Presenting... the under-trailer kitty:
Presenting... the under-trailer kitty:
I don't suppose the person from CA, going through my archives at a prodigious rate, using Internet Explorer (seriously? does anyone still use IE?), wants to enlighten me as to their, you know, quasi identity? Maybe?
Guess what I just found crying under the trailer?
I'm not even going to tell you. Except to say that s/he's small, skinny, and cries a lot. (And by "a lot," I mean that the poor thing won't stop crying.)
What the hell am I supposed to do with another freaking cat?
Trinity wants to name her/him Mouse. Sierra wants the name to be Dobby, like the house elf in Harry Potter. Rayne just doesn't want another litter box.
I'm thinking I'm going to have to change the proposed title of my future autobiography from I Steal Cheese, to Another Fricking Tabby.
Shoot me. (Send tasty low-cal kitten recipes.)
I'm not even going to tell you. Except to say that s/he's small, skinny, and cries a lot. (And by "a lot," I mean that the poor thing won't stop crying.)
What the hell am I supposed to do with another freaking cat?
Trinity wants to name her/him Mouse. Sierra wants the name to be Dobby, like the house elf in Harry Potter. Rayne just doesn't want another litter box.
I'm thinking I'm going to have to change the proposed title of my future autobiography from I Steal Cheese, to Another Fricking Tabby.
Shoot me. (Send tasty low-cal kitten recipes.)
I am definitely down in the proverbial dumps. I don't really know why.
After, as you'd expect, much multi-faceted angst, I kept my appointment
yesterday for my exam and TSH (the thyroid test). It was at P*la*n**ed
P.*hood and I was all thinking they'd be like the P*l*an**ed P.*hoods
back in CA. They weren't. (I guess I missed the place's whole name:
P*l*an**ed P.*hood of NORTH TEXAS.) I don't think it went well. For
several reasons, and here's the easy one: See, so okay, they do an
exam, PAP, breast exam, blood pressure, blah blah, TSH, all that stuff,
but see the thing is, unless I want birth control (heh), they can't
actually get me any medication. No prescriptions. And it was my bad,
not understanding that. My bad for assuming that doing a TSH meant I
could get a 'script. My bad for thinking they understood this on the
'phone as I went on and on (and probably on) about not taking my meds
from India regularly, wanting to find out my thyroid levels so I could
get on a correct does and take my medication as I should...Eh. So
story-short, I walked out with a whole stack of referrals, referrals
for a mammogram, for an endometrial biopsy, for high blood pressure,
for my thyroid, and they didn't seem to understand that I have no way
of getting this treatment. And I remembered about these "referrals"
from my old clinic-working days; this is a liability issue, they have
to send me off with these to cover their butts and as long as they
document the fact that they sent me off with referrals, they're in the
clear. It doesn't matter if I actually pursue the matter. And the thing
with the TSH... I STILL have to find an real other
doctor who will either agree to review the TSH P*l*an**ed P.*hood
already did or disregard it and order a new one (that I'll have to pay
for) before s/he writes me a 'script... So I'm looking at the cost of
another office visit.
And that's just the thyroid stuff. I plan to ignore the high blood pressure and the endometrial biopsy and the mammogram. The nurse-or-whatever at P*l*an**ed P.*hood didn't seem to understand why I wasn't on meds for my blood pressure, since it was first diagnosed back in 2004. No one seemed to understand why I haven't seen a doctor since 2005. It must be nice, living in that bubble.
Anyway. So that's the easy reason for my bummed-outed-ness re yesterday's appointment. It accomplished nothing. I mean, I had a gynecological exam and I had them test for STDs but I need thyroid meds, I need to know what's wrong with my breast. Eh. Eh-fucking-eh.
The other thing that's got me all angsty, I mean beyond my own apparent biological proclivity for angst, is my perception of the nurse's reaction to me, to my history. Because for the first time EVER, the first time in my whole entire LIFE, I was totally honest as I filled out the forms. And it was difficult. I'm slumped here telling you that it was EXTREMELY difficult. Because I ALWAYS lie, because I'm afraid of being judged (and also because the truth on most of those questions doesn't actually matter). But yesterday, with my brave, new, fuck-it mindset, I decided to tell the truth. Because, just between you and me, I'm fucking sick of lying. Of going through my whole freaking life lying, hiding things, pretending. I always lied because I was scared; I'm sick of being scared. Sick of it. So when the paper wanted to know my number of sexual partners in a lifetime, I put 50. And when it wanted to know "men, women, or both," I put both. And when it asked if I'd engaged in "vaginal, anal, oral," I checked them all. And when it asked if I'd ever been with a bisexual, I checked yes. And I said I'd been pregnant seven times, three abortions, one miscarriage, and three live births. And where it asked if I'd ever been physically abused, I said yes. And where it asked if I'd ever been forced into sex I said yes. And I checked that I experienced anxiety/depression. And at the section establishing my current level of sexual activity there was no option for celibacy, so I wrote in the margin "celibate last 4 years." And I was trying to calm myself down, thinking maybe they wouldn't think I was a freak, that maybe other people had slept with a lot of people or had abortions or been kind of bi. But nope. Apparently just me. Or, well, everyone else lies as much as I'd previously lied. Because the... I don't know if she's a nurse or what... the woman taking my height-weight-blood pressure, was uncomfortable as she went over my paperwork with me. She wore more crosses than I've... well, I don't want to say "ever" seen... but she wore a lot of crosses. She even had a cross on a ring. And another ring, big and silver, with cut-out letters reading "HE died for me." (She also couldn't spell "thyroid" and had to keep asking me, and while I'm not going to come right out and say that crucifixes interfere with spelling... I'm going to suggest that it's possible that crucifixes impede proper spelling.)
Eh. I need to stop writing about it. Maybe I'm projecting, maybe I'm imagining the crucifix woman's reactions, the double-take when she read the umber 50, her sigh at the three abortions. She didn't want to deal with the anxiety/depression. She asked me if it was current or in the past and I said that I still experience it. She said, "How often?" And I replied, "It comes and goes..." And she said, "It's in the past, then," and wrote down "past." She asked me about the abuse, assault, and I said it wasn't recent. She said, "Are you okay with it?" And I said, "Okay with it? It happened; I still think about it, it affects me." And spying on her paperwork, I read her writing: "Pt says she's ok with it." So at that point I thought, eh, it's just a bunch of bureaucracy, like in the clinic where OKC and I used to work, where we had to ask these questions but didn't really care (though I believe that both OKC and I did care, and tried to help...). See, if the "pt" states that there is a current issue, it necessitates some kind of action on their part and therefore it is always better to document that there is no current issue. ...And this falls in line with my orignial theory: the whole paperwork thing is a bunch of bullshit. None of it really matters and therefore I was correct to be lying all these decades and I picked a dumb forum in which to come out of the lying closet, come out all quiasi-bravely honest and crap. It's just a waste of time.
