For the first time in 124 days, I am blogging from home, surfing on my neighbors’ unsecured wireless service, with their permission. Seems as though the contractors neglected to hook up my phone lines correctly or completely.
Today there is a blue moon and not just that, but the moon also moved between the signs of Scorpio and Sagittarius today. A very powerful time, filled with magikal energy as I am, once again, Lady and Mistress of Peach Manor. I am truly blessed.
My homecoming has been much different than I had imaged. First, I had imagined it would have been a month sooner. Then that there would have been time for a proper house blessing, that the stove would not be shut down due to a gas leak, the microwave would be installed, beds to sleep in, and a bit more organization than I am normally known for. I had hoped to play special songs on the stereo, pictures would be hung on the walls, and I would have had a bit more sleep, at least more than the six hours I’ve had in the past two days. And yes, perhaps someone special to share it with.
We build up this image in our minds, this perfect scenario. Rarely does it occur, at least to me. A reminder not to live in that graven image in our minds, but rather the moment. The moments of peace; Nate sleeping on the loveseat, Jack swatting at my typing hands with his wee, yet incredibly sharp, kitten claws, his motorboat purr drowning out the whir of the ceiling fan, a full moon that is not blue but burnt orange, streaks of heat lightning in high topped clouds, a soothing warm breeze, and the knowledge I have no where else to be but here.
I forgot to mention that I would be visiting with my friend Cybele this weekend. I was welcomed into the Merry Home of Baltimore as the sun set in golden hues. Following the hugs, but before I could be properly introduced to the Prince and Princess of Baltimore, the Merry Wife was catapulted through the air by High Court Jester Sunny.
Sunny, along with his golden fur, was in the doghouse. Woof. Sir Shiloh, living up to his peaceful name, was much more the gentleman. What is a Peach to do other than offer assistance? I was out of my orchard and didn’t know where the Merry Wife kept her first aid supplies so I stood aimlessly by and offered condolences.
Then it was boozy, slushy drinks, and the first full eight hours of sleep I’ve seen in six months, delicious pancakes, made by the Prince, with berries and bananas and fresh cream and donuts. Then it was off to watch the trapeze artists, time in the sun, time on the porch, time with music, time with Snow Balls, time driving, time just being, enjoying the company of friends, and squeezing as much into the minutes as we could.
Too soon, although two and a half hours late, with hesitation, I made my way back home with fruit, flowers, and a slushy, boozy drink for later. “Later” hasn’t come yet but it definitely needs to. And how, exactly, did I get my camera out many times and still not get any pictures?????
Jeff ran his drunk mouth and the State Troopers decided they didn’t like that so well. So, Jeff got an ass beating that he truly deserved and was carted off to CARES, which is a fancy word for THE DRUNK TANK. This following a crescendo of drunkenness all evening long until finally at 1:00 a.m., I turned my cellphone off and went to bed.
Then Jeff calls at 4 fuckin’ in the a.m. wanting to know if I’m going to drag Nate out of bed and come to the hospital, where he is still half drunk, to pick his ass up. Telling me some sob story about them macing his dogs and they’re probably running the neighborhood or injured. I told him, “No. I’m not coming to get you. Call your Momma.” His response, “My Mom don’t deserve this.” I said, “Oh really. Well, what do I deserve, Jeff?”
Now, the State Troopers have told him, what I told him, his daughter does not want to see him because he’s a drunk. She is not going to the race with him and quite frankly, he’d better sober his ass up or Nate isn’t going either and I told him that. And when he bitched that the State Troopers came in and drug his ass out of his house and maced him, I said, “What the fuck did you expect? You called and threatened them. You were a belligerent ass. That’s what happens when you fuck with the State Police.” And I thank them.
I spent hours last night, trying to calm him down. I did it for Nate. I did it for Aimee, and whether or not that cunt bitch Lori ever knows it, I saved her fucking life last night. I. SAVED. HER. LIFE. And all of this could have been avoided if either Lori or Aimee had enough sense or common courtesy to tell Jeff that Aimee wasn’t going to the damn race.
But Lori doesn’t want to deal with him, Aimee is only 13 years old but by Lord and Lady her mother puts it off on her and Aimee didn’t want to deal with it, she wants to think she’s an adult, but I have news for that little girl, she’s not because if she was she would have done the adult thing and called him and said, “Dad, you’re drinking again, and I’m not going.”
Do you think I want to talk to him? To be involved in any way with this shit? No, I don’t. Do you think I wanted to be on the phone with him and Metro 911 last night? Hell to the no! I was ashamed that he conferenced me into the call. I was ashamed when I talked to the Troopers. I was ashamed to have to tell them that Jeff used to be a man in blue himself! But I had a serious DUH moment with them because they asked me why he was on disability. I said, “UH, MENTAL!”
