Alive

I sent him a text message saying something about the last text of the year, the last time I'd be bugging him, whatever. Then my phone died, but it was crappy and old and the charger was falling apart so I peed and did some other stuff before I was able to check my messages. I was really just checking with a bit of hope in my heart, I had no real expectation that I'd hear back from him. It had been months since the last time he pushed me away. I was happily surprised to find a message. My heart sunk when I saw that it began, "This is Tom for Patrick . . ." My phone screen died, and after a few minutes of frantically trying to repair the screen, I picked up the house phone and called him. He answered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We chatted for awhile, then he dropped him bombshell. He had been screwing around with his guitar at an open mic somewhere and members of a band had approached him and asked him to play a riff from one of their songs. He played it and fell in love, he said it just felt right. The feeling was mutual, and the band asked him to join them. In CA. He had agreed. Trying to feign happiness and hide the fear and pain in my voice, I asked if I could come see him before he left. He released an anxious sigh hiding behind his voice, and said yes.

Of course I went over. The second he saw me, he grabbed both my hands and looked at me in his way, a way I know well, a way that causes as much joy as pain. When I was once again unable to be angry with him, he relaxed visibly, and started telling me all about the new life waiting for him on the other side of the country. Some of his new bandmates were there, answering questions, and helping him get ready to move across the country. Of course they were female. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and vomit because he was still holding both my hands.

I politely asked some questions regarding how many gigs the band played and whether or not he'd be able to afford to live. They played a promo video for me. I bit back my concern about the claim that they played "100% of NASCAR races in our area." Uh, aren"t those races usually only held in a location once, maybe twice a year? His new bandmate saw my concern and assured me Patrick would be paid well and have plenty of time to enjoy his new life.

As I was hovering between despair over losing him, worry that he would be OK, and happiness for his new chance at life, he looked me in the eyes and kissed me. I sighed, and landed on "happy for him". He could tell. Right in the middle of the room, he started taking off his shirt to show me what, in his words, "might be the most shocking thing of all", three large tattoos. The largest was a cartoon version of an anatomically correct heart, enlarged and covering his chest. Another covered his forearm, something with a lot of black and gray, the third was blades of grass below his waist line. As he was explaining them to me, he was raising my shirt and lowering me to the floor. I briefly considered the others in the room, and decided I didn't care as long as I got to feel him next to me. He offered to turn around so I could see his blades of grass. I traced them with my fingers and assured him I could very well imagine how they looked.

And then . . . Skin, glorious skin on skin contact as, once again, the others in the room crossed my mind. I closed my eyes and savored the feel of him, welcoming the illusion that all was right in the world as long as he was there, touching me. My soul swam in him. For a few glorious moments, nothing else mattered. As I began to consider how far he'd go with others in the room, he got up rather abruptly.

He'd remembered he was supposed to be packing, and was frantically trying to find something he needed. Since he was moving so far, space was rather limited, but there was a drawer full of door knobs and keys he wanted to bring, so he started moving his luggage around, trying to find a place to put them. I walked over, rearranged some of his things, and reached into his drawer of keys and door knobs at the same time he did. Our hands met, and as we looked at each other, I knew I was handing him his keys to freedom, to a better life. As much as it broke my heart, I was able to see that, and I was happy for him.

Just as the pain and joy for him were bubbling together in my heart, an antacid was dropped into the mix. I could feel the happiness being sucked away as I remembered that he was gone. A sinking feeling told me he would not achieve his dreams, because I was having a dream. I tried to grab his hand, to look at him again, but he was gone. I gasped and sobbed, and finally opened my eyes to reveal the room I share with a man who doesn't love me and a world that has mercilessly been reminding me of Patrick these last few weeks.

As I choked on my tears, I remembered angrily telling him in my head recently that if he wanted to tell me something, he'd have to do it in a dream, as I couldn't take all the weird reminders any more. Guess I got my wish.