Blah blah. So I feel as though I wasted my time in every way yesterday. And I drove home and had to fight with myself not to give in to some stupid crying. Crying because no matter how rationally I'm "okay" with my own sexual history, I live in fear of being judged. And I felt judged. Whether I was or not. I felt judged. And that's just me being stupid, caring what, in my perception, strangers think. And wanting to cry because I thought that I'd take care of this thyroid issue, be responsible, get some medical treatment, and it was all crap. And now I'm right back where I started, needing to find a doctor, find the money. And because I was so upset that I thought I lost my sunglasses, and I get crazy when think I've lost something, and I kept checking my huge purse, checking the clutter on the dashboard, biting my lip, convinced I'd lost my sunglasses on top of everything else, convinced I was a loser, a failure, because I've slept with too many people, had too many abortions, because I weighed too much, and now I'd lost my sunglasses...
Eh. I got home, of course found my sunglasses right where I'd put them, right where I always put them, in the outter flap of my purse, and I'm trying to get my act together, water the birds/goats, telling myself oh-well, oh-well, oh-well... Telling myself that it didn't matter, that it was okay, oh-well, oh-well, oh-well. Telling myself I was crazy, reacting like this. And so that's about it. And I couldn't sleep last night, and then couldn't get myself motivated to go hiking this moring, and it's too, too hot, and I can't seem to get myself on a steady track this summer with my classes and this worries and frustrates me, and I'm thinking what if this dumb incessant bleeding really is uterine cancer? But part of me is being all sullen, stupid, being all fuck-it; let me just get cancer, then.
So I'm not, as they probably still say in Cali, in a very good place right now.
And, as always, behind in class stuff...
And that's just the thyroid stuff. I plan to ignore the high blood pressure and the endometrial biopsy and the mammogram. The nurse-or-whatever at P*l*an**ed P.*hood didn't seem to understand why I wasn't on meds for my blood pressure, since it was first diagnosed back in 2004. No one seemed to understand why I haven't seen a doctor since 2005. It must be nice, living in that bubble.
Anyway. So that's the easy reason for my bummed-outed-ness re yesterday's appointment. It accomplished nothing. I mean, I had a gynecological exam and I had them test for STDs but I need thyroid meds, I need to know what's wrong with my breast. Eh. Eh-fucking-eh.
The other thing that's got me all angsty, I mean beyond my own apparent biological proclivity for angst, is my perception of the nurse's reaction to me, to my history. Because for the first time EVER, the first time in my whole entire LIFE, I was totally honest as I filled out the forms. And it was difficult. I'm slumped here telling you that it was EXTREMELY difficult. Because I ALWAYS lie, because I'm afraid of being judged (and also because the truth on most of those questions doesn't actually matter). But yesterday, with my brave, new, fuck-it mindset, I decided to tell the truth. Because, just between you and me, I'm fucking sick of lying. Of going through my whole freaking life lying, hiding things, pretending. I always lied because I was scared; I'm sick of being scared. Sick of it. So when the paper wanted to know my number of sexual partners in a lifetime, I put 50. And when it wanted to know "men, women, or both," I put both. And when it asked if I'd engaged in "vaginal, anal, oral," I checked them all. And when it asked if I'd ever been with a bisexual, I checked yes. And I said I'd been pregnant seven times, three abortions, one miscarriage, and three live births. And where it asked if I'd ever been physically abused, I said yes. And where it asked if I'd ever been forced into sex I said yes. And I checked that I experienced anxiety/depression. And at the section establishing my current level of sexual activity there was no option for celibacy, so I wrote in the margin "celibate last 4 years." And I was trying to calm myself down, thinking maybe they wouldn't think I was a freak, that maybe other people had slept with a lot of people or had abortions or been kind of bi. But nope. Apparently just me. Or, well, everyone else lies as much as I'd previously lied. Because the... I don't know if she's a nurse or what... the woman taking my height-weight-blood pressure, was uncomfortable as she went over my paperwork with me. She wore more crosses than I've... well, I don't want to say "ever" seen... but she wore a lot of crosses. She even had a cross on a ring. And another ring, big and silver, with cut-out letters reading "HE died for me." (She also couldn't spell "thyroid" and had to keep asking me, and while I'm not going to come right out and say that crucifixes interfere with spelling... I'm going to suggest that it's possible that crucifixes impede proper spelling.)
Eh. I need to stop writing about it. Maybe I'm projecting, maybe I'm imagining the crucifix woman's reactions, the double-take when she read the umber 50, her sigh at the three abortions. She didn't want to deal with the anxiety/depression. She asked me if it was current or in the past and I said that I still experience it. She said, "How often?" And I replied, "It comes and goes..." And she said, "It's in the past, then," and wrote down "past." She asked me about the abuse, assault, and I said it wasn't recent. She said, "Are you okay with it?" And I said, "Okay with it? It happened; I still think about it, it affects me." And spying on her paperwork, I read her writing: "Pt says she's ok with it." So at that point I thought, eh, it's just a bunch of bureaucracy, like in the clinic where OKC and I used to work, where we had to ask these questions but didn't really care (though I believe that both OKC and I did care, and tried to help...). See, if the "pt" states that there is a current issue, it necessitates some kind of action on their part and therefore it is always better to document that there is no current issue. ...And this falls in line with my orignial theory: the whole paperwork thing is a bunch of bullshit. None of it really matters and therefore I was correct to be lying all these decades and I picked a dumb forum in which to come out of the lying closet, come out all quiasi-bravely honest and crap. It's just a waste of time.