And Lori, well, in my fucking humble opinion, she should have her ass beat too for being a fucking lazy ass cunt, who pushes and pushes and pushes, won’t return a damn phone call, not even mine, and none of us have seen Aimee and frankly, when I went out and knocked on the door and the damn lights are on, the TV is on, and the dog that normally barks its head off is no where to be seen, yeah, I TEND TO WORRY!
Then she wants to act all high and mighty? My ass. That bitch is living with a man she can’t stand because he brings home a big paycheck, puts her up in a big house, and she can’t wait to win the lottery so she can leave him. Well, sister, dream the fuck on. The only difference between you and the whores down the road are, they actually walk the street.
And Jeff, that stupid bastard, plays right into it. I wish the State Troopers would have knocked him over the head with that fifth this morning so he would really know, DRINKING HURTS! He at least had the common courtesy to call and let me know that he made it home safely and his dogs were okay since the Troopers had, not only the decency to lock the two purebreds in the house, but also turn off his TV, and lock his damn door.
Then, he had the courtesy to call me and tell me he had called the Trooper that beat his ass and apologized for being such a blight on humanity. I told him to shut the fuck up, leave me alone, and go to sleep.
And here I am, blogging at 5:20 in the morning. I’ve had three hours sleep. The alarm goes off in 40 minutes. And all I want is a hug from a tall, dark haired, dark eyed drummer.
Jeff tried to strong arm me into allowing Nate to go on his race trip twice. Both times I informed Jeff that Nate wasn’t going anywhere with him in the shape he was in. Then Jeff tried the, “Help me” card, which got him no where. Sob story, “feel sorry for me,” “I’m hurt, I’m injured,” and all your own doing buddy.
I told him Nate wasn’t going to the race, period, unless he was sober. Sober = sober, not thinking you are, not ranting and raving like a fucking lunatic, it means sober. It means stepping up and not making excuses or blaming your behavior on someone else. It means taking responsibility for your actions. I told him I would glad to check him into treatment but I was not babysitting his ass at the hospital because the Troopers had to get rough with him. Which was really bullshit, because he didn’t have a mark on him.
So, after me, his mother, his girlfriend, and his father all took the same stance, wow, a totally different Jeff called me. You know, the sober one, who is rational. AMAZING how fast someone can sober up, pull their head out of their ass, and act like an adult when no one is buying their line of shit and feeding their “feel sorry for me” line.
He said, “I know I let it get to me and you’re the only one who I can talk to. I need help.”
I said, “I can’t help you. You have to look for help, it doesn’t knock on your door. I am not an alcoholic, I don’t understand you, and I don’t understand it. If you go to AA, you will meet people who are sober and who have been where you are. I haven’t, I have no understanding of it, and I will not take responsibility for you or for your problems but I will take responsibilty for Nate. You will not drink around him, you will not be drunk around him, not now, not ever again or I will make sure you’re not.”
He was quiet for a long minute, then he said, “I won’t disappoint you.” Pffft! Okay. He won’t disappoint me this weekend because he wants something from me and he’ll promise just about anything to be able to spend time with Nate and his elder son, Scottie, who is almost 20, at the race. Jeff’s girlfriend will probably go down, but she’s taking her own car and Nate’s uncle will be there as well. As a bonus, T-Bird is going to be in NC this weekend, about an hour away from where Nate will be.
Qualms? Hell yeah, but not about the weekend, not anymore. Jeff and Nate will be fine but I meant what I said. It’s either Nate or booze. He can’t have both anymore.
I’m out of the apartment on May 31st. The beds, if I’m lucky, will be delivered on June 1st. If not, well, I’ll be sleeping on my big couch and Nate will be sleeping on the loveseat. We have a roof over our head, there will be food, and running water. Better than camping.
I’ve been pretty damn busy packing what I can and making plans. Plus, I took off for OH Friday afternoon for the Black Stone Cherry show, which kicked ass, of course. Got home at 4:30 that morning. Totally worth it, even though I got two phone calls, one before the show, and one during the show, from WV. Neither of which was good.
Nate and I have ended up in the middle of the turf war between Jeff and Nate’s half-sister’s mom. Both of them are right, and both of them are wrong. Real easy to see when you’re standing on the outside looking in. Both think I have some kind of control over the other. If I did, none of this would be happening.
Jeff called me around 1:00 today (Sunday) wanting to know if I wanted to pick up Nate early. I said, “If you want me to.” I heard a slight tell-tale slur in his words and he asked me to pick him up around 4:00. Okay. But, he called at three and said I needed to come pick him up then. Okay.
He was so drunk he could barely put one word in front of the other.
Having a face-to-face encounter with Jeff while he’s drinking is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get. He might be belligerent and verbally abusive. Or, like this afternoon, he was just so drunk he couldn’t even stand up or speak coherently. I’m surprised he was able to dial the phone. I wished I had picked Nate up at one.