Stream of Something

Since it's the time of year when I met Chris, I was trying to remember some times with him that aren't tainted. One of those days included attending a Blueberry Festival where the yearly event was being held this Saturday. Events with him have gotten all too blurred together, and I'm not quite sure why, but it also doesn't matter enough to think about it too much. I'm pretty sure that was the first time we went out alone, I'm fairly positive the first time we went out alone we had sex. I just don't really remember the details.

In any case, I saw him last week, my purple hair with dark roots blazing and a newly "adopted" 5 lb ball of fluff in my arms. I saw someone who could've been one of his friends and didn't think much of it. I saw a guy who kinda looked like Chris himself, but didn't think much of it. He's one of those average, not really distinctive looking guys. I see people who kinda look like him fairly often. This time, however, the possible Chris dropped his jaw upon seeing me and starting grinding his teeth. Next came the furious texting. Bingo!! We have a winner! (?). Definitely Chris.

Normally this would have sent me into a gut clenching panic. Just the look of disgust on his face is enough to make my intestines roil in turmoil. Thankfully I haven't seen him that often over the years since we broke up. This time, however, seeing the disapproving grimace of the man who impregnated me twice, but fathered neither of my children, didn't bother me. His scowl almost made me laugh in his face. "Guess what, bitch? Your disapproval no longer means a thing to me. I don't need to be good enough for you anymore." Instead of getting upset, or saying anything at all, I pretended I didn't notice him, and walked on, carrying my ball of fluff.

That ball of fluff, by the way, is the most fucking annoying 5lbs of cute on the face of planet. Seriously. As I type, I am listening to her hideous cries as she rails against crate training. At first I felt bad for her, but, shit, I've done everything "right" for crate training this bitch and she still howls and yaps like she is either possessed or being murdered. I think she's supposed to be over it already. She's not even close to over it. I, however, am over it. I've found myself thinking, "Well, she's so small, her shit is tiny and easy to clean, maybe I don't care if she's ever trained." I suspect this same reasoning is why many poorly trained 5lb balls of yapping fluff exist. Instead, I'm hoping she eventually takes the hint from our dingo, and shuts the fuck up unless it's necessary. I'm not holding my breath though. Sometimes I hope she'll hold hers . . . But man is it cute to watch her little puppy butt following my son all over the house.

Yes, I am an idiot, thank you very much.

Vulture

Starting in September, once a week I will be teaching recycled sewing and crafts to ten homeschooled freaks children. I volunteered for the position, mostly because I'm a sucker, and no one else wanted to do it. I'm pretty sure most people do it to receive free classes for their own children. I'm not sure which reason is better. Pete thinks I volunteered simply so I have a handy reason to explain the water bottles and soda cans I leave scattered piled throughout the house. He's wrong. I need no excuses for my messy laziness, I own that shit.

In theory, I love the idea of recycling objects for new projects. It costs a lot less than buying new materials, it keeps all sorts of crap out of landfills, and it's kinda neat breathing new life into what was once a discard pile. In practice, I suck and my house is becoming a landfill. That doesn't stop my sporadic scouring for old vintage fabrics, toys and ephemera to be (theoretically) torn, ripped, or cut apart and reassembled or assimilated into something that will make people say "What??". (I go for the art explanation, that way when people think I'm fucking nuts for turning ugly old sweaters into a mostly useless giraffe "stole", I can just blame them for not being whatever enough to appreciate me.)

Thrift stores, antique malls and flea markets have become possible treasure troves rather than a wrinkled nosed "quick, get me out of here" place of disdain. I found an Armani skirt in my local thrift store, damn it. I tend to stick to paying ten dollars or less for my crap exciting finds. The piles of bags keep mounting.

In this quest for cheap crap, we have discovered an antique mall that holds a monthly auction. Some of the bids for items there are ridiculous. Of course I want that baggie full of rusty old keys for $2! I can feel myself getting stupid though. With the first round of bids we ever placed, some of mine were simply to be an asshole because I realized a particularly bitchy vendor there buys stuff super cheap on garage sale days or through the auction room, repackages it, and adds a 1000% mark up. Yes, I realize they all do it, but they don't all purchase in the same damn building! Do I really want an orange crate full of matches for $5? Uh, no, but that bitch puts ten in a bag and charges $3 per bag, so, theoretically, it's like buying 2 of her bags, only better, cuz I get more stuff. Yeah, I might have to stay away from the auction room.