Blah blah. So I feel as though I wasted my time in every way yesterday. And I drove home and had to fight with myself not to give in to some stupid crying. Crying because no matter how rationally I'm "okay" with my own sexual history, I live in fear of being judged. And I felt judged. Whether I was or not. I felt judged. And that's just me being stupid, caring what, in my perception, strangers think. And wanting to cry because I thought that I'd take care of this thyroid issue, be responsible, get some medical treatment, and it was all crap. And now I'm right back where I started, needing to find a doctor, find the money. And because I was so upset that I thought I lost my sunglasses, and I get crazy when think I've lost something, and I kept checking my huge purse, checking the clutter on the dashboard, biting my lip, convinced I'd lost my sunglasses on top of everything else, convinced I was a loser, a failure, because I've slept with too many people, had too many abortions, because I weighed too much, and now I'd lost my sunglasses...
Eh. I got home, of course found my sunglasses right where I'd put them, right where I always put them, in the outter flap of my purse, and I'm trying to get my act together, water the birds/goats, telling myself oh-well, oh-well, oh-well... Telling myself that it didn't matter, that it was okay, oh-well, oh-well, oh-well. Telling myself I was crazy, reacting like this. And so that's about it. And I couldn't sleep last night, and then couldn't get myself motivated to go hiking this moring, and it's too, too hot, and I can't seem to get myself on a steady track this summer with my classes and this worries and frustrates me, and I'm thinking what if this dumb incessant bleeding really is uterine cancer? But part of me is being all sullen, stupid, being all fuck-it; let me just get cancer, then.
So I'm not, as they probably still say in Cali, in a very good place right now.
And, as always, behind in class stuff...
Too hot. Struggling with assignments. Poor. Finally made an appointment to get an annual exam plus thyroid panel. Ninety-five bucks, which made me feel horribly guilty. Bad for spending money on myself. Also horribly scared, because I'm afraid the doctor visit will turn up something terrible, something I'm better off not knowing (especially without health insurance...). I'm struggling not to cancel appointment. Part of me is all yelling at me: "Don't you think the kids are going to need school clothes? How can you waste ninety-five bucks like that!" Another part, more insidious, is all, "If you have cancer again, do you really want to know?"
Now I feel worse.
Great. I'm canceling.
Now I feel worse.
Great. I'm canceling.
Oh, I know that she's disgusted. (Oh why's that)
'Cause she's feeling so abused. (Oh that's too bad)
She gets tired of the lust, (Oh I'm so sad)
But it's so hard to refuse.
Can you say that I'm too old,
When the angels have stolen my red shoes?
(Elvis Costello)
****
Nothing new. I really should be writing that essay of the 1938 Pecan Shellers' Strike but for some reason I just can't get into it. I'm hoping the professor will be an easy-grader. She seems to be an easy-grader, in that on our first week's essay she told me that in all her years of teaching this course my essay was the best she'd ever seen (oh okay), but then it appears from the average that everyone in the class got the same highest grade. So. Okay. To me this says that I don't have to try so hard.
So. I just need to get my act together and begin. And then finish the thing. (Ten pages doesn't scare me like it used to.)
Blah blah. I think I'm going to have to call the mower guy, mower guy 2, to take a look at my dysfunctional mower. Hopefully not in an Argentinian Trade Mission kind of way. Probably not in a hiking the Appalachian Trail way. Possibly not in a I need to recharge after a difficult legislative session in which I battled lawmakers over how to spend federal stimulus money way.
Though you never know. Particularly considering the stuff that's been stuck in my dumb head lately. Though h...
Tangent: I just took one of those dumb Facebook quizzes and here's the result for the week of my birth:
You can't stand restrictions and aim to keep your freedom at all costs. You believe there is a wrong way and a right way of doing things and will stick up for what you believe in. One of your strongest weapons is laughter or ridicule which you do not hesitate to pull out of your formidable verbal arsenal. But you are forgiving and tend to give second chances and will not quit valuable relationships easily. You are a high speed player who gets annoyed with slow responses, you are bright, perky and alert, but can come off abrasive. You tend to get stressed easily and lash out with irony or sarcasm. You have quick impulses and a fertile imagination and are constantly dreaming up new plans or schemes - but sometimes you tend to forget pressing matters such as paying the bills. In your lifetime you may leave enough unfinished projects to occupy a dozen people and not meaning to you often break promises. You are emotionally volatile and not at all shy about verbalizing your discontent in fact you can become a constant complainer. You are a loyal partner but tire of routine and often need a change of scene. You are not above emotional manipulation and turn on the charm when you want to get your way. You have a high sex appeal and few can resist your charm. Strengths: Witty - Charismatic - Technically Gifted Weaknesses: Tyrannical - Manipulative - Complaining
Hmm. Except I NEVER forget to pay bills. (Do I really complain a lot? And I apologize for all the emotional manipulation...)
What was I saying? Where was I? Oh. Thinking salacious stuff. Wondering if this means it is or is not a good time to get my mower repaired. (Why does everything relentlessly strike me as a sexual euphemism? I blame Mark Sanford.) Maybe if my, heh, mower's been broke this long it should just go ahead and stay broke?
Eh. The bottom (here we go again with the euphemisms...) line is that after four years of utter, total celibacy, it's probably not a good idea to, you know, end that condition with just anyone. Possibly at all. And anyway, mower guy 2 is not on my short list. You know. Doesn't everyone have a short list? Of people they'd like to, you know. And my short list is very short. The smarter I got, the shorter the list. I'm not entirely sure what that means. But I think my short list has been reduced to three, and two of them are people with whom I've already, you know.
Anyway. I better do something about that Pecan Shellers' paper. And I need to write something impressively smart about Singer's The Key and at this point, although I read it last month, I'm coming up completely blank about the whole entire short story. (Oh wait. Now I remember: The old lady locked out of her apartment.)
So no Argentinean Trade Missions today for me. (Oh well.)
Later.
'Cause she's feeling so abused. (Oh that's too bad)
She gets tired of the lust, (Oh I'm so sad)
But it's so hard to refuse.
Can you say that I'm too old,
When the angels have stolen my red shoes?
(Elvis Costello)
****
Nothing new. I really should be writing that essay of the 1938 Pecan Shellers' Strike but for some reason I just can't get into it. I'm hoping the professor will be an easy-grader. She seems to be an easy-grader, in that on our first week's essay she told me that in all her years of teaching this course my essay was the best she'd ever seen (oh okay), but then it appears from the average that everyone in the class got the same highest grade. So. Okay. To me this says that I don't have to try so hard.
So. I just need to get my act together and begin. And then finish the thing. (Ten pages doesn't scare me like it used to.)
