1. Get pissed.
2. Get pissed.
3. Cry.
My life is a fucking mess.
Same shit, different outfit.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The sorta resolution, sorta reflective sorta list sorta sorta post.
I left Albertville today after eating ice cream for breakfast and then going back to sleep to see if I could sleep away the dizziness before hitting the road. I didn't go for a run because it was raining when I re-woke at 1:00, so I packed my stuff, set it by the door and took it out to the intrepid one by one. I wanted to do it quickly, before my mom got home--that way I could just write the note to my parents that I'd formed in my head--Thanks for the presents, love them all, really, will use the silly stuffed "puppy" as the first toy for the dog I'll get in a couple of months. I guess I'll see you when I see you, it's up to you when it happens.
But I heard the garage door squeak, and mom came in to see my stuff lined by the door. I thought you were leaving the 30th, she said. No, I told you I was leaving today, I told her without looking at her.
When did you tell me that?
I believe it was right before you told me the other day to "fuck off." And I loaded another bag in the car.
She hung out in the kitchen until I finished packing, picking at the cookies on the cookie plate without really eating them. I sort of summarized the note. Thanks for the presents. When I see you is up to you.
I'm sorry you have to feel this way, she said. I let that go. No use fighting now. Give me a hug goodbye. I haven't hugged my mother in years. It was a horrible hug. I love you, she said, as the screen door shut. I said it back. Neither of us has said that in years, either.
I sorta like my mom, but she also sorta pisses me the fuck off. Like, she gets it, but she doesn't do anything about it. I conclude that she sorta loves me. She won't defend me, but watching me leave days before I should because I can't be in that house makes her sorta sad. It makes me sorta sad too, and I half-cried in the rain on the way home, half-cried as I moped around the Christmas clearance at Target, half-cried as I filled up with gas, sorta cried as I listened to all of that news on MPR on the way home.
*
I spent Christmas with Liz, mostly at Southdale AMC, watching movies. First, we went to the afternoon show of Spirit, which luckily was nothing about a cartoon horse. Somebody bring me a tie. And it better be red. A good show. Our plan was to see Valkyrie immediately after, but the next show wasn't for a good three hours, so our plan was to find a Chinese Christmas dinner. Mainly where do the Jews go on Christmas? That's where you'll find us.
We found ourselves on Lake Street, which I today learned was the place where the 35th Minneapolis murder took place on Christmas morning. We found a Chinese place, ordered, brought it back to Liz's. She taught me the meaning of "interrobang." Then we headed back to AMC, and by the show of some Christmas miracle, ran into Darren there, who, the queer of the year, had just got done seeing Milk all on his own. (The movie that the Good Doctor had brought his mother to a couple of weeks ago, as sort of a "test," which she failed miserably. Nobody told the Good Doctor about all the sexy male on male kissing, and poor Mrs. Bane spent most of the movie digging in her purse for a piece of gum that she knew wasn't there.)
Our plan, then was to see Valkyrie, but as we were standing in line it sold out. So, instead, the three of us found Frost/Nixon, a good show, and then we decided to sneak into the late 10:35 Valkyrie which was also amazing.
*
I got to Elgin today, sorta unpacked, then decided I was in desperate need of some good music, so I downloaded The Who's "Squeeze Box," which has been in my head for a good week and a bunch of other stuff. Played guitar, then, for a good three hours until my fingers were sore, and even cut my fingernails to commit to a good jam session on the acoustic. Feeling dizzy, still, which is disappointing, because I'd been doing so well for the last couple of days. Didn't read the reading I sorta wanted to start tonight, didn't sorta plan like I sorta wanted. But I did put on some sweats and did 40 minutes of kickboxing, which I consider a fair commitment after eating the rest of the chocolate I had in the house so I can officially start the weight loss competition with James without any outside temptation lurking in the cupboards. I've dumped all of the clothes from my room onto the futon in the living room, and again I find myself amazed at the amount of clothing I have--the mounds it makes, heaps of clothes-snow formed by the wind. Plus all the wrinkles; I hate, hate, hate ironing.
I've sorta come up with some new things for myself to try in order to keep up the running/exercise regimen that I've done quite well for the last week. James and I, starting at the new year, plan to have a weight loss competition. He'll win, because I think he weighs more than I do and also because he's a male, but competition always brings out the best in me. Here's what I'm doing:
*Not eating red meat anymore. Not that I eat it that often, but I just don't want to be a red-meat eater anymore. I'd go back to vegetarian, but I don't think I have that much commitment in me; plus, it's annoying as hell to explain to people that you're a vegetarian after the saw you hoovering a roast beef sandwich last week.
*Not eating fried foods anymore. Yup. Goodbye, french fries. You will be missed.
*Forcing myself to go to the gym, after school, at least 3 times a week. I like running on that track, and if it's nice, I'll run outside at the school with my new Nike/ipod hat.
Here's what I will never, ever give up:
*Chicken.
*Coffee.
*Chocolate.
*Coke Zero.
*Basically, I guess, anything that starts with a C.
I had this silly idea in my head that I would start buying things that were only on Clearance, ever, just to see if it would save me money (it wouldn't, I would obviously just buy more, and when it comes to clothes and shoes this is pretty much how I roll anyway). But then I thought of how funny it'd be if this was something that moved over into grocery shopping--like I only bought clearance groceries. I'd have to live off lima beans in a dented can and Halloween cake mix and adult diapers from a ripped plastic bag. Clearance groceries are disgusting.
I made out well for Christmas. Let's list:
*An electric blanket, which will keep my warm in this cold, cold, cold house.
*A spice rack.
*Shakespeare's complete works.
*From Dingleberry and my sister (Hm.), a canvas Elvis picture of him reading fan mail.
*A stuffed dog, because I wrote "puppy" on my Christmas list.
*A Nike/ipod hat, with built in earphones--slide the ipod right on top--it's amazing.
*A new Nike/ipod mile monitor, since I lost the little piece to my last one.
*Two new cookie sheets, good ones, too. Mom said, even nicer than mine.
*A Cub gift card.
*Simpons, season 10.
*Office, season 3.
*From David, an authentic Mayan calander.
*From Shan, little canisters! So cute. And, don't be mad, Shannon, but I did use them all for pills.
*From Jenny, amazing spices and oils from our favorite Green Bay store.
God, I want some french fries.
But I heard the garage door squeak, and mom came in to see my stuff lined by the door. I thought you were leaving the 30th, she said. No, I told you I was leaving today, I told her without looking at her.
When did you tell me that?
I believe it was right before you told me the other day to "fuck off." And I loaded another bag in the car.
She hung out in the kitchen until I finished packing, picking at the cookies on the cookie plate without really eating them. I sort of summarized the note. Thanks for the presents. When I see you is up to you.
I'm sorry you have to feel this way, she said. I let that go. No use fighting now. Give me a hug goodbye. I haven't hugged my mother in years. It was a horrible hug. I love you, she said, as the screen door shut. I said it back. Neither of us has said that in years, either.
I sorta like my mom, but she also sorta pisses me the fuck off. Like, she gets it, but she doesn't do anything about it. I conclude that she sorta loves me. She won't defend me, but watching me leave days before I should because I can't be in that house makes her sorta sad. It makes me sorta sad too, and I half-cried in the rain on the way home, half-cried as I moped around the Christmas clearance at Target, half-cried as I filled up with gas, sorta cried as I listened to all of that news on MPR on the way home.
*
I spent Christmas with Liz, mostly at Southdale AMC, watching movies. First, we went to the afternoon show of Spirit, which luckily was nothing about a cartoon horse. Somebody bring me a tie. And it better be red. A good show. Our plan was to see Valkyrie immediately after, but the next show wasn't for a good three hours, so our plan was to find a Chinese Christmas dinner. Mainly where do the Jews go on Christmas? That's where you'll find us.
We found ourselves on Lake Street, which I today learned was the place where the 35th Minneapolis murder took place on Christmas morning. We found a Chinese place, ordered, brought it back to Liz's. She taught me the meaning of "interrobang." Then we headed back to AMC, and by the show of some Christmas miracle, ran into Darren there, who, the queer of the year, had just got done seeing Milk all on his own. (The movie that the Good Doctor had brought his mother to a couple of weeks ago, as sort of a "test," which she failed miserably. Nobody told the Good Doctor about all the sexy male on male kissing, and poor Mrs. Bane spent most of the movie digging in her purse for a piece of gum that she knew wasn't there.)
Our plan, then was to see Valkyrie, but as we were standing in line it sold out. So, instead, the three of us found Frost/Nixon, a good show, and then we decided to sneak into the late 10:35 Valkyrie which was also amazing.
*
I got to Elgin today, sorta unpacked, then decided I was in desperate need of some good music, so I downloaded The Who's "Squeeze Box," which has been in my head for a good week and a bunch of other stuff. Played guitar, then, for a good three hours until my fingers were sore, and even cut my fingernails to commit to a good jam session on the acoustic. Feeling dizzy, still, which is disappointing, because I'd been doing so well for the last couple of days. Didn't read the reading I sorta wanted to start tonight, didn't sorta plan like I sorta wanted. But I did put on some sweats and did 40 minutes of kickboxing, which I consider a fair commitment after eating the rest of the chocolate I had in the house so I can officially start the weight loss competition with James without any outside temptation lurking in the cupboards. I've dumped all of the clothes from my room onto the futon in the living room, and again I find myself amazed at the amount of clothing I have--the mounds it makes, heaps of clothes-snow formed by the wind. Plus all the wrinkles; I hate, hate, hate ironing.
