For the day you stood up

How friggin’ appropriate is this? Especially now. The day I stood up for me, for my needs, wants, and desires. I stood up and am becoming myself again. I stood up and said, “No, this is unacceptable. This is not okay.”

It’s a tough road ahead, that’s for damn sure. But I’m strong. I can handle it. (Granted, I still need those moments to go sit in the corner, rock back and forth and cry, but who doesn’t?)
__________________

Matt and Frannie have always been in my life. I haven’t heard from Matt in over a year – since Auntie Fran died. This morning I see a Houston area code pop up on my phone, and since I don’t recognize the number I let it go to voice mail. After the phone vibrates, letting me know I have a message, I check it. Lo and behold, it’s Matt asking me to call him. He had been going through some of Frannie’s things shortly before Passover and came across a ring my mom had given to her on her graduation day.

The past few weeks he’s been going back and forth over what to do with this ring: keep it? Give it to Mara, his daughter? When we were on the phone he told me, “You know, I think the best place for this ring is with you. I think it would be appropriate.” Cue the waterworks. After taking a semi-deep breath (can’t show emotion! Must not show feeling!) I said, “Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.” And it does. Much more than I can ever put into words.

The kicker? She had it inscribed – “For the day you stood up.”

__________________

Mom was just a few years older than Frannie when they met. How did they meet? Oddly enough, through a help wanted ad. Auntie Fran’s mother had recently passed away and her father couldn’t keep up with working, maintaining the house, and raising two children on his own. Even though Frannie was capable of doing the housework and minding her younger brother, I think her father wanted her to concentrate on her school. So, he placed an ad in the paper looking for someone to help around the house.

From what I’ve been told, Mom read the ad and thought that it sounded like a fun job to have. So she responded. When they opened the door to my mom, aged 18 or 19, they saw a semi-hippie standing in penny-loafers (no socks), Levi’s, and a peasant blouse. It was the wearing of no socks that started their friendship.

From that point forward, they were always together. If they weren’t together, or were separated by school and life, they spoke weekly. Their relationship reminds me of some of the relationships I have with my friends, and for that I am thankful.
__________________

I haven’t fully stood up yet. But I’m getting there and I know that if I waiver or wobble on my way up, “my girls” will be there to lend a steadying hand. And behind them? The ghosts of friendships past will be sending their own brand of silent support.

A rant

So, this is something I posted on Craigslist, and someone picked it up to post on his blog (http://falsesenseofmaturity.com/). The universe seems to tell me to write more often, so I'm going to dust off this blog and post more often. Here is the aforementioned post:

How dare you. You lied to me, bald-faced, and I bought it.

Almost.

I almost believed you when you said, "I have never ONCE cheated on you when we were together." That isn't a complete lie if you use the definition of together as being physically in the same place at the same time. Using that, yes, it's true that we weren't together when she was riding your purple pony. Nor was it just once, it was numerous times. Bravo – you never once cheated when we were together.

A while ago we had a conversation in which you stated that you finally understood what it felt like to be hurt - when your ex's would say, "I loved you, you hurt me", and you said you FINALLY got it. You were thinking about her.

Thank you – thank you for making me feel like an ass. All those years of self-work I did so that I can be happy with who I am? I took a major step back. All those struggles to overcome the need to slit my wrists because I felt I never measured up to "other girls", or just wasn't the person everyone wanted me to be? You proved me right.

I truly was happy with the 'me' that you married. I am very happy with the 'me' that I turned into, and am continuing to become, after the divorce. However, your actions have set me back a few emotional steps. Once again I'm comparing myself to others, once again I'm feeling like I have nothing of importance to contribute, once again I am feeling unwanted, and feeling "less".

Thank you – thank you for picking off the scabs to my (once thought healed) self-esteem. You have shown me that I AM strong and that I WILL move forward: emotionally strong, with pride in myself, strength of character, and still with the capability to love. It was painful, but great for growth, and once these wounds heal, I'll have some nifty scars.

I hear men dig scars.

You know, it's the hypocrisy that kills me – you've always said, on cheating, that everyone BUT the partner will die. So that they will live with the pain and knowledge that THEIR actions brought about so much pain and hurt to others. Tell me … why is it okay for YOU to go and f00k around WHILE WE WERE MARRIED and yet it is not okay for me to date, now that we are over? Hmmm.