Blah blah. I think I'm going to have to call the mower guy, mower guy 2, to take a look at my dysfunctional mower. Hopefully not in an Argentinian Trade Mission kind of way. Probably not in a hiking the Appalachian Trail way. Possibly not in a I need to recharge after a difficult legislative session in which I battled lawmakers over how to spend federal stimulus money way.
Though you never know. Particularly considering the stuff that's been stuck in my dumb head lately. Though h...
Tangent: I just took one of those dumb Facebook quizzes and here's the result for the week of my birth:
You can't stand restrictions and aim to keep your freedom at all costs. You believe there is a wrong way and a right way of doing things and will stick up for what you believe in. One of your strongest weapons is laughter or ridicule which you do not hesitate to pull out of your formidable verbal arsenal. But you are forgiving and tend to give second chances and will not quit valuable relationships easily. You are a high speed player who gets annoyed with slow responses, you are bright, perky and alert, but can come off abrasive. You tend to get stressed easily and lash out with irony or sarcasm. You have quick impulses and a fertile imagination and are constantly dreaming up new plans or schemes - but sometimes you tend to forget pressing matters such as paying the bills. In your lifetime you may leave enough unfinished projects to occupy a dozen people and not meaning to you often break promises. You are emotionally volatile and not at all shy about verbalizing your discontent in fact you can become a constant complainer. You are a loyal partner but tire of routine and often need a change of scene. You are not above emotional manipulation and turn on the charm when you want to get your way. You have a high sex appeal and few can resist your charm. Strengths: Witty - Charismatic - Technically Gifted Weaknesses: Tyrannical - Manipulative - Complaining
Hmm. Except I NEVER forget to pay bills. (Do I really complain a lot? And I apologize for all the emotional manipulation...)
What was I saying? Where was I? Oh. Thinking salacious stuff. Wondering if this means it is or is not a good time to get my mower repaired. (Why does everything relentlessly strike me as a sexual euphemism? I blame Mark Sanford.) Maybe if my, heh, mower's been broke this long it should just go ahead and stay broke?
Eh. The bottom (here we go again with the euphemisms...) line is that after four years of utter, total celibacy, it's probably not a good idea to, you know, end that condition with just anyone. Possibly at all. And anyway, mower guy 2 is not on my short list. You know. Doesn't everyone have a short list? Of people they'd like to, you know. And my short list is very short. The smarter I got, the shorter the list. I'm not entirely sure what that means. But I think my short list has been reduced to three, and two of them are people with whom I've already, you know.
Anyway. I better do something about that Pecan Shellers' paper. And I need to write something impressively smart about Singer's The Key and at this point, although I read it last month, I'm coming up completely blank about the whole entire short story. (Oh wait. Now I remember: The old lady locked out of her apartment.)
So no Argentinean Trade Missions today for me. (Oh well.)
Later.
The Mormons showed up yesterday evening. I should have seen it coming, after talking to Larry J on the phone. (Or maybe... gasp! They really DO read my blog!) A woman called from down by my farm gate, asking me to come out and let her in. It was about seven and I'd just called it a day with my school stuff. I had to jump into respecto clothes, out of my boxers and tank, into something with sleeves, into long pants, and go out. I knew she'd want to come in and I knew I didn't want that. The house looks like shit, all shabby and cheap crap, steaming hot, the couch covered in a blanket to keep Camus' floating flurries of white hair off of it. (Note to self: Your favorite clothing color is black, right? What the hell's up with all these damn white dogs? Are you insane???)
I walked out, wading through goats and geese certain that my presence meant food. I took Camus with me because he's kind of impressive and yet doesn't bite. (In contrast to my other much less impressive but bitey canines.) I was thinking I could just talk with the woman on the other side of the gate, by her car, but she waved at me to open the gate and when I did drove through. She parked, peered at the animals through her window and I could tell this was going to be a problem. I mean, more of a problem than the Mormon church "visiting" me unannounced, uninvited, unexpected.
You know how there are animal people and then there are people who are not animal people? Yeah. If you come out here, you don't necessarily have to like animals (in fact, you may arriving liking them and leave in a different frame of mind...), but you probably should know how to enforce your space around them. Not, as I sit here and consider this, that I know how you should do that with goats. Unless you have a stick. Because without a stick, Lucy and the newly neutered goat Lucifer, are all over you. Not in a mean way, I mean, they're not trying to hurt you, but they're very intrusive and they really, really want you to pet them, and pet them more, and pet them again.
Anyway she got out warily and started heading for the ramp leading up to the trailer door, and in my head I'm all, fuck-fuck-fuck! The chihuahuas were hysterically barking, up on the back of the couch looking out the window, barking in that horribly annoying way that chihuahuas have. And outside, Camus was trying to sniff the poor woman, the geese were honking like crazy, the goats were tripping her, the guinea fowl was screaming, and the hens were frantically trying to gather all their chicks to them. It was insane. From inside I could hear Sierra's wacky American Eskimo dog Bat start in with her high-pitched, crazy barking and I know that Bat definitely bites. It was very, very loud. It should have been very obvious that no one ever, ever, ever comes around here. The chihuahuas were throwing themselves, all spittle-faced at the window and I thought, 'She really wants to come in?' I said, shouting over the cacophony, "There are dogs inside, maybe we can talk out here?" And she said it's hot and she needs to sit down and so we went to my chicken-watching chair in the shade (not that shade has much meaning in this heat). And this entry is getting too long so short-story-shorter, she tried to offer a prayer and the goats kept nibbling on her purse, and she tried to talk to me but I could tell she was uncomfortable. And when I pulled the goat away the goat got mad and started fighting with Camus and Camus always thinks the goat is playing when in reality I think the goat is really trying to hurt him, and perhaps if you're not used to the spectacle my kids and I always find relatively engrossing, the spectacle of a black goat standing up on his hind legs, tilting to the right and then launching himself horns-first at a dog who romps in circles around him, perhaps it's, idk, worrisome. Goats apparently never give up, and Lucifer will continue his assault against the dog until the dog gets too hot and wanders off for water (then Lucifer will sneeze and snort and butt the trees in victory for a while before lying down with his beloved Lucy and finding his cud).
So she's trying to talk to me and the goat's making her nervous and then we see that the little goat, Rosalie's very rambunctious buck kid, is up on the roof of her car, galloping back and forth, jumping down, leaping back up, delighted to have a new car to jump up on. And she says, "There's a lamb on my car..." and that was pretty much the end of the visit. And I closed the gate after her, already soaked in sweat in my respecto clothes, and I was torn between feeling like the worst.hostess.EVER and feeling kind of defensive, like, well, the visit was unannounced, she'd just dropped by, and this is what happens.