Anyway, the auction room there has made me consider other, live auctions. My great aunt and uncle live a few blocks from my parents' house in the one square mile town that was also home to my grandparents and great-grandparents while I was a child (the physical age kind, not the mental kind, thanks). Most of their neighbors have lived there my whole life too. The neighbors (not my aunt and uncle, damn it!) are all getting old, and passing away. One of their closest neighbors, both in proximity and friendliness, passed away last month. She left behind her husband of like 53 years and no one else. I haven't seen him in awhile, so I think he must be in ill health as well. Since there are no relatives to squabble over possessions, the house and its contents will be auctioned this weekend. I know they took pride in their home and their possessions, so I thought theirs might be a good auction to start my foray into live bidding.

I looked up the auction house online and checked out the pictures of items for sale.

I don't want to go anymore.

It honestly appears this woman has kept every piece of her childhood. No, not in general hoarder fashion. Notebooks containing cards are ordered, neat and clean. Toys are still in boxes. Also, 80 years ago, people simply weren't swimming in crap the way we are now. Possessions weren't disposable. They also didn't have kids messing with their shit. I think maybe it's the childless thing that makes me sad, but I'm not sure, it could just be because she was a lifelong fixture, not necessarily a prominent one, but there nonetheless. I do know that looking at her carefully preserved, 80 year old childhood objects about to be sold to the highest bidder makes me very unhappy. What right do I have to gloat over finding a mint condition whatever for $5? It meant more than that to the owner, or it wouldn't still be around. I just feel like a vulture swooping in, and picking over the pieces of a life that will be forgotten in however many years it takes for those who knew her to die. Those family photos are just neat old pictures to anyone else. I don't know what it really is, but I don't like the feeling of profiting from death. Of course, the other old stuff I buy could be selling for the same reason, but I don't know that for sure. I think it's the knowing that messes with me.

Determination

I generally don't have specific goals or requirements. Often my thinking leans toward "anything BUT . . ." rather than "I am going to accomplish . . ." My college major was decided the semester I failed every class except one. That B+ amidst the sea of F's meant English was for me. *shrug* I take going with the flow to wastewater treatment release proportions. When I want something, I'm stubborn as hell, but often, I simply just don't know what I want. More often than not, I leave decisions up to others. It's not that I'm afraid to say no, or anything like that, I just don't really care about a whole lot of stuff. That is not to say I'm not picky, because I am, ultra-picky even, just not about a large number of things. I have food issues galore, dealing with texture and taste, but mostly texture and will whine and piss and moan if my food is not to my liking. When it comes to cars, I have two requirements: manual transmission and it cannot be white or silver. Anything else isn't all that important.

Which brings me to my realization. I can do things that I decide upon doing. Sounds simple, right? Really, who the hell can't? This process is not always so simple for me, but I'm trying to figure out how to make it become simple. This past week makes the idea of knowing what I want, so I can get it, particularly appealing.

We had a gorgeous year old convertible. This car was not only impractical, it was pretty much above our means, but it was paid off, thanks to a large chunk of money blown last year. I loved it. It was the first car I've ever had that I picked just because I wanted it, rather than based on price, etc. Hmm, actually, typing that made me realize how when I finally decided what I wanted in a car, things came together quickly, and in a rather odd manner. Interesting.

Anyway, we suck with money and were having trouble paying our bills. Not fun. Bills kept stacking, as did my frustration level, which is never a good thing. When I get in that mood, I say "Fuck it" and do what I feel like doing that second. Then everything I've neglected falls apart and I end up doing things like borrowing money I can't pay back, or sleeping on my parents' sofa. Things were getting to that point, when I made a decision.