I've sorta come up with some new things for myself to try in order to keep up the running/exercise regimen that I've done quite well for the last week. James and I, starting at the new year, plan to have a weight loss competition. He'll win, because I think he weighs more than I do and also because he's a male, but competition always brings out the best in me. Here's what I'm doing:
*Not eating red meat anymore. Not that I eat it that often, but I just don't want to be a red-meat eater anymore. I'd go back to vegetarian, but I don't think I have that much commitment in me; plus, it's annoying as hell to explain to people that you're a vegetarian after the saw you hoovering a roast beef sandwich last week.
*Not eating fried foods anymore. Yup. Goodbye, french fries. You will be missed.
*Forcing myself to go to the gym, after school, at least 3 times a week. I like running on that track, and if it's nice, I'll run outside at the school with my new Nike/ipod hat.
Here's what I will never, ever give up:
*Chicken.
*Coffee.
*Chocolate.
*Coke Zero.
*Basically, I guess, anything that starts with a C.
I had this silly idea in my head that I would start buying things that were only on Clearance, ever, just to see if it would save me money (it wouldn't, I would obviously just buy more, and when it comes to clothes and shoes this is pretty much how I roll anyway). But then I thought of how funny it'd be if this was something that moved over into grocery shopping--like I only bought clearance groceries. I'd have to live off lima beans in a dented can and Halloween cake mix and adult diapers from a ripped plastic bag. Clearance groceries are disgusting.
I made out well for Christmas. Let's list:
*An electric blanket, which will keep my warm in this cold, cold, cold house.
*A spice rack.
*Shakespeare's complete works.
*From Dingleberry and my sister (Hm.), a canvas Elvis picture of him reading fan mail.
*A stuffed dog, because I wrote "puppy" on my Christmas list.
*A Nike/ipod hat, with built in earphones--slide the ipod right on top--it's amazing.
*A new Nike/ipod mile monitor, since I lost the little piece to my last one.
*Two new cookie sheets, good ones, too. Mom said, even nicer than mine.
*A Cub gift card.
*Simpons, season 10.
*Office, season 3.
*From David, an authentic Mayan calander.
*From Shan, little canisters! So cute. And, don't be mad, Shannon, but I did use them all for pills.
*From Jenny, amazing spices and oils from our favorite Green Bay store.
God, I want some french fries.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Part two. Oh yes, there's a part two.
Here. I'll set the scene for you now. I'm at Albertville Caribou, realizing I've sat too close to the door because I can't feel my feet anymore. An Albertville version of Reedo just walked by me and gave me a double-take, and had he not been 6 inches taller than real Reedo, I'd have been certain it was him. A science teacher and a pastor are sitting next to me, talking about discipleship and how to convert non-believers into Christ-believers; earlier the science teacher showed the pastor a chart that marked the cycle of belief. You see here, says the science teacher, the guy who came up with this chart said that if you can convert someone to a believer in 9 months, that's pretty good. I mean, it takes 9 months to be born, so it could take about 9 months to be reborn. The pastor nods. I'm convinced that the science-teaching disciple is not a real human being but a character from the imagination of a former-creative-writing student who decided to invent a contradictory character for the sake of "interest" and "internal conflict" in her story.
I spent the day with the Good Doctor yesterday; it was the first time we'd talked in months, and he gave me a Christmas present even though he wasn't supposed to. It's an authentic Mayan calendar carved from stone, from Mexico. As we have lunch he tells me that he toured the Mayan ruins, which were built so acoustically sound that you can whisper and still hear everyone clearly. They were built so the king could speak from above on the rocks, down to his people, in a normal speaking voice and be heard throughout the formations. We're patching things. It will go slowly, but we will be successful, because I can learn to expect less of people. He let me talk about the medication, told me, kindly, that it might take 2 months for my brain to stop misfiring and adjusting to the non-SSRI, but that the anxiety is not me as much as it is just withdrawal. It will be over when the withdrawl is over. I trust him, and he told me I was crazy and I was happy that finally someone would just say it. I'm happy that he was the one who could say, instead of Jean, you're not crazy! That, yeah, I've known you for a long time. You're crazy, but that's okay. You know how to be crazy. I told him, thank you for saying so. I'm okay with being crazy. Life would be pretty dull if I wasn't, actually. He told me that my family is ridiculous, he told me that there is enough drama already that I should just go ahead and get a restraining order against Dingleberry. I consider this thought, seriously, and then the Good Doctor and I go shopping for shoes and to a movie, and I decide that he's worth fighting for even though it will be a rough battle. I say, at the shoe store earlier, Can I ask you something? How is it that you are okay with calling me crazy when you're the one who tells the Phoenix police that they should call me because it was my "friend" Pablo who was driving your car on a college visit to ASU in Tempe when it was really you, wearing sunglasses on that police traffic camera? How am I the one who is crazy?
He laughs, says, I have anxiety issues. I scowl.
I just had the most humorless conversation with my mother that I've ever had: I tell her I'll be leaving after Christmas day, and I won't be coming back here, ever, until that loser no longer lives in this house.
My mother doesn't bat an eye. She's sitting in the rocking chair, in her bedroom, staring at the TV. She won't look over at me. She says, okay.
I'm surprised that she really doesn't care, but I shouldn't be. I say, I just don't understand how you can let him stay here. She says, without looking over, I gave it to him yesterday, I yelled at him, you just don't see it.
I say, I don't feel comfortable, safe, or welcome in this house. I just don't understand. It blows my fucking mind that this jerk has raised his hands to both of your daughters and you give him a fucking bed to sleep in every night. [Side note: After I told my mom about the fight on Sunday, I'd thought she was on my side. She'd said, after I told her Edward came at me with his fist, that he's tried to hit your sister, too. I'd said, And you let him stay here. He needs to leave. He better be leaving in February like you said. She says, well they'll be leaving once your sister gets her disability money. I get pissed. You said they had to leave in February! You see why they take advantage of you guys? You don't stick to anything! How many times to I have to tell you that Amanda isn't getting any disability money. She can sit on that fucking couch as long as she wants, and she can claim that she hurt herself at work. But she is not getting any fucking money. People who deserve that money don't even get it. And they have to wait for two years, if they're lucky. Mom. I understand this law stuff. Nobody is sending her a check. This is NOT AN OPTION. I turn away, go back to wrapping presents. I am so fucking pissed. I feel as though I'm living on another fucking planet. I can't stand how fucking naive they are, and my heart rate raises.]
Anyway, back to her chair-rocking in the bedroom: I tell my mom I'm leaving, she doesn't react, so I keep talking while she keeps her eyes on the TV and keeps rocking. I say, I just feel like you and dad are brainwashed by this whole situation or something. Nobody defends me in this. You take this asshole's side. ...Travis...I just can't even believe this family.
She finally looks at me. She speaks and now she's yelling, and even if I couldn't hear her, I'd be able to tell that her voice was raising because her mouth was opening wider and her face was turning red. She said, brainwashed! What the fuck. How the fuck can you say that. You don't understand. FUCK YOU, JEAN.
She says, fuck you, Jean, and I say, please help me understand then. Tell me. Tell me, so I get it, so I understand why you let this guy stay in our house.
She says, I don't have to explain anything to you. I don't want to fucking talk to you.
Help me get it, I said. I just want to know so I can understand where you are coming from.
I don't want to fucking talk to you, Jean. She says. I leave to go take a shower. I'm in from a 4 mile run in 15 degree weather and a half-hour of snow shoveling. I'm sweaty and cold and I just want to warm up.
None of this is funny, but knowing what I'd done just minutes before makes it just a little funny. I've officially reached the point of funny revenge. For those of you who know anger, or even despair, funny revenge occurs at the point where you come to realize that reason, arguing, discussion--all get you nowhere.
Before I'd talked to my mom in the rocking chair, after shoveling, which was after the run, I'd come into the house and said, Travis. Come look at what a good job I did shoveling. He thought I was being an ass to tell him that he never shoveled and was lazy. But he came down, and I whispered, look at Amanda's car.
While on my run, while crying and screaming I hate him! loud enough that the people in downtown Albertville could hear me while shoveling their driveways, the thought occurred to me that all of this was my useless sister's fault. The thought occurred to me that I don't understand why family has to matter, why I don't have to like her but I have to love her. Isn't it just easier to be indifferent? Do I really have to love her? So, I'm crying, and I'm running and trying not to slip on the ice, and the thought jumps into my head in the middle of all this anger: throw her Christmas presents in the snow. You should go home, and take all of her Christmas presents and throw them in the front yard. Like, kick them out there with your foot so they spin in the air before landing in the snow. Mom and Dad aren't going to do anything. They don't punish anybody for anything. And they said it themselves: You don't live here, Jean. So I suppose they can kick me out, but I have somewhere to fucking go. I have a lot of friends and a lot of places to go, actually, so I can do whatever the fuck I want.