Nate and I had a talk and finally, FINALLY, he said, “Mom, noooobody likes it when Daddy drinks.” When I asked why he didn’t say something before he said he didn’t want his dad to think that he didn’t want to see him, Nate just doesn’t want to see him while his dad is drinking. Thank you, Nate.
Unlike Danlel’s mom, who puts it off on her 13 year-old daughter to deal with her father directly, I’ll deal with Jeff. Nate loves his dad, regardless of his faults, and it’s taken Nate a long time to get to this point. I’m sure I’ll hear that I’m trying to poison Nate against him and all that bullshit. Fact is, Jeff should be grateful that his kids want to see him at all.
On May 27th, I’ll have my 3rd Blogiversary. A diary of my life. On that first day, I said this about Jeff, “. . . there’s a Made-For-TV-Movie, just waiting to happen . . . no need to spoil the fun ahead of time.” On June 23rd, I posted a quote: “We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4am of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.” — Joan Didion
That is one of the truest statements ever made. Except, I’m never given the chance to forget, because it keeps repeating itself. And, I keep coming up with new and inventive ways to deal with it. My best good friend T-Bird told me Friday night, as I called bitching from OH about this situation, “Girl, you are a strong woman, strong in ways that you don’t even realize.”
I propose a trade-off. I’ll work on realizing all the ways that I’m strong that I don’t realize, if someone would just take away the reason to be strong to start with.
Monday, May 21, 2007 (My Half-Birthday)
I talked to Jeff this morning and calmly laid it out for him. His kids love him, they want to be with him, but not while he’s drinking. Not any of them, not even Nate. He knows he has a problem, we all know he has a problem, but that’s what it is… his problem. We didn’t cause it, we can’t cure it, and we can’t control it, that is up to him.
He didn’t have much to say, other than, “Drinking all that liquor didn’t change a thing.”
I said, “Except your liver enzymes.” Continuing to call it like I see it. Just another service I offer.
In other news, the connections on my stove are leaking gas. I didn’t notice it until I turned the air conditioning on and circulated the air. This will be fixed tomorrow or else.
I haven’t heard about my contractor replacing my chair. This will be fixed tomorrow or else.
We went to pick up our new cat, Jack, today. The lady chose not to show up, precipitating a call from me in which she informed me that they decided to keep him. Thanks for the phone call, bitch, and thanks so much for disappointing my son, especially after me telling you how important this cat was and how much he was looking forward to getting Jack. A pox on ye.
Regardless, we still have a cat named Jack. An acquaintance had approached me last week about some kittens she had and I declined due to getting the other Jack. I drove out to her place after our aborted attempt and Nate picked out a new Jack, who was just laying between Nate’s legs, sprawled out on his back. Spoiled already!
Macy and Hermione have sniffed the newest invader with minimal hissing and with increased affection for Mom. They are, without a doubt, two of the most JEALOUS cats I’ve ever had. Upon seeing the new arrival, Macy got up on the couch with me and laid down, which is an extremely rare occurrence. When I started petting her, she nipped me several times, as if to say, “Look, don’t get friendly lady, I’m just here to show Junior that I’m your favorite and he can just stay on the floor.” I was reading, “Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul” and found a quote that said, “In Ancient times, cats were worshipped as gods. They have not forgotten this.” Amen.
Life is full of paradoxes. Today, I really needed a hug, I wanted a hug but I was so upset, aggravated, and irritated, I didn’t want anyone to touch me. It reminds me of a discussion I had with my buddy Kevin, wherein he teased me by responding, “Touch me, don’t touch me, touch me, don’t touch me.” Guess you had to be there. You would laugh if you knew the whole story.
What started this downward slide into my mini-breakdown were the burn marks all over my brand new chair, which is a very, very light tan. I mean, burn marks all over the left arm of the chair, and the inside of the arm of the chair, big black marks. After contacting my contractor and finding out THEY discovered said black marks yet neglected to tell me about them, then INSINUATED that I had caused such black marks, only served to infuriate me further.
After more of an investigation (by me), I found that the black marks smelled of cleanser and after turning the back cushion around found another mark and then after flipping the bottom cushion, found even more black marks. Let’s just say burns, because they were burns, not soot or dust or grease, it had been burned. And then they tried to cover it up.
And then there were the scrape marks on the kitchen floor, which I had been told was rip-proof, tear-proof, and along with cockroaches, would survive an atomic bomb. I may have a bathroom but no towel rack, no toilet paper holder, no shower curtain rod, and the drain is gold and the other fixtures are silver…
The shelf above the washer and dryer was installed for a man who is 6’4″, I’m 5’3 and 1/2″.