The car in the driveway that I loved was worth what had been a year's salary in some particularly bad years. Of course, it was paid off, we'd lose money since we only had it for a year, blah, blah, blah. Any manner of no's and shouldn't have to's popped up to protest. So I put it out of my mind and things didn't get any better financially. Wednesday night I decided enough was enough, I needed to do something. By 4AM Thursday morning, I figured out two car brands/styles that could replace the convertible and leave us with a decent amount of cash back. I figured out a magic number that seemed like a slight stretch, but reasonable, and started sending out quote requests.

Those were annoying and full of potential bait and switch advertising violations. One place hadn't bothered to call or email, but the others had irritated me so much, I decided to just go there and see. They had one of the acceptable replacements on the lot in manual, just like their website promised. I took it for a test drive, told the guy it was OK, I wasn't thrilled, that I'd probably go look at another brand first and go with the better deal. He asked if I'd be willing to take an aggressive deal right away. I told him it'd have to be pretty aggressive. He offered $550 less than my magic number to take home with me, I counter offered my magic number. At 5:30PM Thursday, I had a check with my magic number on it in my hands. Sweet!!

Puzzled

I feel like I have all the pieces of information needed to lose weight, earn money, get laid, solve the world's problems, etc. (not necessarily in order of importance) somewhere within my grasp. The pieces of the puzzle are all there, and I have it all put together, except for the last piece. That last piece is pinched between my chubby fingers and try as I might, I can't make the fucker fit. I know it's the right piece, I know it has to fit in there somehow, but instead of plugging away at every possible scenario to ease it into place, I swipe the whole mess off the table, swear at it a bit, then spend hours picking it up and redoing it, only to repeat the process again at the last piece. Sometimes I get pissed and try another puzzle, but it always seems to end the same way, with me holding the last piece in a fit of angry confusion.

Why can't I do this? Why can so many other people flip that laminated piece of cardboard into its' correct spot and finish the puzzle? If I've done the work for the first 999 pieces, why, oh why does the end vex me so?

For the better part of the last two years, I have succeeded in stuffing all my wants and needs into a teeny, tiny ball and burying it so far up my ass even the (racial slur) couldn't find it. It appears my bout of dysentery has dislodged the shit, and now that my stuff has had space, i can no longer make it fit in a teeny tiny ball. Where I was able to overlook petty annoyances for the sake of the greater good, I now think, "Fuck that! There is no "greater good" when I'm the only motherfucker worrying about what anyone else wants." Why sacrifice myself for harmony when apparently harmony isn't too damn important to the cacophonous bastards fucking up my shit?

I think I broke my compliance bone. It was pretty tiny and brittle anyway.

Somehow in all my nostalgia for the days when friends were available in abundance, I lost sight of the fact that the few remaining people were self-centered turds. Maybe I am too, but, whatever. I need to stop feeling obligated to help people who held my hair when I was drunk, or watched my 18 year old daughter when she was a baby. I'd like to hope I've more than made up for my indiscretions, and if I somehow haven't, well, then I probably never will. While I am still the same rotten, puking drunk, I haven't done shit like that in awhile. There's no need to be rude or mean, but my days of extending thoughtful invitations or aid to those who don't respond in kind are finished. I like when I can help, I like being able to provide solutions, etc., but, damn, a few people I know simply don't deserve it anymore.


Since when was I obligated to drive 300 miles a night and sell tee shirts for free for people who have only ever put me on their guest list anyway? Sure, we have fun hanging out those weekends, but it never goes beyond that. Oh, I know, since I felt bad for being on the list repeatedly because someone else felt she was entitled to ask to add me. I don't feel bad anymore, sorry.

Anyway, I'm hoping if I cut out some of the background noise and chatter, I will finally be able to figure out how to fit that last puzzle piece in its place.

No Escape

I have been avoiding any unnecessary thoughts about Patrick's murder for the past almost month since the two year anniversary. I'm just not in a place where I can put any thought into it and come out OK. I've gotten to the point where I can drive by the murder site without gasping for air and feeling stabbing pains in my chest. I don't drive the last route he walked very often anymore, and I barely grimace when I drive past his old place of employment. I have to make a conscious effort to keep these things in check, I know how easily I will find myself swept away if I so much as shift my footing.