But this would be immature. Plus, my parents paid for all of those Christmas presents, and I don't want to punish them. Plus, the neighbors would see Christmas presents on the lawn. (And me, laughing, doing a silly dance among them.)
Of course, this seemed sane after the thought I'd had earlier in the day, during the argument that started this all: Push the Christmas tree over. Push it over. You want to start it on fire, but that's way too dangerous, so just push it over. But then my mom would've been the one to clean it up, and she'd spent all morning on her hands and knees cleaning the floors of the bathrooms that she doesn't even use while Amanda and Dingleberry laid on the couch and watched useless TV. She's dealt with enough cleaning today.
But I got home from the run, and I was sweaty already and there were four inches of soft snow on the driveway, so I figured I'd shovel it. I shoveled for awhile, and then I wiped off my car. Then I thought maybe I should be nice and wipe off Amanda's car. Then I laughed at myself, because I've tried the get her with kindness thing before, and she continued to steal from me. Then, instead of wiping the snow off her car, I took the scoop from my shovel and dumped it on the hood. And I proceeded to do this for the next 20 minutes. I even shoveled a little bit of snow from the cul-de-sac so I could have enough to dump on her car. I loaded the hood, the roof, the trunk. I even cackled. I jogged up and down that driveway with my shovel, "Freebird" playing on my ipod, shoveling every bit of snow I could, flinging shovelful after shovelful of snow onto her car. I was so happy. I was so calm. I thought of Ben and Havely and Highland. I thought of my mom yelling at me, my dad yelling at me, and then I thought of myself saying, I shovel the driveway for you, and this is the thanks I get? Nobody else in this house does anything, and I do, and you yell at me. Nice. I imagine myself laughing and walking away. I'm laughing. It feels good. This feels like the greatest prank that anyone has ever pranked. First of all, my sister's shitty car looks ridiculous in that driveway--that maroon '93 Taurus is covered in a foot of snow, and the cement driveway surrounding it is spotless. My sister probably hasn't shoveled an inch of snow in her fucking life. Now, she has to go outside and shovel off her car. Now, that bitch has to exercise. My parents, even if they wanted, couldn't be too mad at that. I don't see how they couldn't laugh. I am the greatest prankster who has ever lived.
How it started: I was getting ready to go for a run. Dingleberry, my fat sister, and Travis are downstairs, shaking presents. I go around and plug in the tree. Amanda starts yelling at me: What the fuck are you plugging in the tree for? And I can't even take that seriously. Because it looks nice, Amanda. Because it looks sad when it's not plugged in.
Well, don't waste electricity. I choke on my own spit when she says this.
Really, Amanda. Because I am wondering exactly WHEN you started to GIVE A SHIT what the electric bill is in this house! Because you leave your fan on all night when it's fifteen below outside. Really, Amanda. And how much is the electric bill. How much of it do you pay, again? I'm plugging in the fucking Christmas tree.
And all would've been fine, I could've handled it all, had Dingleberry not turned his fucking greasy head around and said to me well, you don't pay it either.
I feel my fists ball up. Mind your own business, I tell him. This doesn't concern you.
It is then, after I say that, that Dingleberry throws a toy at me.
If I wasn't so heated I would've laughed. It was this little tiny thing, I didn't even see what it was--but he wound up, and he whipped it at my head, and it bounced off me and landed on the floor.
Grow up. I tell him. And then he fucking stares at me. He just stares, and stares and stares, and I'm so disturbed by this elfin piece of shit that all I can do is scream turn around. What the fuck is your problem? Turn around. And he doesn't. He apparently has come to realize that his beady little evil eyes push my buttons. I am certain that Dingleberry thinks he's putting a curse on me. He's asking his crystal dragon statues in the corner to come to life and grow green and scaley and to breathe fire all over me until I die and he can dance and piss on my body.
We're still fighting, and my mother comes downstairs. He's still staring, and I say You are such a fucking weirdo! And the first thing my mother says to me is knock it off.
Can I just say that this sounds like something that would happen at Daycare? Like a boy would stare at a girl and she would call him a weirdo? Again, it'd be funny it I wasn't so pissed off. It'd be funny if I didn't feel physically threatened by this guy, if again, a parent of mine chose to defend this jerkoff instead of siding with their daughter.
Of course, this is exactly what my father did on Sunday. I won't again tell you how insulting and sick it makes me that I am the first person who is "yelled at" when he is the one butting in to something that doesn't concern him and also throwing toys at me like a goddamned 4-year-old (meaning, just as hard). Even if I am fighting, acting a little immature--I get to be right in this situation. Unfair as it is to Dingleberry, I get to be right. Plus, I don't hit women.
This was where I wanted to pull down the Christmas tree. I was so angry at my mother. It just didn't (doesn't) seem that I can say anything to her that generates reason--so rash, odd reactions are all I can think of. I go into the laundry room to find my running clothes. Dingleberry starts having a conversation with Travis about how there's always fighting around Christmas and everyone's never getting along in this house. I scream from the laundry room: I'm sorry, Edward, but I missed the part WHERE YOU FUCKING BECAME A MEMBER OF THIS FAMILY!
I realize that I'm a little jealous of Edward. That he comes in and gets treated with respect as a stranger after 7 months, and I'm still having to scream and fight and cry my way into even a rash conversation with my parents. I don't feel as though this asshole is taking my spot, but I do feel some pinch of jealousy. Maybe because he influences Travis as much as I want too. I don't know. But I fucking loathe this motherfucker.
I change into my running clothes, slam the front door irresponsibly and run outside. I don't remember much of that run, other than a dog across the street tried to run over to me and was almost hit by a car. I openly weeped at this action, but kept moving forward. And I kept trying to get Edward out of my head, kept saying to myself stop crying, get over it, get over it. But then I kept having these images of his violence--these thoughts of him hurting me while I slept, the thought of coming home to find my family murdered by this asshole who could get a gun from Sam's Club whenever he wanted. I thought of him coming up to me with a gun, telling me to shut the fuck up, and aiming, I thought of myself ducking and the bullet hitting my mother standing behind me. It's just those eyes. Someone with those eyes has so much power, so much anger and hate inside of him. Those eyes are so dark--I swear there's no white in them--and I fear for my family, and for Travis and there's nothing I can do about it, because nobody will fucking listen to me. I know the thought of him hurting me is somewhat of an overreaction, but what if it's not? What if it's not.
*
So. I won't be home for Christmas, after I sing at mass. I'll plow myself through Christmas Eve at my house, our family tradition, and I will force myself not to speak, not to realize that this weasel is in our house, under our tree, having raised a fist to both me and my sister, and opening presents from my parents. I will feel safe, because Craig will be there, because although he is of the same naive persuasion as my parents, he has to hate this kid like I do--because I know he despises Amanda as I do. Then, friends, I'll be calling you. I won't have any money to do anything, because I was hoping my parents would help me out until the next loan comes in, but now I can't ask. I'll leave credit cards and rent unpaid and beg for forgiveness. I'll deal with this on my own this time.
I spent the day with the Good Doctor yesterday; it was the first time we'd talked in months, and he gave me a Christmas present even though he wasn't supposed to. It's an authentic Mayan calendar carved from stone, from Mexico. As we have lunch he tells me that he toured the Mayan ruins, which were built so acoustically sound that you can whisper and still hear everyone clearly. They were built so the king could speak from above on the rocks, down to his people, in a normal speaking voice and be heard throughout the formations. We're patching things. It will go slowly, but we will be successful, because I can learn to expect less of people. He let me talk about the medication, told me, kindly, that it might take 2 months for my brain to stop misfiring and adjusting to the non-SSRI, but that the anxiety is not me as much as it is just withdrawal. It will be over when the withdrawl is over. I trust him, and he told me I was crazy and I was happy that finally someone would just say it. I'm happy that he was the one who could say, instead of Jean, you're not crazy! That, yeah, I've known you for a long time. You're crazy, but that's okay. You know how to be crazy. I told him, thank you for saying so. I'm okay with being crazy. Life would be pretty dull if I wasn't, actually. He told me that my family is ridiculous, he told me that there is enough drama already that I should just go ahead and get a restraining order against Dingleberry. I consider this thought, seriously, and then the Good Doctor and I go shopping for shoes and to a movie, and I decide that he's worth fighting for even though it will be a rough battle. I say, at the shoe store earlier, Can I ask you something? How is it that you are okay with calling me crazy when you're the one who tells the Phoenix police that they should call me because it was my "friend" Pablo who was driving your car on a college visit to ASU in Tempe when it was really you, wearing sunglasses on that police traffic camera? How am I the one who is crazy?
He laughs, says, I have anxiety issues. I scowl.
I just had the most humorless conversation with my mother that I've ever had: I tell her I'll be leaving after Christmas day, and I won't be coming back here, ever, until that loser no longer lives in this house.
My mother doesn't bat an eye. She's sitting in the rocking chair, in her bedroom, staring at the TV. She won't look over at me. She says, okay.