Nate’s room and closet still smell like SMOKE…
A half of a box of hardwood flooring has disappeared…
Which leads me to this observation…
Every now and again, I try to debunk astrology. I do so because it’s fun to try and be someone else for a while and ignore my natural instincts. Which follows a dependable pattern similar to trying not to breath, passing out, and nature taking over.
I’m cusp born, not just once, but twice. My Sun sign is what I lovingly call a Scorpittarius, although I most strongly identify with the Scorpio and most astrologists place me as a Scorpio with strong Sagittarian tendencies. I was also born on the cusp in my Ascending Sign or Rising Sign of Pisces and Aries. My Moon sign is Virgo.
Supposedly, the Rising sign is the face you show the world. The Sun sign is your individuality. The Moon sign represents how you best express your emotions. Based on this, if you were to meet me you would see me as intelligent, intuitive, psychic, perhaps somewhat dreamy, compassionate, empathetic, unselfish, and someone that other people will seek out when in need. I would be very analytical, very much about the facts and figures, the details, all about the details.
Also someone who is very resourceful, yet having an innate ability to find trouble, intense, passionate, secretive, strong willed, mysterious, sexually charged, loyal, generous, ambitious, self-reliant, outspoken, frank, a gypsy, forgiving, and not so forgiving. I can be your best good friend but insult me and I will dog you until the day you die. Fuck with me, I fuck back, harder. I may take your shit but I won’t forget and when I get to a point, its over. I’m done.
Like today. I was done and I let them know it. Luckily for them, they gave me almost six hours to calm down (or in my case, circle the wagons, get my facts set up, and prepare for a swift, deadly attack). At the peak of my rage, which is exactly what it was, I was on the phone with T-Bird and saw myself in the mirror. Oy. I scared myself. I really do speak with my eyes. Since there was fire shooting out of them, I heard that loud and clear.
I try like hell to suppress that nasty, vindictive, hateful, venomous stinger (tongue) of mine. I much prefer the sexually charged, mysterious, intuitive, empathetic, generous nature of my personality. Plus, that nasty, vindictive part of me is quite out of control. I mean, you really have to fuck with me hard to get me to that point but once I’m there, I’m there.
I felt like Gollum and Smeagle. Literally, trying to talk myself out of violence and releasing that insanely sharp, truth telling, bare it all, tell it like it is with conviction, tongue of mine. I remind myself to treat people as I would want to be treated, that you get more flies with honey than with vinegar, blah, blah, blah, then the stinger slaps the inner child and says in a menacing, demonic voice, “STOP BEING A FUCKING DOORMAT!”
See, I try to debunk all of that astrology shit and someone has to go and fuck it up.
However, I was able to temper my considerable temper and present myself in much more calm and rational, yet don’t fuck with me, manner. Upon leaving, the supervisor told me that he would have Ron to work on the floor, the bathroom, and Nate’s bedroom, but it would be Monday before the owner would be back to discuss what was going to be done about the chair.
I said, “Don’t forget, Mr. Supervisor. . . because I won’t.”
“Oh, I know you won’t.”
My stinger and I waved good-bye. So, have ya’ll hugged your scorpion today?
My buddy Buckwheat told me that life is like a roller coaster, you go up, you go down, and neither lasts very long. That was his encouragement to me that when things get rough, it won’t last long, but you know, I could handle a little more hang-time on the extreme high and happiness train.
Regardless of how wonderful my Mother’s Day was, it was preceded by a visit to my own mother on Saturday. The woman who knows exactly which buttons to push to infuriate me. My mother missed something in the school yard. It was, how to get along well with others. After a fairly uneventful day, given the fact my brother and his spawns of Satan were there (following after Nate like he was the Pied Piper), my mother chooses to inform me that I am too protective over Nate and NATE NEEDS TO LEARN THAT LIFE ISN’T PERFECT.
“Are you honest with him about his father’s drinking problem?”
“Yes, I am. He knows, more than anyone, that his father is an abusive alcoholic but he loves him anyway.”
“Well, you try to protect him too much. He needs to learn that life isn’t perfect.”
My mouth. fell. open.
I said, “Oh, really! Name me an example, Mother.”
“I can’t think of one right now. I thought of it the other day.”
“Well, let me tell you something right now, you’re damn right I’m protective and I also don’t think he needs to learn all of life’s lessons before he turns 13. He’s my only one and he’s the only I’ll ever have and I will protect him.”
I turned and walked out on her. I know why she does it. It’s because her angel of a son, her favorite child, her words, not mine, doesn’t have the sense the Lord and Lady gave a goose to discipline his children or to teach them any type of manners. And to make herself feel better about this heinous situation, she has to break me down as a parent. You know, I get enough of that from Nate’s abusive, alcoholic father.