Tonight Pete and Ian went for a walk by our house and noticed a new marker on the banks of the creek, oh, 100 or so yards away. It's a commemorative plaque for two children who were murdered in 1953. I remembered my daughter saying something about the murders when we moved into the house. Her boyfriend's dad told her about it, and I looked it up online. I don't know if I never found any good information or what the deal was, but I thought the kids were abducted and never seen again. Pete pointed out the plaque said "homicide victims", and I argued that maybe they found enough evidence for the theory, or something. He wasn't convinced.

Since I can't be wrong, or at least, hate wondering if I am, I looked online.

Well over half the hits on the first page dealt with Patrick's murder, as it was the first in the town in 31 years (Apparently we'll all be safe for another 25- 30 years, seems to be the time frame for murders here. Thanks, Patrick, for stepping up to ensure the rest of our safety.) I typed 1953 on purpose, I didn't want to see his articles again, but there they were, saying, "Bitch, don't you know you can't escape?" Load of bricks straight to the heart.

I also found out I was wrong, the children were found at the site of the plaque, within sight of our house. Yippee.

Stupid fucking murderers.

Drive In

When I finally made it to the drive in, everyone else was already there. No big shock. My friend had waited at the gates for me, and we made our way to find the rest of the group. My friend had known Todd for at least six years, the four guys had all been friends for a long time, and the two girlfriends there were long term. And then there was me, sober and in a close knit group of whom I knew one person. My socialization skills are sub-par at best, but that particular combo is my worst nightmare. I was visibly uncomfortable and jonesing for a whole lot of alcohol to make it better.

But in the midst of it all was Chris. Naturally, I sat near him. My friend later said that the two of us oozed sex to the point of filling a room with it whenever we were together. I suppose that first night wasn't much different. The movies were horrible, but the other females in the group were enjoying the hideous romantic comedy. I rolled my eyes and groaned right around the same time Chris did. I think my sheer and utter undisguised contempt for the movie was what really drew him to me.

He asked about my humongous elbow rug burn with a smirk. I said it was from falling over while playing a board game. His eyes twinkled as he challenged that story. I snorted, replied that I wished it had been for a good reason and that if I was going to make up a story, it wouldn't be as ridiculous as the truth that I had told. He asked if it hurt. I replied, "Like a bitch", he changed his sitting position and invited me to lean on him. I was a little slow figuring out what he meant, first leaning against his arm, but he placed me in the most comfortable position for me. I ended up sitting in between his legs, being supported by the front of his body. His friends all raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. After a few minutes I relaxed. Not all of Chris did. *smirk*

After the movies, we went to my regular bar. I don't even remember if anyone else came with us. I do remember his shock at the sheer amount of people in the bar who knew me by name, as in every single employee and at least half the patrons. I just remember desperately downing a few drinks, trying to relax. He took me to move my father's truck from the lot where I had parked earlier in the evening during the parade. For some reason my dad had specified the truck needed to be in his driveway overnight, even though he was on vacation.

Chris asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him. I started to whine about all the movie watching, as I hate it, but decided it might be OK. Since Chris' parents were on vacation too, we went to their house instead of his apartment. He put on Jerry Maguire and we reclined together on the sofa in a slightly modified variation of our drive in position. He held me and played with my hair. Then we kissed, and it was time to go upstairs.

I silently freaked because I had had sex with Jay that morning and was under the mistaken impression that should I happen to get pregnant, a 24 hour difference would mean I wouldn't have to wonder who the daddy was. Uh huh. I'm smart. Whatever the case, I told him we would not be having sex that night, and he said that was OK, we'd have plenty of time, and asked about other limitations. Since I had never turned down anyone I wanted before, my other restrictions were nil. And then, it was on.

In a few days it will have been fourteen years since that night. This is the first time I remember that I have been able to choke back the bile that usually rises in my throat at the thought of him. It's hard to remember the decent beginning when the middle and the end burned the whole thing to ash.