I'm surprised that she really doesn't care, but I shouldn't be. I say, I just don't understand how you can let him stay here. She says, without looking over, I gave it to him yesterday, I yelled at him, you just don't see it.
I say, I don't feel comfortable, safe, or welcome in this house. I just don't understand. It blows my fucking mind that this jerk has raised his hands to both of your daughters and you give him a fucking bed to sleep in every night. [Side note: After I told my mom about the fight on Sunday, I'd thought she was on my side. She'd said, after I told her Edward came at me with his fist, that he's tried to hit your sister, too. I'd said, And you let him stay here. He needs to leave. He better be leaving in February like you said. She says, well they'll be leaving once your sister gets her disability money. I get pissed. You said they had to leave in February! You see why they take advantage of you guys? You don't stick to anything! How many times to I have to tell you that Amanda isn't getting any disability money. She can sit on that fucking couch as long as she wants, and she can claim that she hurt herself at work. But she is not getting any fucking money. People who deserve that money don't even get it. And they have to wait for two years, if they're lucky. Mom. I understand this law stuff. Nobody is sending her a check. This is NOT AN OPTION. I turn away, go back to wrapping presents. I am so fucking pissed. I feel as though I'm living on another fucking planet. I can't stand how fucking naive they are, and my heart rate raises.]
Anyway, back to her chair-rocking in the bedroom: I tell my mom I'm leaving, she doesn't react, so I keep talking while she keeps her eyes on the TV and keeps rocking. I say, I just feel like you and dad are brainwashed by this whole situation or something. Nobody defends me in this. You take this asshole's side. ...Travis...I just can't even believe this family.
She finally looks at me. She speaks and now she's yelling, and even if I couldn't hear her, I'd be able to tell that her voice was raising because her mouth was opening wider and her face was turning red. She said, brainwashed! What the fuck. How the fuck can you say that. You don't understand. FUCK YOU, JEAN.
She says, fuck you, Jean, and I say, please help me understand then. Tell me. Tell me, so I get it, so I understand why you let this guy stay in our house.
She says, I don't have to explain anything to you. I don't want to fucking talk to you.
Help me get it, I said. I just want to know so I can understand where you are coming from.
I don't want to fucking talk to you, Jean. She says. I leave to go take a shower. I'm in from a 4 mile run in 15 degree weather and a half-hour of snow shoveling. I'm sweaty and cold and I just want to warm up.
None of this is funny, but knowing what I'd done just minutes before makes it just a little funny. I've officially reached the point of funny revenge. For those of you who know anger, or even despair, funny revenge occurs at the point where you come to realize that reason, arguing, discussion--all get you nowhere.
Before I'd talked to my mom in the rocking chair, after shoveling, which was after the run, I'd come into the house and said, Travis. Come look at what a good job I did shoveling. He thought I was being an ass to tell him that he never shoveled and was lazy. But he came down, and I whispered, look at Amanda's car.
While on my run, while crying and screaming I hate him! loud enough that the people in downtown Albertville could hear me while shoveling their driveways, the thought occurred to me that all of this was my useless sister's fault. The thought occurred to me that I don't understand why family has to matter, why I don't have to like her but I have to love her. Isn't it just easier to be indifferent? Do I really have to love her? So, I'm crying, and I'm running and trying not to slip on the ice, and the thought jumps into my head in the middle of all this anger: throw her Christmas presents in the snow. You should go home, and take all of her Christmas presents and throw them in the front yard. Like, kick them out there with your foot so they spin in the air before landing in the snow. Mom and Dad aren't going to do anything. They don't punish anybody for anything. And they said it themselves: You don't live here, Jean. So I suppose they can kick me out, but I have somewhere to fucking go. I have a lot of friends and a lot of places to go, actually, so I can do whatever the fuck I want.
But this would be immature. Plus, my parents paid for all of those Christmas presents, and I don't want to punish them. Plus, the neighbors would see Christmas presents on the lawn. (And me, laughing, doing a silly dance among them.)
Of course, this seemed sane after the thought I'd had earlier in the day, during the argument that started this all: Push the Christmas tree over. Push it over. You want to start it on fire, but that's way too dangerous, so just push it over. But then my mom would've been the one to clean it up, and she'd spent all morning on her hands and knees cleaning the floors of the bathrooms that she doesn't even use while Amanda and Dingleberry laid on the couch and watched useless TV. She's dealt with enough cleaning today.
But I got home from the run, and I was sweaty already and there were four inches of soft snow on the driveway, so I figured I'd shovel it. I shoveled for awhile, and then I wiped off my car. Then I thought maybe I should be nice and wipe off Amanda's car. Then I laughed at myself, because I've tried the get her with kindness thing before, and she continued to steal from me. Then, instead of wiping the snow off her car, I took the scoop from my shovel and dumped it on the hood. And I proceeded to do this for the next 20 minutes. I even shoveled a little bit of snow from the cul-de-sac so I could have enough to dump on her car. I loaded the hood, the roof, the trunk. I even cackled. I jogged up and down that driveway with my shovel, "Freebird" playing on my ipod, shoveling every bit of snow I could, flinging shovelful after shovelful of snow onto her car. I was so happy. I was so calm. I thought of Ben and Havely and Highland. I thought of my mom yelling at me, my dad yelling at me, and then I thought of myself saying, I shovel the driveway for you, and this is the thanks I get? Nobody else in this house does anything, and I do, and you yell at me. Nice. I imagine myself laughing and walking away. I'm laughing. It feels good. This feels like the greatest prank that anyone has ever pranked. First of all, my sister's shitty car looks ridiculous in that driveway--that maroon '93 Taurus is covered in a foot of snow, and the cement driveway surrounding it is spotless. My sister probably hasn't shoveled an inch of snow in her fucking life. Now, she has to go outside and shovel off her car. Now, that bitch has to exercise. My parents, even if they wanted, couldn't be too mad at that. I don't see how they couldn't laugh. I am the greatest prankster who has ever lived.
How it started: I was getting ready to go for a run. Dingleberry, my fat sister, and Travis are downstairs, shaking presents. I go around and plug in the tree. Amanda starts yelling at me: What the fuck are you plugging in the tree for? And I can't even take that seriously. Because it looks nice, Amanda. Because it looks sad when it's not plugged in.
Well, don't waste electricity. I choke on my own spit when she says this.
Really, Amanda. Because I am wondering exactly WHEN you started to GIVE A SHIT what the electric bill is in this house! Because you leave your fan on all night when it's fifteen below outside. Really, Amanda. And how much is the electric bill. How much of it do you pay, again? I'm plugging in the fucking Christmas tree.
And all would've been fine, I could've handled it all, had Dingleberry not turned his fucking greasy head around and said to me well, you don't pay it either.
I feel my fists ball up. Mind your own business, I tell him. This doesn't concern you.
It is then, after I say that, that Dingleberry throws a toy at me.
If I wasn't so heated I would've laughed. It was this little tiny thing, I didn't even see what it was--but he wound up, and he whipped it at my head, and it bounced off me and landed on the floor.
Grow up. I tell him. And then he fucking stares at me. He just stares, and stares and stares, and I'm so disturbed by this elfin piece of shit that all I can do is scream turn around. What the fuck is your problem? Turn around. And he doesn't. He apparently has come to realize that his beady little evil eyes push my buttons. I am certain that Dingleberry thinks he's putting a curse on me. He's asking his crystal dragon statues in the corner to come to life and grow green and scaley and to breathe fire all over me until I die and he can dance and piss on my body.
We're still fighting, and my mother comes downstairs. He's still staring, and I say You are such a fucking weirdo! And the first thing my mother says to me is knock it off.
Can I just say that this sounds like something that would happen at Daycare? Like a boy would stare at a girl and she would call him a weirdo? Again, it'd be funny it I wasn't so pissed off. It'd be funny if I didn't feel physically threatened by this guy, if again, a parent of mine chose to defend this jerkoff instead of siding with their daughter.
Of course, this is exactly what my father did on Sunday. I won't again tell you how insulting and sick it makes me that I am the first person who is "yelled at" when he is the one butting in to something that doesn't concern him and also throwing toys at me like a goddamned 4-year-old (meaning, just as hard). Even if I am fighting, acting a little immature--I get to be right in this situation. Unfair as it is to Dingleberry, I get to be right. Plus, I don't hit women.
This was where I wanted to pull down the Christmas tree. I was so angry at my mother. It just didn't (doesn't) seem that I can say anything to her that generates reason--so rash, odd reactions are all I can think of. I go into the laundry room to find my running clothes. Dingleberry starts having a conversation with Travis about how there's always fighting around Christmas and everyone's never getting along in this house. I scream from the laundry room: I'm sorry, Edward, but I missed the part WHERE YOU FUCKING BECAME A MEMBER OF THIS FAMILY!
I realize that I'm a little jealous of Edward. That he comes in and gets treated with respect as a stranger after 7 months, and I'm still having to scream and fight and cry my way into even a rash conversation with my parents. I don't feel as though this asshole is taking my spot, but I do feel some pinch of jealousy. Maybe because he influences Travis as much as I want too. I don't know. But I fucking loathe this motherfucker.