Speaking of, let’s go over the ways Nate has had this picture perfect life.
1. An abusive, alcoholic father who at one point, before I put the fear of God and the court system into him, spanked him so hard he left the perfect imprint of his hand bruised on Nate’s ass. I won’t get into the screaming, cussing, threatening bullshit that Nate has overheard when I stand up to the sorry SOB. Sounds ideal to me.
2. 15? or is it 17 doctors in his lifetime? I lost count. Stitches twice in his head, EEGs, MRIs, poked and prodded with needles, seizures, ADHD, dyslexia, a blood disorder, and most recently, a nasty second degree burn on his leg from the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle, because, as you know, I’m too protective and don’t let him do anything to learn any lessons.
3. Near constant ridicule and bullying in his first five years of school, and that was just his teachers. A child smart enough to know he is different from the age of four. Rejection from his peers and due to complications from his seizures, not comfortable sleeping over a buddy’s house even though he just wants to be a normal kid. Yep, that’s the high life.
4. Not only has he endured the loss of loved ones, but has also watched me endure the loss of loved ones. Three of my grandparents, one suddenly and without warning. Yep, he was there when Holland walked out on us, he missed him just like I did, and he wanted him back a lot more than I did too. For a year, he asked about him and why couldn’t we see him, why couldn’t we just visit. And that persisted until I found out Holland was in prison and he had to learn the lesson that no matter how much you loved someone, and no matter how well they treated you, they’re still capable of doing bad things that they shouldn’t, and they end up in prison for the next 70 years.
5. He’s had to watch how profound loss has affected me. Most recently, before the fire, when my friend Kevin killed himself. Explain suicide to your 10 year old and make it a lesson worth learning and do it while you’re stumbling around numb with shock and grief and anger.
6. Then, take everything left, his home, his sense of security, and the unconditional love of his pets, and wipe it out by fire, uprooting him from everything he’s ever known. Then stick him with his grieving mother who is so busy with trying to keep their life “normal” that she passes her ass on her way to work the next day. And as I’m trying to stay strong, he’s the one who rubs my back and says, “It’s okay to cry, Momma.”
He carries on with his life without an ounce of self-pity. He’s loving, compassionate, empathetic, witty, and way too smart for his own good. Not to mention, he’s a good dancer. Gets it from his Momma. And I was thankful today that he did not question why I picked him up from school, because I probably would have said, “Well, your dad called at one o’clock today and was already drunk, talking out of his head, giving me unsolicited advice, and making absurdly lame passes at me, so I thought it might be a good idea if I picked you up. How was school, dude?”
Forgive me for believing that Nate has learned a lot of valuable lessons in his first decade of life. In his father’s drunken ramblings today, he said, “You know, you shouldn’t have to go through this alone.” I said, “Well, life ain’t fuckin’ fair, now is it?”
Nate knows that and a pox on my mother for what she said. A POX ON HER. And let it be known to all who care to listen and heed my warning, as I yet draw breath in my body, I will strive to protect my son so that he may continue his loving, compassionate, empathetic, witty ways, even though he already knows, life ain’t fuckin’ fair.
My Mother’s Day started with Nate jumping out of the bedroom at midnight (in his underwear) with a big, “Happy Mother’s Day!” and a hug and a kiss and then I told him to get his skinny butt to bed.
This morning, I went to take a shower and Nate told me he was going to fix himself some breakfast and I could, “Just fix your own.” I said, “Okay, Bubba.” Now, this is following the fact that he told me, “DON’T LOOK!” As he went back and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom, filling up the tea kettle. (Nate hates the way the water tastes in the kitchen and has found the best tasting water comes from the bathtub faucet.)
As I’m getting ready to shave my legs, he comes into the bathroom and asks me to look out of the shower curtain. He’s standing there, still in his underwear, with a cookie tray and on it is a bowl of oatmeal and toast with blackberry jelly on it. He says, “Its cinnamon and spice oatmeal, Momma, I know it’s your favorite.” Awwww… don’t you just love him?
I told him I still had to shave my legs but if he hurried he could probably make his own oatmeal in that time and we could sit down together for breakfast. Little did I know that he would dump all kinds of packing stuff out (peanuts, shredded newspapers), in an attempt to cloister Hermione and Macy so they wouldn’t eat my food while he fixed his. He’s so sweet.
After a delicious (and well-made breakfast), Nate said that today was my day and I wouldn’t be cutting grass at the house, as I had planned. I said, “Fine, Momma wants to take her Macy’s gift cards and go shopping.” My cousin and my aunt both sent gift cards so we had almost $200 to play with. And play we did. Nate told me after our marathon (for us) two hour shopping spree that he then understood the meaning of, “shop ’til ya drop.”
