Did you ever notice that after a really hard cry, all it leaves you with is an exhausted heart and a headache from hell? Furthermore, did you also notice that no medicine in the world can take away that kind of headache?
Maybe that’s what someone should invent. Specifically a “Post-Tears Headache medicine,” but with a better name. Help me out here. “No more tears, your headache’s gone?” Suggestions?
I’m a Blogsliner. Plain and simple. I’m not as savvy with the computer as people seem to think so as RSS feeds go I pick the nice cotton candy way to view my favorite sites. A couple of my favorites that I frequent are:
-the obvious Dooce, who I think is brilliantly funny and sometimes I think is just me in some parallel universe
–The Sneeze who wins me over with his occasional experimental eating entries
-and finally Robot Johnny who participates in Illustration Friday, but also seems clever and cute and I think I want to meet him.
Today Robot Johnny shared something wonderful with me. Well, okay he shared it with the Internet, but I felt like he was speaking to me. He has finally found something he’s been searching years for and I had even rooted him on from my Pacific Northwest perch hoping he would be successful in finding his Holy Grail. Library Thing [dot] com.
My sister, Maddy, used to have all her books catalogued in a steno pad and she made me a library card so I could check books out from her. I may have already referenced this in an old blog entry, but even then I racked up late fees. A nickel here and there sure adds up when you’re 8 years old.
So Mad, check out this site. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if we had this back then? I know it was only 1984 and we didn’t even have a computer yet (or maybe we already had our IBM PCjr and were programming simple games with 10 think of a color 20 type color 30 if red go to 40… What is that, BASIC?) but wouldn’t Library Thing have been a much easier way to track your little sister’s overdue items?
As a little girl my dad was away on cruise a lot (for you non-military brats, this means he was off on the USS Enterprise for months on end, flying his A-6 on and off the ship, cruising around some ocean somewhere, with ports in exotic lands from which he would send me postcards) so up until I was 7 years old I was used to my mom putting me to bed and bringing me water every time I yelled for her (which was usually at least three times a night). When my dad would be home for a stint here and there it was always a bit disconcerting to call for water and have him bring me a glass. Here was this man I had yet to form a relationship with coming into my dark room telling me I should really be asleep. Yes Sir, Daddy.
Luckily, it turned out my dad was not the drill sergeant father I feared him to be and over time I started to look forward to him putting me to bed. At a certain point he stopped having to go away on the ship and we got to have him home all the time. Occasionally when he would put me to bed he would come in and tuck the sheets in tight around me and tell me, “Close your eyes and pretend your camping in a forest somewhere and you can hear the sounds of nature all around you and it’s beginning to rain. Listen to the rain pattering on the tops of the trees and the tent and you are all snug and warm in your sleeping bag.†I loved this. The sound of rain was always something I liked or maybe this is what started that love for rain. Sometimes he would describe us as being in the back of a truck with a canopy covering us and the rain sounding tin-like on the roof. He didn’t do this every night, but I can even remember a couple times in high school when he came in to make sure I was going to bed and would reenact this tucking in routine.
To this day, I love the sound of rain. Currently I’m working at a clinic where there is a giant skylight over the nursing station. And when I say skylight I really mean the entire ceiling is like the pyramids at the Louvre. It’s been raining here in Spokane and around 3pm each day I sit in one of the Nurse’s chairs and close my eyes as the rain beats down above us. There are moments you can’t hear each other speak because it is so loud. And I think it might be the most peaceful thing in my life right now.
I had one of my worst days yesterday. Found out I didn’t get a job I have been dreaming about since May. Two close friends of mine got the job over me, which is a whole new kind of confusing: feeling of disappointment for me but happiness for them mixed with trying to read this manual on how to cut someone’s brake lines. Talk about confusing. No matter how hard you try to prepare yourself you can never really know how it’s going to hit you until it happens. Kris and Shoshana, remember our Superpower discussion? One of my superpowers was getting every job I ever interviewed for. A much more useful super power than my text messaging and typing power. Alas, the glorious reign has ended.