I change into my running clothes, slam the front door irresponsibly and run outside. I don't remember much of that run, other than a dog across the street tried to run over to me and was almost hit by a car. I openly weeped at this action, but kept moving forward. And I kept trying to get Edward out of my head, kept saying to myself stop crying, get over it, get over it. But then I kept having these images of his violence--these thoughts of him hurting me while I slept, the thought of coming home to find my family murdered by this asshole who could get a gun from Sam's Club whenever he wanted. I thought of him coming up to me with a gun, telling me to shut the fuck up, and aiming, I thought of myself ducking and the bullet hitting my mother standing behind me. It's just those eyes. Someone with those eyes has so much power, so much anger and hate inside of him. Those eyes are so dark--I swear there's no white in them--and I fear for my family, and for Travis and there's nothing I can do about it, because nobody will fucking listen to me. I know the thought of him hurting me is somewhat of an overreaction, but what if it's not? What if it's not.
*
So. I won't be home for Christmas, after I sing at mass. I'll plow myself through Christmas Eve at my house, our family tradition, and I will force myself not to speak, not to realize that this weasel is in our house, under our tree, having raised a fist to both me and my sister, and opening presents from my parents. I will feel safe, because Craig will be there, because although he is of the same naive persuasion as my parents, he has to hate this kid like I do--because I know he despises Amanda as I do. Then, friends, I'll be calling you. I won't have any money to do anything, because I was hoping my parents would help me out until the next loan comes in, but now I can't ask. I'll leave credit cards and rent unpaid and beg for forgiveness. I'll deal with this on my own this time.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Hey, remember that day when I almost, literally, GOT PUNCHED IN THE FACE.
No? Well, I suppose I should tell you about it. I suppose I should set the scene first: I run out of the house after my dad screams at me in his underwear from the top of the stairs that I need to cool off and Dingleberry leers at me from the door leading out to the garage with a thin, beige cigar from his mouth like a goddamned woman-hitter.
Happy Christmas, everyone. I came home yesterday morning, in the biggest blizzard the cities has seen yet this this year, and I drove straight to church for rehearsal. I'm singing on Christmas day. I contacted the girl who plays piano on Facebook, and I said can I sing with you guys? And she said rehearsal is at 10 a.m. on Saturday--see you there. And now I have a cute little solo in "Silent Night"--I sing the verse in Spanish, noche de paz. I'm excited. The last place I sang in public was a bar. A much better venue, but interestingly, I'll dress just as nice.
This morning I wake up to hear my sister and Dingleberry having a conversation with Dingleberry's boss at Sam's Club. For some reason, they have the phone on speaker. I hear it all. Dingleberry says: I can't come in to work today, because my ride is sick. Dingleberry's boss is pissed. He says you're kidding me. You're not coming in today. Dingleberry says, I can't come in, my ride is sick and I don't have a driver's license. His boss says something passive aggressive--rightfully so--and I hear the phone click and I hear Dingleberry say asshole. I'll fucking slap his fucking face off.
His ride is not sick. His ride is my sister, who is on the couch, laying there like a whale with a broken fin, with the garbage can next to her as though she's about to throw up. She puts the garbage can next to her when she's about to throw up. It's so people believe she's sick. I don't fucking believe she's sick. If she did throw up today, it's because she ate too many chocolate-covered peanut butter Ritz Christmas cookies. It's because she probably put too much fudge on her ice cream, after heating up the jar in the microwave with the aluminum lid on. (No, that was last time. Dad had to buy a new microwave. The old one had a burn mark in the bottom that looked like a shitty skid mark. (You see, I'm developing a theme here with this fucking Dingleberry.))
Anyway, this conversation pisses me off. Maybe more than it should, maybe not. Maybe because I'm off my meds for three weeks and my mind is feeling things more intensely again instead of in a haze. Anyway, this conversation pisses me off.
I call my mom's cell so she can relate to me about how ridiculous this is. She doesn't answer. My heart rate increases.
Dingleberry has informed his boss that he doesn't have a ride, and there are no other rides available in the house. I'm available, but he didn't ask me. I decide I'm going to take Dingleberry to work. My sister is "sick," but really, it's just below zero and she doesn't want to go outside. I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I'm irate that Dingleberry has called in "fake-sick," and I don't want that piece of shit around all day. That motherfucker is going to put on his fucking blue vest, and he is going to fucking Sam's Club. This is my mission.
I don't tell Dingleberry right away. First, I shower, then I put on some mascara and lipstick, then I wait for Travis and Dad to get home from church so I can make Travis come so I don't have to be in the car with Dingleberry alone.
Dad and Travis get home. I tell Dad what has transpired. Dad just says Amanda, dammit, you're not sick, and then I say C'mon, Edward [remember, that's Dingleberry] I'm taking you to work because I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I say this much more angrily than I intend to, I really do, and I feel bad about it. But I've started a ball rolling, a big ball of angry, and I cannot stop it.
Dingleberry doesn't answer me. I say: Edward. It's ridiculous that you aren't going to work. My mom works fucking two jobs a day, and you're just sitting there taking advantage of my parents on that fucking couch, and I'm offering to drive you to work, so you're fucking going to work.
Meanwhile, my sister, who is graduating from couch college magna cum laude I'm sure, is screaming the entire time. Nobody can understand her when she screams. At least when I scream, people can hear proper pronunciation. This is what 3 years of voice lessons got me in high school. I think she's screaming about being sick and she and my dad are going back and forth about that. Then I start in on dad, and I tell him that I'm sick of this fucking loser in our house, and that I'm sick of him living here for free when Amanda shouldn't even be living here, and of course Dingleberry hears all of this and pokes his skinny little elf head up from the couch.
I've told you that Dingleberry has an anger problem, right? Dingleberry has an anger problem.
He says to me what the fuck did you just say to me? And I am sort of getting into the fight at this point. I have a lot of anger inside of me for a lot of reasons about this damned kid, and I just take a deep breath--suck up all the heat of the room into my throat--and I holler up the stairs: FUCK YOU! Perfectly pronounced, the consonants clear.
It feels good to say that, but my dad isn't happy. Travis has found the dog and cuddled him in his arms and the dog's shaking and Travis says Bourbon's scared in a tender voice that makes me realize I'm not myself. I am ashamed for yelling, for adding to the behavior in this house, but I can't control myself. The anger, the beast, has taken over. My hands are in fists. My mascara is running down my face. Dad hasn't even taken off his coat from church yet. What's gotten into you? He says. Goddammit, Jean, you need to calm down. But I don't want to calm down. I want Dingleberry--I want my sister--to know what soul-sucking pieces of shit they are. Somehow, this has become my mission. These people need to know they are assholes. It is my job to let them know.
--I think I have to interrupt for a little disclaimer here. As I was screaming, getting worked up, feeling my heart beat outside my chest like a timpani played by a three-year-old, my dad kept saying to me What's your problem, Jean. You don't even live here. I say, of course, so loudly that my voice squeaks: Neither does he! He's a fucking stranger! But, I do sort of get my dad's point. I do--the rational side of me understands this. My parents have decided to let themselves be okay with this. They let themselves get abused, they constantly help my sister, they let her boyfriend live in our house, they buy them food even though "Edward's a good housemate, because goddammit, he buys his own food, Jean." But I bet he doesn't buy his own toilet paper. I bet he uses my dad's toilet paper to wipe up his dingleberries. I bet my dad thinks he's a good guy because he actually paid for the hole he left in the door with his laptop when he got pissed and threw it. What a good guy. ... Where was I going with this? Ah. So, I understand that my parents are mad at me--they already think that I take somewhat of a "holier than thou" persona when I come home. I tell Travis to do his homework and that he shouldn't wear the same outfit for four days in a row, especially when he sleeps in it and whatnot. I make comments about Amanda getting a job. I come home, and I demand things change. This isn't fair to them. They see me as the disrupting body, coming home, yelling at people, telling my sister she's a piece of shit and whatnot. So, I just want to throw it out there that I'm mature enough to get how my parents are frustrated with me for coming home once every couple of months just to light a bag of shit on fire on their doorstep. But, I don't really fucking care. And I am just so annoyed with them--for letting this kid and my sister take advantage of them, that I've decided, whether or not I fucking live there that I have enough authority to come home and tell my sister's fucking boyfriend that he is the laziest motherfucker I've ever seen and that it's ridiculous that he takes advantage of my parents the way that he does. (Although, it is clearly my sister who does much more taking-advantage-of.)
Back to the scene. Dad, me, Travis, the dog are in the entryway to the house. Travis and the dog have big, wet eyes. Upstairs, Dingleberry and the fat sister are on the couch. Everyone is yelling, especially me, and especially my sister, who is wearing dirty pink pajama pants and a tank top without a bra, and everything about her body looks like it's just a bunch of bean bags sloppily duct-taped together. Actually, I'm surprised she's gotten off the couch to move over to the railing so she can see me as she yells.
Then I say Edward, the fact that you aren't going to work is fucking ridiculous. And he says to me Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to fucking go. I had to push carts outside yesterday and it was really cold.