Let’s see, we got a sheet set for me (400 count queen set with two extra pillow cases) ON SALE, a twin sheet set for him ON SALE, and then he wanted his own little set of towels (bath towel, hand towel, and washcloth) in GRAPE. They are very pretty and they were ON SALE. Then since we had a good bit of money left and Macy’s was having this uber-awesome sale, we went to house wares and found a Rival crock-pot with a bonus Little Dipper pot ON SALE. Nate was so excited to get the Little Dipper.
Then we looked at picture frames, dishes, and shoes before I found the CUTEST crocheted purse. Now, I had a knitted purse with a drawstring that I carried with me to all of the shows because it had a cord that would go over my head and I never worried about loosing it. Well, it burned, at least partially. I had crocheted myself a purse but it still reeks and the strap isn’t finished. This purse is SO ME!
After all that, I still had $13.77 on my card. You see, I’m not the kind of person that goes to Macy’s. First, I can’t afford it and second, I could tell they didn’t really appreciate their clientele wearing cut-off jeans shorts and a Harley Davidson t-shirt or the fact that Nate dropped his water bottle and it rolled over the edge between the Plexiglas and the escalator. Luckily, it missed anyone on the escalator and that big display of dishes at the bottom of the escalator. Yeah.
This meant, I really had to get my money’s worth and I was trying to buy things for the house that I’ll actually be reimbursed for, which was, just about everything I bought. But finding something at Macy’s for $13.00 is tough, even ON SALE. Then I told Nate, “I bet I could find some underwear.”
The poor child is weighted down by two bags and I have two bags and the Unmentionables section is way off in no-man’s land. I’m looking for the best deal, not to mention the cutest Unmentionables possible, when I see Nate drop his bags and crawl through the Unmentionables section and under a table with a long skirt on it.
(Stage whisper) “DUDE! What are you doing?”
(Stage whisper) “I’m hiding. Duh, my MOM is looking for underwear!”
Fair enough. So, I find a couple of cute pairs and take them to the register and find out they are ON SALE, so I got two more. I had a $1.09 left on my card. And for being such a good Bubbas, Nate got Dippin’ Dots. Then we went to the house for a few minutes, then to T-Bird’s, then to watch J3 play his baseball game, and Nate played in the dirt. It was a really good game except the end, where the opposing team’s coach decided to call the game in the fifth inning, of course, while his team is two points up. Umm, dumbass, that doesn’t mean your team wins, it means you forfeit the game. What an ass.
Then we went down to T-Bird’s for a while, then Nate and I went to the house and I cut the grass and then T-Bird stopped by after a short visit with her mother and I threatened to kill the boys for climbing like monkeys and yard apes on my new furniture and T-Bird and I measured and discussed the arrangement of my new furniture.
Nate and I came home, he watched TV, I did some laundry, and I went to lay down with him and told him what a great Mother’s Day I had and how much fun I had with him. But really, he’s such a great kid, they should call it, “I Love Being Your Mom Day.”
What’s not to love?
I’m pretty happy. I haven’t felt that way in a while and I like getting back there. One thing that made a significant difference was buying tickets to see Black Stone Cherry in Youngstown and seeing Jubal Kane this past weekend, and making plans to make a road trip to the D.C. area to see them Memorial Day weekend.
I love music and I love to travel and I love writing about traveling to watch bands play. I love the atmosphere and I’ve been careful, I think, to choose bands to see that inspire me. That make me laugh and sing and dance and feel good about life. I like being able to prop my bare feet up and have a beer or two.
I’m not so sure I’ll make it to D.C, but I have it on the radar. My family reunion is that weekend and … I hate to hear the hell from my mother for not attending but… really, seeing Jubal Kane, in D.C., seeing some friends up there, drinking, dancing, staying out until the crack of dawn… pffft! I’m so there.
I’m really rather hoping that the reunion is on Sunday or Monday instead of Saturday. That way I can drag ass back home and not miss it. (Read: Not catch hell from my mother.) Besides, Nate will be with his dad in Charlotte that weekend and we all know what happens when the cat’s away… this little mouse goes on the road!
Traveling is in my blood. A psychic once told me that I had been a gypsy in a past life. I looked at her and said, “Ya think?!???” Sorry, I already figured that one out sister. I love visiting my friends, especially if they’re blog friends that I’ve exchanged e-mails with, talked on the phone with, but never got to actually meet in person, and then I like going back and seeing them again and again.
Sometimes I visit my family, sometimes I visit old friends, sometimes I just go and I meet new friends. Like the trip to Atlanta last year in September to see Black Stone Cherry at the Hi-Fi Buys Amphitheatre With The Terrible Parking. I met Kim and Matt there. I knew no one there other than the guys in BSC and ended up meeting two of the greatest people on Earth and I love them so dearly.