But it put me in an even worse mood. And I'd already been in a bad mood. And I wonder why I bowed my head and amen'ed when she asked me to join her in a prayer. I wonder why I didn't just politely refuse or politely say I was an atheist or, I don't know, something.
I'm still in a very bad mood. I don't know why, exactly. I guess I better just get on with my studying, the stuff I need to do, and stay busy.
I walked out, wading through goats and geese certain that my presence meant food. I took Camus with me because he's kind of impressive and yet doesn't bite. (In contrast to my other much less impressive but bitey canines.) I was thinking I could just talk with the woman on the other side of the gate, by her car, but she waved at me to open the gate and when I did drove through. She parked, peered at the animals through her window and I could tell this was going to be a problem. I mean, more of a problem than the Mormon church "visiting" me unannounced, uninvited, unexpected.
You know how there are animal people and then there are people who are not animal people? Yeah. If you come out here, you don't necessarily have to like animals (in fact, you may arriving liking them and leave in a different frame of mind...), but you probably should know how to enforce your space around them. Not, as I sit here and consider this, that I know how you should do that with goats. Unless you have a stick. Because without a stick, Lucy and the newly neutered goat Lucifer, are all over you. Not in a mean way, I mean, they're not trying to hurt you, but they're very intrusive and they really, really want you to pet them, and pet them more, and pet them again.
Anyway she got out warily and started heading for the ramp leading up to the trailer door, and in my head I'm all, fuck-fuck-fuck! The chihuahuas were hysterically barking, up on the back of the couch looking out the window, barking in that horribly annoying way that chihuahuas have. And outside, Camus was trying to sniff the poor woman, the geese were honking like crazy, the goats were tripping her, the guinea fowl was screaming, and the hens were frantically trying to gather all their chicks to them. It was insane. From inside I could hear Sierra's wacky American Eskimo dog Bat start in with her high-pitched, crazy barking and I know that Bat definitely bites. It was very, very loud. It should have been very obvious that no one ever, ever, ever comes around here. The chihuahuas were throwing themselves, all spittle-faced at the window and I thought, 'She really wants to come in?' I said, shouting over the cacophony, "There are dogs inside, maybe we can talk out here?" And she said it's hot and she needs to sit down and so we went to my chicken-watching chair in the shade (not that shade has much meaning in this heat). And this entry is getting too long so short-story-shorter, she tried to offer a prayer and the goats kept nibbling on her purse, and she tried to talk to me but I could tell she was uncomfortable. And when I pulled the goat away the goat got mad and started fighting with Camus and Camus always thinks the goat is playing when in reality I think the goat is really trying to hurt him, and perhaps if you're not used to the spectacle my kids and I always find relatively engrossing, the spectacle of a black goat standing up on his hind legs, tilting to the right and then launching himself horns-first at a dog who romps in circles around him, perhaps it's, idk, worrisome. Goats apparently never give up, and Lucifer will continue his assault against the dog until the dog gets too hot and wanders off for water (then Lucifer will sneeze and snort and butt the trees in victory for a while before lying down with his beloved Lucy and finding his cud).
So she's trying to talk to me and the goat's making her nervous and then we see that the little goat, Rosalie's very rambunctious buck kid, is up on the roof of her car, galloping back and forth, jumping down, leaping back up, delighted to have a new car to jump up on. And she says, "There's a lamb on my car..." and that was pretty much the end of the visit. And I closed the gate after her, already soaked in sweat in my respecto clothes, and I was torn between feeling like the worst.hostess.EVER and feeling kind of defensive, like, well, the visit was unannounced, she'd just dropped by, and this is what happens.
But it put me in an even worse mood. And I'd already been in a bad mood. And I wonder why I bowed my head and amen'ed when she asked me to join her in a prayer. I wonder why I didn't just politely refuse or politely say I was an atheist or, I don't know, something.
I'm still in a very bad mood. I don't know why, exactly. I guess I better just get on with my studying, the stuff I need to do, and stay busy.
It's too hot. I've been trying to save money, keeping the thermostat at 87 and even then the a.c. is running constantly. I'm going to see if I can get through the summer with no a.c. in my room, never installing the window unit. See if I can do it. It's just too hot. We've already reached the point of not needing to even turn the hot water on a little bit in the shower. If you've ever lived in a place like this, you know that when it's hot, the water comes out warm, tepid, and you don't need to use add any warm water. I tell myself I'm saving on propane.
I want this to be my last summer in Texas. I want this so much. But as I was watering the birds/goats this morning it occurred to me that maybe I'm just indulging in a giant fantasy. Indulging in it and dragging my kids along, too. Maybe we'll never get out of here and I should just accept it. Try to make the best of it. Try to find some good in this place, these people. Because maybe I'm fooling myself, thinking Eugene would be any better; maybe Eugene would be just the same as Texas. Maybe it's just me being the problem. Maybe I'm wrong and everyone around me is right and I refuse to see that.
I'm depressed and it's too hot and I need to do some Soci thing on William Sheldon and his somatotypes; I better go.
I want this to be my last summer in Texas. I want this so much. But as I was watering the birds/goats this morning it occurred to me that maybe I'm just indulging in a giant fantasy. Indulging in it and dragging my kids along, too. Maybe we'll never get out of here and I should just accept it. Try to make the best of it. Try to find some good in this place, these people. Because maybe I'm fooling myself, thinking Eugene would be any better; maybe Eugene would be just the same as Texas. Maybe it's just me being the problem. Maybe I'm wrong and everyone around me is right and I refuse to see that.
I'm depressed and it's too hot and I need to do some Soci thing on William Sheldon and his somatotypes; I better go.
Can I touch you to see if you're real?
'Cause in nothing there's something I feel
Can my heart take the strain
Or will it break down again
In your lips I sense a danger
You've got the eyes of a stranger
(The Payolas)
***
Okay. So. I watered birds/goats, hiked, came home, watered birds/goats, showered, and here I am.
I spent most of my hike thinking about my academic major, sex, my medication, money, Larry, and turtles. Not necessarily in that order. (Or that order of importance.)