It is exactly at this point that my head explodes. Like something bursts in my brain and my skull grows and grows until it explodes into tiny pieces. I am a cartoon. I scream, then, something like OH MY GOD, BUY A HAT YOU LAZY SONOFABITCH and I talked to a lady at church yesterday who lost her job and can't support her daughter, and you are telling me it's fucking cold outside? You have a free, warm place to live, when you could be homeless, and you're telling me it's cold outside?
I am so angry I can't close my eyes. I can't blink, and everything in the room has a whiter hue to it.
Things then calm for a bit, somehow. Dingleberry goes to have a gross ciggy in the garage. Travis and the dog go downstairs. Dad goes upstairs in his room to change out of his church clothes. I am pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and I feel dizzy, and I feel sick, and I'm still really pissed off. It occurs to me, then, that my sister lied about something. She told my dad earlier that they had "cleared it" when Edward called into work. But that's not true. Edward's boss was pissed at him. So pissed, in fact, that I worried whether the line you don't bother coming in today, then don't bother coming in at all was going to cliche itself over the speaker phone.
Because my dad had said Jean, don't worry about it. It's cleared, you see, it's cleared.
I didn't care that is was cleared. There were people working extra-hard that day minus an employee because his ride was pretending to be sick and I was offering him a ride. I was holding a big sign in my hands that said HEY, DUMBASS BE RESPONSIBLE! HERE'S YOUR CHANCE! And he took a big shit all over it. A big Dingleberry shit.
I ran upstairs to my dad's bedroom, and I said Amanda's lying you know. That wasn't cleared.
Dad said: Goddammit, I know she's lying. look, I don't know what you want me to do. Mom gave them an ultimatum to be out in February, so just deal with it until then.
Dad, I said. First of all, I fucking doubt that that will happen, as he's been here for 7 months and you've played that card a hundred times. Second of all, if he pulls this shit and doesn't go to work, he's not gonna have a job. [the Jeano anger builds] And are you really going to put them out of the house if neither of them have a job? No, you're fucking not.
Dad tells me again that I don't live there, and when I say you work full time and mom works two jobs he just says your mother works two jobs so she can make her car payment. (Oh, Dad, and she'd make that payment much easier if she wasn't spending so much money on groceries to feed that moose who lives on your couch.) And I storm out of his room leaving the words that fucking kid needs to get out of this fucking house! behind me. I go downstairs and start to pack to leave. I'm still screaming stuff in the kitchen, when Dingleberry comes down and walks into the garage, through the garage door. I'm crying, and I'm pissed, and I can't even think to find my keys so I'm running around but I can't even remember what I'm looking for. Before he shuts the door to the garage, Dingleberry says to me (Oh, Kristin, this is going to piss you off so badly)--he looks at me and he passive aggressively mumbles as he starts to shut the door behind him: You just need to shut the fuck up.
Happy Christmas, everyone. I came home yesterday morning, in the biggest blizzard the cities has seen yet this this year, and I drove straight to church for rehearsal. I'm singing on Christmas day. I contacted the girl who plays piano on Facebook, and I said can I sing with you guys? And she said rehearsal is at 10 a.m. on Saturday--see you there. And now I have a cute little solo in "Silent Night"--I sing the verse in Spanish, noche de paz. I'm excited. The last place I sang in public was a bar. A much better venue, but interestingly, I'll dress just as nice.
This morning I wake up to hear my sister and Dingleberry having a conversation with Dingleberry's boss at Sam's Club. For some reason, they have the phone on speaker. I hear it all. Dingleberry says: I can't come in to work today, because my ride is sick. Dingleberry's boss is pissed. He says you're kidding me. You're not coming in today. Dingleberry says, I can't come in, my ride is sick and I don't have a driver's license. His boss says something passive aggressive--rightfully so--and I hear the phone click and I hear Dingleberry say asshole. I'll fucking slap his fucking face off.
His ride is not sick. His ride is my sister, who is on the couch, laying there like a whale with a broken fin, with the garbage can next to her as though she's about to throw up. She puts the garbage can next to her when she's about to throw up. It's so people believe she's sick. I don't fucking believe she's sick. If she did throw up today, it's because she ate too many chocolate-covered peanut butter Ritz Christmas cookies. It's because she probably put too much fudge on her ice cream, after heating up the jar in the microwave with the aluminum lid on. (No, that was last time. Dad had to buy a new microwave. The old one had a burn mark in the bottom that looked like a shitty skid mark. (You see, I'm developing a theme here with this fucking Dingleberry.))
Anyway, this conversation pisses me off. Maybe more than it should, maybe not. Maybe because I'm off my meds for three weeks and my mind is feeling things more intensely again instead of in a haze. Anyway, this conversation pisses me off.
I call my mom's cell so she can relate to me about how ridiculous this is. She doesn't answer. My heart rate increases.
Dingleberry has informed his boss that he doesn't have a ride, and there are no other rides available in the house. I'm available, but he didn't ask me. I decide I'm going to take Dingleberry to work. My sister is "sick," but really, it's just below zero and she doesn't want to go outside. I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I'm irate that Dingleberry has called in "fake-sick," and I don't want that piece of shit around all day. That motherfucker is going to put on his fucking blue vest, and he is going to fucking Sam's Club. This is my mission.
I don't tell Dingleberry right away. First, I shower, then I put on some mascara and lipstick, then I wait for Travis and Dad to get home from church so I can make Travis come so I don't have to be in the car with Dingleberry alone.
Dad and Travis get home. I tell Dad what has transpired. Dad just says Amanda, dammit, you're not sick, and then I say C'mon, Edward [remember, that's Dingleberry] I'm taking you to work because I'm going to Maple Grove anyway. I say this much more angrily than I intend to, I really do, and I feel bad about it. But I've started a ball rolling, a big ball of angry, and I cannot stop it.
Dingleberry doesn't answer me. I say: Edward. It's ridiculous that you aren't going to work. My mom works fucking two jobs a day, and you're just sitting there taking advantage of my parents on that fucking couch, and I'm offering to drive you to work, so you're fucking going to work.
Meanwhile, my sister, who is graduating from couch college magna cum laude I'm sure, is screaming the entire time. Nobody can understand her when she screams. At least when I scream, people can hear proper pronunciation. This is what 3 years of voice lessons got me in high school. I think she's screaming about being sick and she and my dad are going back and forth about that. Then I start in on dad, and I tell him that I'm sick of this fucking loser in our house, and that I'm sick of him living here for free when Amanda shouldn't even be living here, and of course Dingleberry hears all of this and pokes his skinny little elf head up from the couch.
I've told you that Dingleberry has an anger problem, right? Dingleberry has an anger problem.
He says to me what the fuck did you just say to me? And I am sort of getting into the fight at this point. I have a lot of anger inside of me for a lot of reasons about this damned kid, and I just take a deep breath--suck up all the heat of the room into my throat--and I holler up the stairs: FUCK YOU! Perfectly pronounced, the consonants clear.
It feels good to say that, but my dad isn't happy. Travis has found the dog and cuddled him in his arms and the dog's shaking and Travis says Bourbon's scared in a tender voice that makes me realize I'm not myself. I am ashamed for yelling, for adding to the behavior in this house, but I can't control myself. The anger, the beast, has taken over. My hands are in fists. My mascara is running down my face. Dad hasn't even taken off his coat from church yet. What's gotten into you? He says. Goddammit, Jean, you need to calm down. But I don't want to calm down. I want Dingleberry--I want my sister--to know what soul-sucking pieces of shit they are. Somehow, this has become my mission. These people need to know they are assholes. It is my job to let them know.
--I think I have to interrupt for a little disclaimer here. As I was screaming, getting worked up, feeling my heart beat outside my chest like a timpani played by a three-year-old, my dad kept saying to me What's your problem, Jean. You don't even live here. I say, of course, so loudly that my voice squeaks: Neither does he! He's a fucking stranger! But, I do sort of get my dad's point. I do--the rational side of me understands this. My parents have decided to let themselves be okay with this. They let themselves get abused, they constantly help my sister, they let her boyfriend live in our house, they buy them food even though "Edward's a good housemate, because goddammit, he buys his own food, Jean." But I bet he doesn't buy his own toilet paper. I bet he uses my dad's toilet paper to wipe up his dingleberries. I bet my dad thinks he's a good guy because he actually paid for the hole he left in the door with his laptop when he got pissed and threw it. What a good guy. ... Where was I going with this? Ah. So, I understand that my parents are mad at me--they already think that I take somewhat of a "holier than thou" persona when I come home. I tell Travis to do his homework and that he shouldn't wear the same outfit for four days in a row, especially when he sleeps in it and whatnot. I make comments about Amanda getting a job. I come home, and I demand things change. This isn't fair to them. They see me as the disrupting body, coming home, yelling at people, telling my sister she's a piece of shit and whatnot. So, I just want to throw it out there that I'm mature enough to get how my parents are frustrated with me for coming home once every couple of months just to light a bag of shit on fire on their doorstep. But, I don't really fucking care. And I am just so annoyed with them--for letting this kid and my sister take advantage of them, that I've decided, whether or not I fucking live there that I have enough authority to come home and tell my sister's fucking boyfriend that he is the laziest motherfucker I've ever seen and that it's ridiculous that he takes advantage of my parents the way that he does. (Although, it is clearly my sister who does much more taking-advantage-of.)