And my family, they don’t get it. They don’t understand wanderlust or as my German Papa used to say about me, “Du bist ruhelos, mein Kind.” You are restless, my child. My dad, I think he gets it, in a way. I think in a small way he understands that its not about doing something, its about being there. Like watching the sun set over the mountains in Las Vegas and then walking down the street past where Tupac was killed, seeing the Cascades and Bryce Canyon by plane, oil derricks in Texas, alligators in the bayou and beignets in the French Quarter, the skyline of New York City, the reason the Smoky Mountains are called The Smoky Mountains, Santa Monica pier, the Eiffel Tower, the Reichstag in Berlin, castles and towers right in my own city, sand between my toes at Virginia Beach, Myrtle Beach, Galveston Beach, Santa Monica beach, on the Columbia River in Washington, racing on a sternwheeler, riding on a roller coaster, swimming under Tenskwatawa Falls on a hot July day after hiking in 100 degree temperatures, and there’s so much more!
And the people, so many people, so many stories. Like the lady in Knoxville, who after hearing me talk to the owner of an antique store about my fire and why I was buying certain things, opened the trunk of her car and gave me dishes and cups, without ever sharing her name, just smiling and saying, “May God bless you.”
The blind gentleman at a local bar who after regaling me with stories of his sighted life, then asked if he could “feel me up” so he could get a better idea of what I “looked” like. I politely declined.
The seamstress who made my bridesmaid gown for my sister’s wedding, giving me a swan from her bathroom because she found out I collected them. That was 15 1/2 years ago.
The ticket scalper who handed over a ticket to Metallica for free because he made $200 off of every front row ticket he had.
The lady and gentleman who donated clothing to me when I became extremely sick on my last flight to Vegas. Oh yeah, it was that bad. It was horrible bad.
My Oma, who survived the bombing of Dresden in 1944, the death of a child, and desertion by her husband.
My great-uncle, who was a tank gunner in WWII under General Patton.
My little sister, who left her family in Germany to marry and live in the United State of Texas. Ha.
My friend Deb, who married her ex-brother-in-law. What a great story that is! Damn, I miss her!
And my blog friends, what stories, what experiences they have had.
My dads, my moms, my brothers, my sisters, my friends…
Everyone has a story, everyone is unique. How we can we all just sit and not want to know every story, see every place, meet every person, and experience every feeling? As Nate gets older, I feel myself getting younger, at least in spirit. And spirit is where it counts. I’ll share this with you…
When I was a little girl, my mother and I were waiting in line at the communal showers at a campground. An older Native American woman, with a long grey braid, stripped down without shame, and went into the shower stall. My mother was shocked but I thought it was the coolest thing ever. To have lived so much, to have obviously had children, to not be firm and young anymore, and not care, but to be proud that she had lived. Someday, I will be the older woman with a long grey braid, and I will not be ashamed, I will be proud that I have lived.
Oh my, Nanner just awoke from a four hour nap on her new couch. Don’t get excited, the house isn’t finished. I got there a little after 11:30 with brownies, milk, and a coffee for me. I talked to Gary and Jimmy and then decided a nap may be in order. When I woke up, it was almost four hours later and I guess they had worked around me for a couple of hours and then left me slumbering on the couch. I still had my coffee beside of me, still 3/4s full. I drank it anyway.
I was tired because I was out until 4:30 this morning. I came home to the birds singing. I received a message on MySpace yesterday morning that Jubal Kane was going to be back in town. That’s www.myspace.com/jubalkane. Go check these guys out. Blues, rock, jam band. They. kick. ass!
Fred, who plays harmonica and sings, saw me at a table and swung by.
“Hey girl, glad you could make it! I was afraid I didn’t send the message in time.” I thanked him for sending the message to start with.
Buckwheat, one of the guitarists came by.
“Young ‘en, what’s your real name?” I laughed and told him but also said, “I’ll answer to Nanner, too.” He sat down to talk about the fire. Seems he had one more than a few years ago but his burned to the ground. Luckily, he said, he had just moved all of his equipment to a different building. I’m not sure how old Buckwheat is, but he just had stents put in his heart.
The bassist, Michael, told me his wife does lampwork beads. I sent him a message to get the website. Scott, the other guitarist/singer, came over and sat down. Seems at least Fred, Buckwheat, and Scott are “fans” of my Myspace blog, or at least have kept up with what’s going on.
I finished the night with Mike, the drummer, sitting me on his stool while he packed up, saying, “I’m listening, talk to me.” He’s hot. Smokin’ like the blues. And he’s a sweetheart, too. Hugs are good and he gives good hugs. He also took a great picture of me and Buckwheat. I was stroking Buckwheat’s long beard. Then we took a self-portrait.