First, I think, that like the friends of Bill W., I should get a chip or something for every month that goes by in which I resist picking up a turtle. Because it's not easy. Not easy at all. Seeing all these turtles. Everywhere I go, turtles, turtles, turtles, and knowing I should just hike or drive on by without stopping to pick them up and briefly imagine a life of enturtled happiness. What I'm saying, is that is is very, very hard for me to not see a turtle and pick it up. Because I want to pick it up. I want to, so very very badly. Cute little round-shelled turtles, huge flat-shelled angrily hissing turtles... it doesn't matter; I want them all.
But I've been so good. I've been so strong. I haven't touched a single turtle all year. Even though at times I seriously believe that the turtles are knowingly tempting me. Throwing themselves at me, as far as that is possible. It's like they're just messing with me with their sly come-hither reptile eyes and curiously compelling stubby scaled legs.
But I've resisted. And I think I should get some kind of acknowledgment, like the AA folks. Something I can carry around, hold in my hand when the turtle temptation overtakes me (those dark, dark lonely nights in which it seems that all I do is think of turtles).
But segueing from chips for not touching turtles... Am I the only one who thinks I should get some kind of chip for celibacy? Because I've been sex-free for very close to four years now and I'm thinking I should have some kind of chip or at least a key tag like the NA people use. Seriously. FOUR years. That's four YEARS.
FOUR.
YEARS.
Wow. Just... wow.
***
So I was thinking of turtles on my hike and I was thinking about my academic major and I was again-again-again wondering if I should switch from Women's Studies to English. And I was all, in my head to myself, as I stoically passed a particularly appealing turtle, 'And you're wondering this again why? Because you've got a pseudo-crush on your English professor, right? Right? Admit it! Right? Eyes off the turtle! Admit it! Because he's smart and interesting and you had that dumb dream about him and he gives good online lectures and he has that very, very amazing voice and when you hear him say "third person omniscient narrative" what you imagine him saying is "open your legs for me" and because of this silliness you're reconsidering an M.A. in English? SERIOUSLY? Are you out.of.your.mind???'
(Geez! Can't I stop scolding myself? Harshing my mellow! And can't I let myself just maybe touch a turtle a little bit?)
So I thought of this for a while. And then I thought of my medication. The thyroid stuff. And I wondered, now that I'm actually taking the stuff I got last year from India, if I'll start feeling, you know, more energetic. If I'll lose some weight. And when this will happen. If it's going to.
And I thought about money. Worried about money. Because my mother was all angry with me on the phone yesterday, saying that I better be able to start paying my car payment again soon and pay her back the money she's lent me to make the payments since January. And my not having child support isn't her problem and I need to figure out how to get the money and blah blah I shouldn't even have car in the first place because I can't afford it and she wishes she'd never co-signed for it, never let me drag her into my mess and blah blah. And so I was hiking and worrying about money. because I'm going to have to instantly find a job come this January when I have my Bachelor's. A job making me, like, four times what I made last year. More, actually, to make up for losing food stamps and the kids' Medicaid, and to make up for losing my Pell grant.
So I trudged around in the growing oppression of heat, and when I worry about money I can't think of turtles much less sex , so it was pretty grim for nearly a mile. And then I thought about my car. Because I'd called Larry the other day to talk about my car situation. The VW sitch. Because I still don't quite understand it. See, I'm "upside down" with it in that I owe much more than it's worth. But see, I see cars advertised at dealerships, older preowned cars, like a 2004 Passat at my VW dealership for seven thousand, and the Passat is a four-door automatic and this is what I need (not necessarily the Passat, just something a little bigger, four-door, and automatic). And I don't understand why I can't trade in my VW and come out with a monthly payment similar to the $379.00 I have now. I mean, I owe close to seventeen on the VW, the trade-in value is eleven, and so, to my apparently flawed reasoning, can't I trade in the VW taking eleven thousand off the seventeen I owe, add that to the Passat's seven and still come out okay? Since I [over] paid twenty-four for the damned VW almost two years ago.
But eh. Apparently it doesn't work this way. And then I was thinking of Larry again, trying to figure out that whole thing. I was trying to get it figured out in my head, remembering to how it all started. I think it reflects poorly upon me that back when I met Larry J his family's poverty and his Texas accent made him seem exotic. It's also ironic, because I'm currently surrounded by zillions of people with the same accent, the same poverty, and the same world view. But back then, being some silly girl from Danville, Larry J seemed exotic and the first time he called me "ma'am" I was delighted. (And I also recall, once when we were making out and he said, "You're fixin' to get it now real' soon," all East Texas twang, I was thrilled, like, heh, this was the hottest thing I'd heard in a while.)
But see, there were problems. Though I guess neither he nor I saw them (or wanted to see them) at the time. He wanted to tell me what to do and while for a long time and particularly in the time I knew him, being told what to do was exactly what I wanted, I also sensed on some level that I was destined to grow out of this.
I also think I made him crazy. As in, he thought I was an idiot and yet was driven to somehow save me from my idiocy. And sure, in many ways, a whole lot of ways, I was an idiot. My life was out of control. I carreened from bad situation to worse situation. I think I was sending out constant own me/control me messages even as I was constantly defying that ownership/control. I remember once Larry said, "I've never hit a girl before in my life but I really want to hit you." I think I was bad luck, I think I was some kind of carrier for crazy in that people who had previously seemed perfectly normal got involved with me and became psycho.
There was a lot of drama. Drama that embarrasses me now.
Larry was tall, handsome and worked on cars. I was tall, pretty, and I can't remember what I was working on. (I think I mainly just worked on being pretty.) I had returned to the Mormon church after years of inactivity. Where was the Nevada guy? I think he was living with some girl. I think we had briefly gotten back in touch and it had gotten briefly intense but then his girlfriend found out and called me and threatened to turn me into the church for immorality. Or something like that. (Not that she was Mormon. Not that Nevada guy was Mormon. Just, sigh, me.)
I'd moved to a cruddy but huge apartment in Pacheco with a Danville guy and then gotten rid of him, retaining the apartment. I was still working at that place in Danville, the liquor store/deli. But not for much longer. When I went back to church, I went to a ward (congregation) of all single young adults. The church's idea of course was to marry us all off. I think I went back to church to force some order and stability in my life. My life seemed so crazy, I couldn't seem to get my proverbial act together. I thought that the church would make me get it together.