Thank you – thank you for teaching me to trust my gut. When I hear that niggling voice deep down saying something is wrong, or that something feels right, I will now pay credence to it. No longer will I brush it off as doubt or second guessing. My inner-voice, my gut, is no longer silenced and is allowed uncensored speech.

I don't feel our hearts are designed to love just one person. Yes, I am pissed off that you had (at least one) affair (that I can prove beyond all reasonable doubt). Yes, I am pissed that you fell in love with her. That apparently you're still in love with her, whilst hinting to me that maybe things could work out between us. And denying the affair the entire time. Tell me – is that fair to her? She loved you, she cried over you, you ripped out her heart. You loved her, you cried over her, your heart is torn. By lying to me to save your ass, you are belittling those feelings that you two had/have. In order for all involved in this to move forward, you need to be honest. Openly, harshly honest. Honest with her, honest with me, but most of all, honest with yourself. Tear down those macho walls you've built and finally admit that you're human. During our relationship I would like to think that I allowed you a safe place to do so, but apparently I wasn't safe enough.

Want to know what else really hurts? I mean punch in the solar plexus hurt? Everyone knew, and yet nobody said a word. THAT makes me feel like a fool. And an ass. So again, thank you – thank you for teaching me that I CAN get egg on my face and live to realize that it's not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new one.

Never eat before bedtime

Okay, my dream. There was a prelude up to the meat of it, something about getting lost in San Francisco, but it wasn’t really San Francisco – it looked like a set on the back-lot at Universal. Anyway, after some random meandering, I get to my cousins apartment. (It is actually her old apartment manager’s apartment, from a long time ago, where I spent many an underage drunken night. Damn those parties!)

I get there and we’re just talking. She leaves the front door open, because in my dream the apartment complex abuts a forest. Outside I see a pack (gaggle? pride? murder? group?) of chimpanzees. I get up to go to the bathroom and as I’m walking down the hall, the chimps come in to the apartment and follow me to the bathroom.

What they do after is what makes me doubt my sanity and am now really curious to know what my psyche is trying to tell me … I’m in the bathroom and each chimp takes turns to fart at the door. What the hell?

I leave the bathroom and come back out and the chimps are all back outside, pointing at me and doing the weird chimp head-bob laugh thing that they do. I’ve had some strange and random dreams, but this one takes the cake.

My brain is a scary place.

My genes. Her jeans.

Not many of you know that Alzheimer’s runs in my family. (Gee, great.) Anyway, Nana is afflicted with this disease. I’m truly learning that if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, so I continually look for bright spots in otherwise dark situations. (Typically this is in the form of humor laughing at people. I’m mean. Deal.)

Back to Nana – growing up, and until she started developing dementia, she was always very anti-naked. A point of pride with her was that Popi never saw her fully unclothed. She held the concept that sex was only for procreation and never fun. (And you people wonder where I got my body/sex issues. Exhibit A: Nana.)

Knowing this, the next part is really kind of sad and amusing. Earlier this year, my cousin (who is Nana’s caretaker) would come downstairs in the morning to get coffee started and there would be Nana at the counter, reading the newspaper wearing a turtleneck, socks, and … that’s it. (Granny ass isn’t the first thing you want, or need to, see without at least one cuppa in you.) Apparently she LOVES her new-found freedom from pants.

Sunday my cousin calls and tells me, “We have to change Nana’s name.” I’m thinking something’s wrong, or we have to do it for legal purposes or something, so I hesitantly ask, “Whhhy?” It seems that good ol’ Nana has been stripping in the dining room. And I don’t mean stripping wallpaper. The woman is taking off ALL her clothes and not wanting to put them back on. (She will, but it takes some persuading from what I understand.)

My aunt thinks we should call her Bubbles La Rue. Any other “granny stripper” names come to mind? Another friend said Nana Rose Lee. I was going for imMoral Millie. (I’m afraid of what I will do when I’m her age. Run around wearing undies on my head?)

Ani inspired

Recently I've had a revelation: I'm angry. I'm angry with my mom. Angry with my dad.