Yes, I have a little crush which only got worse last night when I actually got to talk to him, instead of just admiring him from afar, like I did the last time they blew through town. We were talking about the fire and I guess I got this look on my face and I’ve noticed that I start to play with my ring when I start thinking about and talking about my cats. He just reached out and hugged me. I like that in a person.
But, ya’ll also know I’m a free spirit and I guess that is why I find myself gravitating toward younger men who are artistic in some way. Musicians, artists, carpenters, (okay, Ron is older than I am but he’s an exception). During a conversation, Cybele pointed out what I already had figured out, I’m not a full-time relationship kind of person. I’m unconventional and I don’t like being tied down completely, while still wanting a meaningful relationship.
I’m not sure if those two aspects of my personality will ever be able to co-exist in a relationship with someone. I’m up front about how I feel too. I don’t want someone telling me what to do and I don’t feel like micro-managing someone else. I have enough going on. I feel like if someone wants to be with me, they will be, and not because I insist they stay stuck up my ass 24/7 or vice versa.
Yet, it seems a lot of men I meet equate love with being controlled and held down by their partner. I have found a lot who say they don’t like that, but when you don’t fuss about them going out and doing their own thing, they think you don’t care about them or you’re off messing with other peeps. I’m not sure I’ll ever figure that out. I guess, I still haven’t met that right person yet.
Ya’ll know Ron and I have gotten pretty close during the rebuild and one reason why I like him so much is he’s really easy to talk to, he knows what he’s talking about, and I just feel very safe with him. So, yesterday, when I trailed after him through the house and he turned and looked at me, I knew something was terribly wrong. He didn’t need to tell me how upset and angry he was because I saw it in him. It rather concerned me, even more so when he said, (pointing to the living room where his supervisor was), “I’m going to kick. his. ass. all over your front yard.”
Oy vey. It was difficult to image what the supervisor could have done that was so egregious that Ron could be so upset and ready to throw down in MY front yard. Well, Ron didn’t beat his ass but after we got an opportunity to talk today, I wish now he would have.
See, the supervisor and the workers use the walkie-talkie type telephones to communicate and Ron had already warned his supervisor that his button was sticking, leaving the line open. Well, the supervisor didn’t get it fixed and Ron overheard him talking shit about him and saying how he “causes trouble” on different jobs by pointing out flaws or problems and “firing up” the customers, including me and mine.
OH NO HE DID’N!
Little Miss Priss here had something to say about that. Further, the supervisor is the one who jacked me around on getting the disbursement for the heating and cooling, so I could have it subcontracted after his lazy bums, other than Ron, tried to railroad me on the cost.
Although Ron hadn’t told me about all of this yesterday because we didn’t have time before he called out the supervisor in my front yard and left me fretting inside, only then to be called outside to answer questions from the supervisor, had I known, he would have gotten more than an earful from me.
Did ya’ll follow that? Its a little confusing and a bit frightening (not for me, mind you, but for the supervisor) since Ron is 6’4″, 240, and a former Golden Gloves champion, and the supervisor is not much taller than I am, and decidedly overweight. In addition, Ron had caught someone breaking into his stepson’s truck at 4:30 that morning and had already injured himself sending some little thief to the Emergency Room. I’m sure it wasn’t his morning to hear someone talking trash about him.
Ron didn’t need to tell me what type of bullshit he deals with because I’ve already dealt with it, but I’m tellin’ ya, I’ve got a pretty good measure of that man, and I know it has built up over a period of time because he’s just not like that, until you push him too far. If there’s a moral to this story, it is that you should always keep your trash talk to yourself, because you never know when that cellphone doesn’t turn off, or automatically dials, or the phone is just thatmuch off the hook. Scary, isn’t it?
Ron didn’t have any trouble calling him out in the front yard and telling him what a lying snake he was and I can’t much blame him. Anytime I’ve dealt with Ron, whatever he has said will be done or will be accomplished, I can bet boatloads of money that it will be so. Anytime I deal with the supervisor, I know I’m going to get jacked around because he’s a lazy, lying, ball-less snake.
Anything that Ron has said that needs replaced has NEEDED replaced, like my moldy hardwood floors, the baked-on, smoked-up hot water tank that I’VE been complaining about for months, and as my neighbor pointed out, all of the bent metal from where they put the windows in. Ron has watched out for ME in this, not the bottom line. If it was okay, it was okay, if it could be fixed, he fixed it, if it needed replaced, he said so. If that is “causing trouble,” then he can cause me all of the trouble he wants.
Supposedly, the house is supposed to be finished late Saturday, how late, I’m not sure. My parents are bringing stuff down tomorrow, some of the furniture is being delivered tomorrow, and I’m trying to work two jobs, pack, make jewelry, take care of Nate, and generally keep myself from going crazy. Its not working very well other than I got BSC tickets and I hope to get another in a few days. Just keep crossing your fingers for me.