Back to the scene. Dad, me, Travis, the dog are in the entryway to the house. Travis and the dog have big, wet eyes. Upstairs, Dingleberry and the fat sister are on the couch. Everyone is yelling, especially me, and especially my sister, who is wearing dirty pink pajama pants and a tank top without a bra, and everything about her body looks like it's just a bunch of bean bags sloppily duct-taped together. Actually, I'm surprised she's gotten off the couch to move over to the railing so she can see me as she yells.
Then I say Edward, the fact that you aren't going to work is fucking ridiculous. And he says to me Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to fucking go. I had to push carts outside yesterday and it was really cold.
It is exactly at this point that my head explodes. Like something bursts in my brain and my skull grows and grows until it explodes into tiny pieces. I am a cartoon. I scream, then, something like OH MY GOD, BUY A HAT YOU LAZY SONOFABITCH and I talked to a lady at church yesterday who lost her job and can't support her daughter, and you are telling me it's fucking cold outside? You have a free, warm place to live, when you could be homeless, and you're telling me it's cold outside?
I am so angry I can't close my eyes. I can't blink, and everything in the room has a whiter hue to it.
Things then calm for a bit, somehow. Dingleberry goes to have a gross ciggy in the garage. Travis and the dog go downstairs. Dad goes upstairs in his room to change out of his church clothes. I am pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and I feel dizzy, and I feel sick, and I'm still really pissed off. It occurs to me, then, that my sister lied about something. She told my dad earlier that they had "cleared it" when Edward called into work. But that's not true. Edward's boss was pissed at him. So pissed, in fact, that I worried whether the line you don't bother coming in today, then don't bother coming in at all was going to cliche itself over the speaker phone.
Because my dad had said Jean, don't worry about it. It's cleared, you see, it's cleared.
I didn't care that is was cleared. There were people working extra-hard that day minus an employee because his ride was pretending to be sick and I was offering him a ride. I was holding a big sign in my hands that said HEY, DUMBASS BE RESPONSIBLE! HERE'S YOUR CHANCE! And he took a big shit all over it. A big Dingleberry shit.
I ran upstairs to my dad's bedroom, and I said Amanda's lying you know. That wasn't cleared.
Dad said: Goddammit, I know she's lying. look, I don't know what you want me to do. Mom gave them an ultimatum to be out in February, so just deal with it until then.
Dad, I said. First of all, I fucking doubt that that will happen, as he's been here for 7 months and you've played that card a hundred times. Second of all, if he pulls this shit and doesn't go to work, he's not gonna have a job. [the Jeano anger builds] And are you really going to put them out of the house if neither of them have a job? No, you're fucking not.
Dad tells me again that I don't live there, and when I say you work full time and mom works two jobs he just says your mother works two jobs so she can make her car payment. (Oh, Dad, and she'd make that payment much easier if she wasn't spending so much money on groceries to feed that moose who lives on your couch.) And I storm out of his room leaving the words that fucking kid needs to get out of this fucking house! behind me. I go downstairs and start to pack to leave. I'm still screaming stuff in the kitchen, when Dingleberry comes down and walks into the garage, through the garage door. I'm crying, and I'm pissed, and I can't even think to find my keys so I'm running around but I can't even remember what I'm looking for. Before he shuts the door to the garage, Dingleberry says to me (Oh, Kristin, this is going to piss you off so badly)--he looks at me and he passive aggressively mumbles as he starts to shut the door behind him: You just need to shut the fuck up.
I consider this the equivalent to someone eating my leftovers in my refrigerator (from my favorite restaurant) after walking into my house off the street and saying: these leftovers are gross. I consider this the equivalent to someone stealing my purse and then telling me there's not enough money inside of it.
I lose it. I run over to that garage door and my finger is pointing in a very angry manner, (they taught me this in teaching school, but it's a weapon I am much too fragile to use in the classroom) and I start in again about him being a lazy sonofabitch and a bad influence on Travis and useless and taking advantage of my parents. I am pointing so hard with that finger. I can't believe--it makes my body literally shake to believe--that this kid talked to me that way. That this fucking stranger in my parents' house treated their daughter like this. But it gets worse.
I am at the door to the garage, and I shut it--not hard, mind you--in Dingleberry's face. I say I can't fucking look at you anymore, and I shut the door. Dingleberry pushes the door at me, back out, and he runs into the house, and he comes at me with his fist.
He comes at me with his fist. His fist is raised, and I have no idea what to do. I've never had a fist raised to my face, and I have to admit this to you right now: I was sort of glad I got this asshole to lose his temper and attack me. I sort of wanted this. Hit my dad's daughter, I thought, and then you can get out forever. I was so ready to take one for my cause. It didn't take much provoking to get Dingleberry to raise his small, pointy queer fist to a glasses-wearing female. Of course, further evidence that this fucking psycho shouldn't be living in our already-fucked-up family home.
Dingleberry comes at me fist-first, I duck and cower, because I really have no idea what to do. I don't see what he does--swing and miss? Back off? I know how to fight girls, how to scratch my sister and pull really hard, but I suppose I don't know if I could punch somebody. I've never physically fought with somebody who could punch somebody, even if I am twice the size of Dingleberry. An odd second, the one before a fist could hit you. I realize this in the time that my pussiness flashes before my eyes. I am a big pussy. A wuss. I talk the talk, and you know the rest.
I, of course, scream Dad! Dad Edward tried to fucking hit me! And I'm crying and irate and still in disbelief that it took about 7 strings of insults--that's it--to push this guy's buttons into coming after a female. Yup, I thought, this will do it.
Dad runs to the top of the stairs in his underwear and black church socks. Amanda runs over to the railing, defending Edward. She attacked him first, she attacked him first she's blubbering. She didn't see anything. Edward's standing there, and I'm giving him the most evil looks I can muster. Whether this is worse than the pointing finger, I'm not sure. I'm crying and screaming. Dad says goddammit, Jean, you need to cool off. My innards leak out of my body, through my feet, and form a puddle on the floor. I'm your daughter! I'm your fucking daughter! Is all I can scream. Dad then says something to Edward about getting kicked out if he lays a hand on me. I'm your daughter, and you're telling me to calm down? Does anybody see how absolutely ridiculous this is? He tried to hit YOUR DAUGHTER IN YOUR HOUSE. This fucking stranger just attacked me in your house and you're telling ME to cool off. He needs to get the fuck out of here! I nearly collapse on the floor. I'm exhausted. I want my mom. She'd have to be on my side for this one. She would have to, even though she's the one usually playing Dad's role at this point and the role by Edward is being played by my sister and the excuse usually is but she has a disability.
I need to cool off. Of course I fucking need to cool off. There is no doubt about this. There is no doubt, whatsoever, that I am overreacting and that I instigated that attempted punch just a bit because I knew Edward was short tempered. But it doesn't matter. My dad should have been down there pulling this kids arms behind him and shoving him out the door. He should've been saying: tomorrow. You're out tomorrow. It doesn't matter what I did. If anyone attempted to punch my daughter, that anyone would be bleeding, on the floor, in three seconds, and my heel would be between his teeth. My dad lets the motherfucker stay in our house. He let's him date his other daughter.
But then it sort of ends. Dingleberry goes back to the garage. Dad goes back to his room after saying, goddammit, Jean, what are you trying to do to me? I'm crying and just start pacing the house, trying to find a room where nobody is staying. I go upstairs and point to my sister on the couch and tell her that she needs to act like a fucking human being. You people are ADULTS I tell them. You're fucking ADULTS. I am aware of the irony of this statement after my behavior, but I don't have much control over what I've done in the last 20 minutes. Not "not-control" in the sense that I'd punch a child, in the way that Edward would punch a girl, but my anger is the boss right now. Only when I'm at home can I act like this. Only when I'm home. Only with my family. If I get away from this, maybe I can be a normal person--because in that house is the one place where I don't blame myself. I go downstairs in between sobs, and I say Travis, don't ever do anything Edward says. Just stay away from Edward.
My car is snowed in the driveway. I need to leave the house, and I need helping moving my car. I tell my dad to do it. He takes the keys, vrooms it out, and I take the wheel and leave. I'm crying, still, and my makeup has left my face a black disaster. I wonder how I'd look with a black eye, and I sort of wish Dingleberry would've just hit me a big one in the face. I wish I'd have heard that crunch, anything, a sting in my left eye, a black and blue mark for a day or two, covered in makeup when I sing at Christmas mass--because maybe then some of this would've felt just a bit more real to me. I want to go back to Rochester. I want to be in my classroom, with my students, who love me no matter what, I think, and I didn't even have to do much to get that love. I want a new life, and I want to start my own family, and I want to make everything right, and these thoughts--these thoughts make me oddly calm. Right now, I am eerily calm.
And now, I'm at the library, and I have to decide whether or not I can spend Christmas at home. I have to decide whether I even feel safe in that house. Part of me says that I'm overreacting, that this kid isn't going to do anything. But part of me says that he can lose it, that anyone can lose it, that he can come at me first first and that my dad will just tell me that I'm the one who's out of control. I am out of control.
