers and poor as shit don’t see a point but to be slobs. More likely, they simply don’t know what clean is.
By the time I cleaned for my mother I had been educated on “clean” by my step-mother.
* * *
The above was written whilst under the influence of alcohol. I have no clue to what, in particular, the title was referring, and I have no idea where I was meant to go with the story. But there you go, a glimpse into my alcohol-addled brain.
Photo Lotto 26
Posted on February 03, 2012
I’m not sure where or where the fuck I decided I liked some of these photos. Look, three naked chicks and their shoulder blades. And spines. There’s a rug that was probably made by small children. Oooh, sexy.
I swear. True story.