I got a lot of attention when I returned to church. The first person to make, heh, contact, was the son of a Mormon bishop. He was an accountant, a bit older, a returned missionary, very active in church, very proper and prim and righteous and... You know, I can't write about the church. Or the members. They'll know. They'll find out. And they'll get me. (I'm almost totally serious!)
Anyway. I was dating in the church, dating a series of Mormon guys, telling myself that I was all pure and moral and sin-free, whee! I think my hobby was seeing how far I could tempt these guys to go. I wanted very badly to "be good," to live a clean, chaste life, but there was something amazingly hot about pushing the boundaries. I think this time in my life left an indelible impression on me, because sex is never so tempting to me as when it is somehow "forbidden," wrong, agaist some kind of social rule/s.
I met Larry because I was dating his best friend. Larry had a, heh, bad reputation in church because people suspected that in the process of making out (bad enough!), he would touch his girlfriend of the time's breasts. (I know! The horror! But you have to remember, we were Mormon and this was a very big deal.) So I'm sure in my mind, I was all, Hmmmm...
Hmmmm indeed. He was tall, 6' 4", German and American Indian, all tanned, thick dark hair, dark eyes, strong, lean muscles, rough hands. He had a great back. I remember once that we were at my apartment, lying on the floor, and he rolled on his stomach and I straddled his back, sitting on him, and I pulled his shirt off over his head and I was rubbing his bare back, his wide shoulders, touching the smooth dark planes of his flesh, admiring the touch, the sight of him, and I remember thinking, "This is really beautiful." He had a really, really great back. I'm reasonably sure that he had the best back and shoulders of any man I've ever touched.
But what was I saying? I was drawn to him by his handsomeness, his exotic, heh, Texas accent, intrigued by his, heh, bad reputation. He had a Mustang and I had my Camaro convertible that was always breaking down. He seemed different to me. Different because he was the eldest of eight children, his family was very poor (not as poor as I've become, heh), he had that funny way of talking, he looked at me like he didn't quite want to like me but couldn't quite help it. He yelled at me in the first hour of our meeting for sitting on the hood of his car and I was both annoyed and intrigued, because in my experience no boy had ever objected to me putting my miniskirted butt on their car.
I remember talking to him all night. Literally all night. Before we even started quote/unquote dating. It was after Seminary, a Mormon school thing on, I think, Wednesday nights. Seminary was across the street from my community college. I had to work the next day, be there at eight and I'm sure he had to work, too. But we talked and talked and talked. All night. All summer night outside by his car. It was as though I couldn't tear myself away and apparently neither could he, though I have no idea what we talked about.
I remember feeling elated at work the whole next day. Happy, giddy, not tired at all. All I could think about was him and all I wanted was to see him again.
I've got to go. I don't have time to blog any more right now. And it's making me sad, somehow. You know, I realize that I'll never feel this way again and it strikes me as, I don't know, terrible. Terrible and sad and it hurts for some reason.
Eh.
And it makes me sad that this is the same guy yelling at me on the phone yesterday. And it makes me sad because I don't know what happened. What happened to him, to me, to any of us.
'Cause in nothing there's something I feel
Can my heart take the strain
Or will it break down again
In your lips I sense a danger
You've got the eyes of a stranger
(The Payolas)
***
Okay. So. I watered birds/goats, hiked, came home, watered birds/goats, showered, and here I am.
I spent most of my hike thinking about my academic major, sex, my medication, money, Larry, and turtles. Not necessarily in that order. (Or that order of importance.)
First, I think, that like the friends of Bill W., I should get a chip or something for every month that goes by in which I resist picking up a turtle. Because it's not easy. Not easy at all. Seeing all these turtles. Everywhere I go, turtles, turtles, turtles, and knowing I should just hike or drive on by without stopping to pick them up and briefly imagine a life of enturtled happiness. What I'm saying, is that is is very, very hard for me to not see a turtle and pick it up. Because I want to pick it up. I want to, so very very badly. Cute little round-shelled turtles, huge flat-shelled angrily hissing turtles... it doesn't matter; I want them all.
But I've been so good. I've been so strong. I haven't touched a single turtle all year. Even though at times I seriously believe that the turtles are knowingly tempting me. Throwing themselves at me, as far as that is possible. It's like they're just messing with me with their sly come-hither reptile eyes and curiously compelling stubby scaled legs.
But I've resisted. And I think I should get some kind of acknowledgment, like the AA folks. Something I can carry around, hold in my hand when the turtle temptation overtakes me (those dark, dark lonely nights in which it seems that all I do is think of turtles).
But segueing from chips for not touching turtles... Am I the only one who thinks I should get some kind of chip for celibacy? Because I've been sex-free for very close to four years now and I'm thinking I should have some kind of chip or at least a key tag like the NA people use. Seriously. FOUR years. That's four YEARS.
FOUR.
YEARS.
Wow. Just... wow.
***
So I was thinking of turtles on my hike and I was thinking about my academic major and I was again-again-again wondering if I should switch from Women's Studies to English. And I was all, in my head to myself, as I stoically passed a particularly appealing turtle, 'And you're wondering this again why? Because you've got a pseudo-crush on your English professor, right? Right? Admit it! Right? Eyes off the turtle! Admit it! Because he's smart and interesting and you had that dumb dream about him and he gives good online lectures and he has that very, very amazing voice and when you hear him say "third person omniscient narrative" what you imagine him saying is "open your legs for me" and because of this silliness you're reconsidering an M.A. in English? SERIOUSLY? Are you out.of.your.mind???'
(Geez! Can't I stop scolding myself? Harshing my mellow! And can't I let myself just maybe touch a turtle a little bit?)
So I thought of this for a while. And then I thought of my medication. The thyroid stuff. And I wondered, now that I'm actually taking the stuff I got last year from India, if I'll start feeling, you know, more energetic. If I'll lose some weight. And when this will happen. If it's going to.
And I thought about money. Worried about money. Because my mother was all angry with me on the phone yesterday, saying that I better be able to start paying my car payment again soon and pay her back the money she's lent me to make the payments since January. And my not having child support isn't her problem and I need to figure out how to get the money and blah blah I shouldn't even have car in the first place because I can't afford it and she wishes she'd never co-signed for it, never let me drag her into my mess and blah blah. And so I was hiking and worrying about money. because I'm going to have to instantly find a job come this January when I have my Bachelor's. A job making me, like, four times what I made last year. More, actually, to make up for losing food stamps and the kids' Medicaid, and to make up for losing my Pell grant.