On a more humorous note, since I looked and felt like crap all day yesterday I decided to dress up today so I can try that whole “Look good on the outside and maybe it will help me feel good on the inside” dealio. I may have made that up, but I have a sneaking suspicion my mom whispered it into my crib at night. Needless to say, I looked good today and felt much better. I forgot my blue shirt which immediately makes people think you are dressed up, but I also had a skirt on and ass-kickin’ boots, as well as a little mascara (gasp!). Many a compliment was given to me throughout the day and my spirits were lifting. I honestly couldn’t believe how much better I was handling things today in comparison to yesterday’s hourly cry in the bathroom and clothes that smelt like a bar (had to drink my sorrows away a bit the night before).
Even as I was walking to use the restroom for its actual purpose instead of as a giant kleenex, I thought to myself, “You’ve made it through and you’re over it. You’ve pulled your shit together. Well done, Toftie.” A few minutes later I was looking down at my underwear around my knees (they’re never really at your ankles) and thought, “Well, Toft, you spoke too soon.” Underwear on inside out. Underneath it all…I was still a mess.
Here I am in Spokane and my brand new house sits empty. I have boxes in the garage I didn’t bother to unpack, but I did set up my bed so if I decide to come home some weekend I’ll have a place to crash. My lovely next door neighbors, Dave and John, let the couch guys in so at least I have a couch, but really it’s just empty.
If it weren’t for my longing to live in my house, I actually like being in Spokane. My mom’s whole family is here and she’s the oldest of eight so you can just imagine the Catholicism at work here. This weekend I visited many relatives and helped move some of my grandparents stuff into their new place, but the best part of the whole weekend was playing with my cousin Denie’s two kids. Max and Ella are so clever and sweet. I wanted to pack them up and take them home. People have pointed out that the ticking of my clock is interrupting their conversations. Sorry. Never thought it would happen.
Until (if?) I follow the path of marriage and family, I have this house. People keep asking me if I feel any differently owning a house. What I realized is that I feel like I just married Seattle. It’s as if Seattle proposed to me a few years back and I thought long and hard about it, dated a few other cities, had a couple one night stands with some little towns, and flirted with a bunch of other states, until finally I said, “Alright Seattle, I think I do love you, let’s do it. Let’s get married.”
The truth is it’s all about the kitchen. When I was dating this guy a couple years ago, we used to joke that the only way he could get me to marry him was to build a beautiful master suite above his house. That sounds so materialistic of me, but well, I don’t know how to defend myself except that I knew it was a safe bet he wasn’t going to do that. My point is that Seattle wooed me with this beautiful kitchen and I was sunk. So here it is and here I am and all is good. Seattle and I shall have many a dinner party together in our kitchen of love.
Great news. I’m over in Spokane working for nine weeks, but was able to sign my papers on the house just before I left town. My friend Scott, my sister Maddy, and her co-worker Kevin all did the walkthrough on my place yesterday. If I had to pick three of the most nit-picky, OCD, thorough people in the world, it would be them. I am giddy with how they went through my place and found things I would never have seen. Great eyes and I owe them quite a bit for the amazing job.
The best part is that my realtor informed them I had officially closed and gave my keys to Scott so when I get home on the plane tonight I will be a brand new home owner!
This whole week knowing that I had done everything I could and had left my place in good hands, I slept so well. Better than I had in the past three months and I was more than happy to curl up with my Teddy Bear and fall asleep smiling.
Thank you everyone who helped me get through this. And an advance thank you to those who are helping me move half of my stuff in tomorrow morning before I fly back to Spokane for the rest of my stint as a Blue Shirt.
I just finished season five of Buffy and I have to say that the episode where her mother dies is the most brilliantly written and directed television I’ve ever seen. I cried.
You may recall that I put an offer on a house some time around the beginning of June and you may be asking if I love my new place, did i find a roommate, congratulations, or any other questions and/or platitudes you would send my way.
You know what I would answer? I don’t have my fucking house yet.