She's been gone for almost 26 years, and just now am I allowing myself to admit that I am angry with her. Mad. Furious. Angry for leaving us. Angry that my dad allowed himself to fall into such a deep and dark place after she died. Angry that I felt that I had to be the life-line for Dad. Angry that her parents tried to turn me into their dead daughter, instead of just being okay with me as ... me. It's actually not HER that I'm mad at, just the situation that her death created. There's more to it that I am not saying, but that's all I can really put into words right now.

This catharsis though has an upside - it is making me re-evaluate my needs. Not my wants, my needs. For about 2 years there has been this unknown feeling brewing in me, and finally I realized that it is my "needs" voicing their concerns. Screaming at me, "Hey! Dipshit! Focus here, we are not to be ignored!" For a long time I always thought of others first, put their happiness and THEIR needs first. Now, there is this realization, one of, "hey, this really is MY life. Perhaps I should start living it. Enjoying it. Reveling in it. Bathing in it. Being okay with ME. Knowing that I have value, in and of myself, and not as the offspring of my mom."

The realization that it is okay to demand attention for me, and not as a watered-down version of Mom. A version that could never live up to others expectations. Though some life situations may be untenable right now, the knowledge that the SITUATION sucks, and NOT ME ... that is truly liberating.

The song that has been stuck in my subconscious for the last two years is Asking Too Much, by Ani DiFranco.

And no. I am not asking too much.

Now ... back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Amused

Okay, the intrepid Canadian has moved floors, leaving me bereft of anger/amusement on a daily basis. Oh well, I guess this blog will move more onto my musings. Or somesuch. Speaking of ...

I love reading the police blotter for my city. Many of these I read and think, “wow, do people seriously call the cops for this kind of stuff? Seriously?!” Most, though, are just sad and funny – funny because some of the actions are just plain amusing in a Darwinian sort of way, and sad because these people will breed and pass along their DNA to the next generation.

I had to bold the parts that I found amusing. All comments in parenthesis are mine. (And some of you wonder why I moved out of here the day after I turned 18.)
_____

_____ Avenue, _____ block, petty theft: An adult male was in custody on suspicion of shoplifting. The suspect was being uncooperative and getting up and giving hugs to security officers, 1:41 p.m. (I don’t know – giving hugs seems to be cooperative to me.)

_____ Park: A pony was loose in _____ Park, which is in the _____ block of _____ Lane, at 10:43 a.m. Monday. The caller said its owner was having trouble catching it. The pony reportedly "almost bit a kid in a stroller." When the pony's owner found out the police had been notified, he became upset and left the park with the pony. (The title on the blotter got me – Rogue Pony almost bites kid. Yeah, those rogue ponies are evil. They roam in packs all around My Town. It’s so bad you can’t go out at night without carrying a bag of carrots to distract the ponies if you happen to run across one.)

_____ Avenue, _____ block: U.S. marshals informed police Thursday around 5:30 p.m. that they had taken a subject into custody in the Lowe’s parking lot in the _____ block of _____ Avenue. Callers reported earlier that the male had thrown his skateboard into traffic. He told the marshals he was upset because he had been kicked off a bus for belligerent behavior. (And throwing your skateboard ISN’T belligerent behavior … )

_____ Avenue, _____ block, suspicious circumstances. A resident told police she thought someone was in her attic and it sounded like the person was “dropping stuff.” She also said she had called police in the past with the same fear and every time police responded and checked the attic, no one was there. The woman noted that she was “not drunk or high,” 1:34 a.m. (No, not drunk or high, just crazy.)

_____ Street, _____ block, mentally ill person. A woman described as “hysterical” by a dispatcher reported that her boyfriend was “on a plane” and was broadcasting from 555.55 FM that he was “on his way to come and kill her.” A dispatcher noted the woman wasn’t “making any sense,” 12:03 p.m. (No comment.)

_____ Street, _____ block, sexual battery. The same woman from the earlier “mentally ill” call reported that her boyfriend’s son had sexually assaulted her while he was visiting from the United Kingdom. She also said there was a small airplane outside her balcony writing bad things about her in smoke and “somehow broadcasting messages to three subjects that were in/around her residence.” Later she confessed that she had “made the whole story up” because she had consensual sex with her boyfriend’s son and she was trying to reconcile with her boyfriend, 10:14 p.m. (Damn. Just ... damn. This stuff is better than a soap opera.)