So I trudged around in the growing oppression of heat, and when I worry about money I can't think of turtles much less sex , so it was pretty grim for nearly a mile. And then I thought about my car. Because I'd called Larry the other day to talk about my car situation. The VW sitch. Because I still don't quite understand it. See, I'm "upside down" with it in that I owe much more than it's worth. But see, I see cars advertised at dealerships, older preowned cars, like a 2004 Passat at my VW dealership for seven thousand, and the Passat is a four-door automatic and this is what I need (not necessarily the Passat, just something a little bigger, four-door, and automatic). And I don't understand why I can't trade in my VW and come out with a monthly payment similar to the $379.00 I have now. I mean, I owe close to seventeen on the VW, the trade-in value is eleven, and so, to my apparently flawed reasoning, can't I trade in the VW taking eleven thousand off the seventeen I owe, add that to the Passat's seven and still come out okay? Since I [over] paid twenty-four for the damned VW almost two years ago.
But eh. Apparently it doesn't work this way. And then I was thinking of Larry again, trying to figure out that whole thing. I was trying to get it figured out in my head, remembering to how it all started. I think it reflects poorly upon me that back when I met Larry J his family's poverty and his Texas accent made him seem exotic. It's also ironic, because I'm currently surrounded by zillions of people with the same accent, the same poverty, and the same world view. But back then, being some silly girl from Danville, Larry J seemed exotic and the first time he called me "ma'am" I was delighted. (And I also recall, once when we were making out and he said, "You're fixin' to get it now real' soon," all East Texas twang, I was thrilled, like, heh, this was the hottest thing I'd heard in a while.)
But see, there were problems. Though I guess neither he nor I saw them (or wanted to see them) at the time. He wanted to tell me what to do and while for a long time and particularly in the time I knew him, being told what to do was exactly what I wanted, I also sensed on some level that I was destined to grow out of this.
I also think I made him crazy. As in, he thought I was an idiot and yet was driven to somehow save me from my idiocy. And sure, in many ways, a whole lot of ways, I was an idiot. My life was out of control. I carreened from bad situation to worse situation. I think I was sending out constant own me/control me messages even as I was constantly defying that ownership/control. I remember once Larry said, "I've never hit a girl before in my life but I really want to hit you." I think I was bad luck, I think I was some kind of carrier for crazy in that people who had previously seemed perfectly normal got involved with me and became psycho.
There was a lot of drama. Drama that embarrasses me now.
Larry was tall, handsome and worked on cars. I was tall, pretty, and I can't remember what I was working on. (I think I mainly just worked on being pretty.) I had returned to the Mormon church after years of inactivity. Where was the Nevada guy? I think he was living with some girl. I think we had briefly gotten back in touch and it had gotten briefly intense but then his girlfriend found out and called me and threatened to turn me into the church for immorality. Or something like that. (Not that she was Mormon. Not that Nevada guy was Mormon. Just, sigh, me.)
I'd moved to a cruddy but huge apartment in Pacheco with a Danville guy and then gotten rid of him, retaining the apartment. I was still working at that place in Danville, the liquor store/deli. But not for much longer. When I went back to church, I went to a ward (congregation) of all single young adults. The church's idea of course was to marry us all off. I think I went back to church to force some order and stability in my life. My life seemed so crazy, I couldn't seem to get my proverbial act together. I thought that the church would make me get it together.
I got a lot of attention when I returned to church. The first person to make, heh, contact, was the son of a Mormon bishop. He was an accountant, a bit older, a returned missionary, very active in church, very proper and prim and righteous and... You know, I can't write about the church. Or the members. They'll know. They'll find out. And they'll get me. (I'm almost totally serious!)
Anyway. I was dating in the church, dating a series of Mormon guys, telling myself that I was all pure and moral and sin-free, whee! I think my hobby was seeing how far I could tempt these guys to go. I wanted very badly to "be good," to live a clean, chaste life, but there was something amazingly hot about pushing the boundaries. I think this time in my life left an indelible impression on me, because sex is never so tempting to me as when it is somehow "forbidden," wrong, agaist some kind of social rule/s.
I met Larry because I was dating his best friend. Larry had a, heh, bad reputation in church because people suspected that in the process of making out (bad enough!), he would touch his girlfriend of the time's breasts. (I know! The horror! But you have to remember, we were Mormon and this was a very big deal.) So I'm sure in my mind, I was all, Hmmmm...
Hmmmm indeed. He was tall, 6' 4", German and American Indian, all tanned, thick dark hair, dark eyes, strong, lean muscles, rough hands. He had a great back. I remember once that we were at my apartment, lying on the floor, and he rolled on his stomach and I straddled his back, sitting on him, and I pulled his shirt off over his head and I was rubbing his bare back, his wide shoulders, touching the smooth dark planes of his flesh, admiring the touch, the sight of him, and I remember thinking, "This is really beautiful." He had a really, really great back. I'm reasonably sure that he had the best back and shoulders of any man I've ever touched.
But what was I saying? I was drawn to him by his handsomeness, his exotic, heh, Texas accent, intrigued by his, heh, bad reputation. He had a Mustang and I had my Camaro convertible that was always breaking down. He seemed different to me. Different because he was the eldest of eight children, his family was very poor (not as poor as I've become, heh), he had that funny way of talking, he looked at me like he didn't quite want to like me but couldn't quite help it. He yelled at me in the first hour of our meeting for sitting on the hood of his car and I was both annoyed and intrigued, because in my experience no boy had ever objected to me putting my miniskirted butt on their car.
I remember talking to him all night. Literally all night. Before we even started quote/unquote dating. It was after Seminary, a Mormon school thing on, I think, Wednesday nights. Seminary was across the street from my community college. I had to work the next day, be there at eight and I'm sure he had to work, too. But we talked and talked and talked. All night. All summer night outside by his car. It was as though I couldn't tear myself away and apparently neither could he, though I have no idea what we talked about.
I remember feeling elated at work the whole next day. Happy, giddy, not tired at all. All I could think about was him and all I wanted was to see him again.
I've got to go. I don't have time to blog any more right now. And it's making me sad, somehow. You know, I realize that I'll never feel this way again and it strikes me as, I don't know, terrible. Terrible and sad and it hurts for some reason.
Eh.
And it makes me sad that this is the same guy yelling at me on the phone yesterday. And it makes me sad because I don't know what happened. What happened to him, to me, to any of us.
Recent Comments