Can I tell you how frustrated I am? Can I tell you that even though I’ve tried to keep a positive attitude and enjoy the fact I’m saving money every day this is postponed, I still can’t stop the screaming inside my head?
I realized today (actually it’s been a gradual acceptance) that I am more depressed over this whole house thing that I thought I was. I want so badly to be in my house, but all this waiting and not knowing is killing me. We were supposed to close on August 19th, which already felt like forever because it was over two months after the day we made the offer. But the builders are slow, irresponsible, finger pointing, blame shifting, incompetent asses who are dangling my unfinished house in my face like a two year old and then running off squealing with delight while I cry.
I have been eating non-stop, gained 14 pounds in 7 weeks, my body hurts, I have nightmares every night, and I’m fighting more with everyone because I’m so fucking sick of waiting. My room is a mess because I thought I’d be moving soon so I figured I’d just pack it up instead of clean it up (it’s been months). My health has deteriorated because I planned on all sorts of “taking care of me” stuff when I moved in to my own place. I bought a couch, where you pick out the fabric and they have to send away for it and it takes forever, but I timed the delivery perfectly with the second or maybe it was third predicted closing date and the couch is ready and I’m being charged every day I make them hold onto it while I wait for my motherfucking house.
I leave for Spokane for nine weeks on Sunday. I close on the house the following Friday (don’t even get me started on how messy this has gotten with me being out of town at this time). I arranged to come home the day after I close so I can move all my stuff out of my sister’s place into mine and then fly back to Spokane, leaving my house messy and unoccupied. It breaks my heart, but that’s my plan.
Then today I get a call that we may not close on the 23rd. “The paving may not be done. We just don’t know. Definitely by the end of the month, but can’t be sure.” Fuck my ass. This is absurd.
All I want to do is cry, which is getting in the way of the telekinetic killing power I’m trying to strike down upon them. Shoot me now. No more putting on my happy face. I’ve cracked.
Remember that game? I was thinking about it the other day. Picture this sweet little seven-year-old girl with a buzz-cut sitting around with a few other seven year olds, sometimes of both genders, when an evil little smirk crosses her lips and she says, “Let’s play Truth-Dare-DoubeDare-Promise-Or-Repeat.”
Truth be told, I was always hoping someone would dare me to kiss someone, but we were never that brave. I had to somehow work that into the blank cards when playing the UnGame. There was also the game “I Never” where someone says something scandalous or at least somewhat interesting that they have NEVER done and anyone who has done that has to raise their hand. This got to be more embarrassing as you got older, but also a bit revealing and damaging when people would use it to test out who was getting a jumpstart on the promiscuity. I can remember a few girls who were ostracized after this game. Never trust a middle schooler. I was not one these girls: neither the young harlot nor the one to shun said girl.
Anyhow, since we are all sick of the frightening baby picture that’s been sitting here on my blog, I’m taking a cue from Luke and going to offer up a challenge.
Let’s play Truth or Dare. Keep it clean, or at least clean enough my parents wouldn’t be horrified. And perhaps let’s avoid felonies.
You may be asking, which is it? Truth-Dare-DoubleDare-Promise-Or-Repeat. I say all. Bring it on. All actions, requests, or challenges will be executed or at least reported here.
Side note: I didn’t know the UnGame was a Christian game at the time I was playing it, but doesn’t that make it all the more sinful that I turned it into a kissing game?
A couple weekends ago I was talking to my new hairdresser, this older straight man from Montana who once worked as a miner, and we were raving about Seattle to each other.
“I love Seattle!”
“Oh me too.”
“But people say we are a hard city to get to know. That we don’t let people in.”
“But I think we’re really nice. Why would they say that?”
“Oh I don’t think we’re rude, just closed off. I’ll do my thing, you do your thing, and let’s just not make a big deal out of it.”
Then the next day I went kayaking with Dave and we got chatting with a couple in a canoe. I think we helped rescue them from an attack of the lilypads, but as a thank you they gifted us a couple drinks. Who says Seattle isn’t friendly? 🙂