_____ Street, _____ block, patrol check. A woman in a beige Honda drove by and yelled at people in another language as they were going into a Mormon church for a Jewish religious service, 11:01 a.m. (What gets me is the whole "Mormon church holding a Jewish religious service" part. If you aren't Mormon, you're really not supposed to be going into their inner sanctum, yanno? And why, oh why, would someone call about this?)

_____ Avenue, _____ block, patrol check. A woman told police she believed people were hiding in her attic and she wakes up and sees people walking around, 3:59 a.m. (Same crazy woman as before. Maybe ghosts? Oh, or zombies. Braaaaaaaaains! No wonder they are looking for something, this woman doens't apparently have any.)

_____ Avenue, _____ block, other agency: A man called police to say he thought he may have died earlier in the night but that he was feeling fine now, 4:21 a.m. (Yeah, I thought I’ve been dead before too. But it turns out I was just hung-over. WTF?!)

_____ Lane, _____ block, 911 non-emergency: A woman called 911 to report that her boyfriend was logging into her MySpace.com account without her permission, 2:11 p.m. (911? For real? I shudder in fear that these are the people that will lead us into the future.)

_____ Avenue, _____ block, vehicle burglary: A backpack and a camera were stolen from a car sometime during the night, 2:54 p.m. (Okay, who the hell leaves anything of value in their car? I can understand if you're running in and out of somewhere, but overnight? Are they dumb?)

_____ Circle, _____ block, vehicle burglary. A handgun was stolen from an unlocked vehicle, 12:16 p.m. (Once again - who the hell leaves a handgun in plain sight and in an unlocked car? We ain't in Texas here. Y'all.)

_____ Street and _____ Avenue, suspicious circumstances. A caller said while she was getting gas at a gas station, a person offered her money for sex, 1:28 p.m. (This implies, to me, that the guy either doesn't know where to look for a prostitute, or the woman was dressed like one. Either way, I wouldn't want it to be noted that I was dressed like a wh0re whilst pumping gas. Can you imagine all the "pumping" puns that you'd get from that? No thank you.)

_____ Avenue, _____ block, fire. A car was on fire in a cemetery parking lot, 8:03 p.m. (I know that this cemetery closes and locks its gates at 6. The only explanation I have is zombies. Hey – zombies like bonfires too! Maybe they were making s’mores.)

Damn. Just ... damn.

The only time to use an elevator ...

So today, I get a call from downstairs. “You need to add another quarter to the ICJ (In Canada jar). I was getting my breakfast in the break room, and HE starts this random conversation with me.” As it was related to me, here is how it went down (CK represents the Crazy Kanuck, P represents the person he was speaking to.)

CK: Good morning, how are you?
P: Fine, yourself?
CK: Good. You know, I just don’t get it. You guys have a lot of overweight people here in the States. IN CANADA, I worked in an office where the elevator was purposefully made slow so that people would take the stairs instead. It kept us active and trim. (My note – I highly doubt that the office building would purposefully make the elevator slow. All elevators I’ve ridden on in small buildings are generally slow. Unless you’re riding the one at the Stratosphere in Vegas. That one is very fast and kind of scary if you’re drunk and the world is spinning. But I digress.) I mean, you should really just take the stairs anyway, unless you’re like, an 8 month pregnant woman and the baby is trying to shoot out between your legs.
Me: (At this point, I can imagine the look on P’s face and I’m going between giggles and shock. I mean really – the baby is shooting out between your legs? Thanks for that visual. I think I need some bleach for my brain now, thanks.)
CK: Hm, wow. Your oatmeal smells good. (At this time he ends the conversation and walks away.)

Seriously, how do you get from babies shooting out of hoo-haa’s to “wow, your oatmeal smells good”, and without even saying goodbye? I’m glad I already had my oatmeal before this conversation was related to me.

Later this same day, P goes to ask CK a question. His door is cracked, so it is not fully closed, and P knocks then walks in. As P is walking in, CK is quickly pulling his hands up from under his desk and scooting in as far in towards the desk as bodily physics allows. Hmmm, I wonder if he was “massaging the numbers”?

Now, where's that bleach?