Friday, December 19, 2008
SNOW DAY and other listworthy items.
1. SNOW DAY. Happy snow day, everyone. It's my first snow day since that weird day in Winona when classes were cancelled and then the sun came out and it was an amazing winter day. Also: Remember what a bitch the Sheehan parking lot was? God, the bitches in that dorm could not park.
Anyway, Mr. O called me this morning at 5:30 and said no school! Go back to bed! And so I did. (And I think it's the greatest thing that he calls me, so I don't have to wait 7 hours for my 'puter to get started in this freezing house to discover that I just get to crawl back under the covers. A phone call that says: go back to bed, no school and then pulling the covers tighter and shutting the alarm off? Possibly the greatest feeling in the entire world.) It's noon, I woke up at 10:30. I think I'll go back to bed, then wake up, shovel, build a short, fat snowman in the front yard to wave at the passersby on Wabasha County 25 and then pack for my Christmas break, starting early tomorrow morning, since I have to make it to Albertville in time for an early church rehearsal for the mass on Christmas morning. So far, so good.
2. I fucking hate my computer.
3. I am loved; I am so loved in fact, that I must break this down into a sublist.
5. I'm feeling better. I've noticed that my heart rate still goes nuts with one little sign of frustration, but I'm doing slightly better at keeping control. Of course, I don't have to be back at school until 2009. But still.
6. I have about 4 poems in the queue, and I can't fucking wait to write them. I've been waiting so long to write them.
Just know that there is nothing better than a good fucking mustache. Worn by sexy ladies, in public, amongst strangers in the line to see the Macy's A Day in the Life of an Elf Christmas display.
Anyway, Mr. O called me this morning at 5:30 and said no school! Go back to bed! And so I did. (And I think it's the greatest thing that he calls me, so I don't have to wait 7 hours for my 'puter to get started in this freezing house to discover that I just get to crawl back under the covers. A phone call that says: go back to bed, no school and then pulling the covers tighter and shutting the alarm off? Possibly the greatest feeling in the entire world.) It's noon, I woke up at 10:30. I think I'll go back to bed, then wake up, shovel, build a short, fat snowman in the front yard to wave at the passersby on Wabasha County 25 and then pack for my Christmas break, starting early tomorrow morning, since I have to make it to Albertville in time for an early church rehearsal for the mass on Christmas morning. So far, so good.
2. I fucking hate my computer.
3. I am loved; I am so loved in fact, that I must break this down into a sublist.
- Messages, notes, words of love from friends. Comments on my last post that just made everything okay, even on an overly anxious day where I was so out of body that I didn't recognize myself.
- Phone calls from Jenny, the messages I got this morning: I'm here for you. I know you're not asking me for help, but I love you and I'm here.
- Emails from the X: Complete with research about Minnesota programs--research that she most certainly didn't have to do, but that I wouldn't have even known how to do on my own, research that, for me, takes away the anxiety of research and that feeling of high blood pressure, of giving up, or feeling helpless. Words of love, secrets as to how one can obtain anxiety meds, secret pacts about committing insurance fraud, but not really in case any police happen to read my blog (like when Lance wrote about his night in jail on his blog and then the Minneapolis downtown police found it and left comments).
- Sue, Kris, Laura, the program cohorts. Sue, on Tuesday, who I pulled from her plans to calm me down in the PALS room, her soothing demeanor, her advice.
- Sue, who, the next day left me a gift on my chair in my office--amazing cookies, pens!, and a beautiful lined journal that I'll use over break to organize my lesson plans for my first unit with the juniors.
- Kris, who left an amazing secret package in my box at Century with a mason jar of homemade soup and a recipe--one that I'll save for a perfect night at the end of January when homemade soup will cure all, especially when coupled with a french baugette and fresh mozz.
- Drinks with the above mentioned ladies, Laura who reads her email from RPS even less frequently than I do, our consensus of the gentle abuses we take at school, them, much, much more than me. Thank God for them.
- The "bottle" that Mr. O snuck into my office when I was teaching first hour, the clog-wearing santa card, the note on the inside that read Jean, we both need a little vacation and a lot of wine. The accompanying chocolate, much of which I ate in one sitting to confirm my ridiculous fatness, the "bottle" which I will likely consume in one sitting as well. And also without sharing.
- Mr. O., again, because who else would just lead the class because I'm so dizzy, who else would at hearing any cough come from my throat command you're sick, stay home. Either he really hates having me there, or he really is concerned I'm not taking enough time for myself (ironically, of course, that's all I take). Anyway, I was really dizzy yesterday morning and he took over the technology part of the lesson and he stood in front of the class where I couldn't, and he paused the 1968 R & J at a point in the balcony scene and reiterated how important it was to "come up for air" in the midst of passionate, young kisses. I pointed out that if any of you wear a dress like Juliet has on to school, please be aware that you'll be sent home in about 5 seconds.
- My mom sent me a text last night that said have fun shoveling today. Aw.
5. I'm feeling better. I've noticed that my heart rate still goes nuts with one little sign of frustration, but I'm doing slightly better at keeping control. Of course, I don't have to be back at school until 2009. But still.
6. I have about 4 poems in the queue, and I can't fucking wait to write them. I've been waiting so long to write them.
7. James is moving to France next summer. This isn't good news, but this is a "stuff" list, not a good news list. It's just odd! How one moves to France, I don't know. It's odd that someone else will be in this house come the start of next fall, someone else will be tending to that garden I started. Of course, I cannot buy this house--as I have come to loathe Elgin in the winter as much as I love it in the summer, and I have no credit or money, and I could never take care of such a place, and if I stay in Rochester I'll have to live in town--but now I think of what I'll think of it in five years, that year I lived with James in that farm town, that summer I started my first flower garden, came home with a car full of green and fertilizer and dirt, the dirt roads, the neighbor's horses. It feels, somehow, like I've lived here for so long. Jenny and I drove by the Chicago Ave. house last weekend; also odd to think of it, mostly that cold, cold winter, the buses, the planes, the lake. The Lake Nokomis, the walks with Liz around that lake, talking about high school and work and the men on the bus who offer to massage Liz's feet. The Chinese food across the street, the night, about a year ago, that I came home from that disastrous date. Christmas always makes me so sad.
8. A great day at school yesterday. I joined the knitting club and learned how to suck at knitting. Sue was so kind in teaching me, explaining the slip knot and the casting on over and again. I'm going to buy a pair of size 10 needles today, and use the gift they gave me the first day--a cute little roll of brightly colored "tape" fabric. In the future, all of you can expect oddly knitted sqaures, which you will be required, on principal, to love. Also, we had a good time laughing with the freshman, Mr. O brought them candy cane treats. And I had my last day of tutoring with the ELL girls, which ended wonderfully and also sadly, as I won't be with them for awhile, if again at all. But they were the best students. They called me Miss because they couldn't say my last name, and they loved Laffy Taffy jokes even after I poorly explained them, and they scared me for understanding, after only a year and a half in this country, the phrase friends with benefits. She started out explaining to me--they are..beneficial--I no know how you say it--friends beneficial? And I fell out of my chair and said friends with benefits?! How do you know what that means!
Also, the juniors watched the last of Hamlet that dang scene with all the poison, and after Mr. O handed out the candy canes and the juniors shoved them in their faces, I said hey, Mr. O remember when we poisoned the candy canes? Heh heh.
9. Jenny came last weekend, for one of the most amazing weekends of all time, she came to school with me on Friday and I introduced her to my freshman, and she sat in the back of the room and listened to me talk about Romeo, and we went to Tony Sims and we went to Holidazzle, and she left me on Sunday morning only to go home with the stomach flu. It was the next morning that I was so dizzy I went home early, and I am fairly certain that it was just withdrawal from each other that made us so sick. But I'll see her again, soon. And, again, we'll come up with German alias names to former colleagues of the MFA program, again we'll (probably) watch Home Alone, again, we'll turn on Christmas music and find that most of the songs on the Sirius channel are performed by the "Wind Machine" and have a good laugh at all of that, again we'll long for the X, again we'll personify the pictures that Mark took of his video game machine--one from the front, one from the side, one from the other side, one with the lights off--as though they're inappropriate sex photos and the video game machine was crying while Mark was saying, from the back end of the camera, Oh yeah, baby, give me some more, oh yeah, glow blue, baby.
I have pictures, of course--pictures of the fake mustaches I bought because I'm amazing, pictures of us on a drunken Friday with too much food and whipped cream fights. And of course, my computer is officially the douche master 2000, so I'll post 'em later.Just know that there is nothing better than a good fucking mustache. Worn by sexy ladies, in public, amongst strangers in the line to see the Macy's A Day in the Life of an Elf Christmas display.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
And I have just chain eaten FIVE COOKIES. Fuck off, Christmas.
I am having a shitty, shitty week, one that is full of anxiety and fear and vertigo; one that can only lead me to the conclusion that when I am a pregnant lady I am going to be the worst pregnant lady who ever lived. Not worst in that I say "we're" pregnant when I'm talking about the father and me, or worst in that I lay in bed all day and command people bring me things after only four months of pregancy (I'll save all of that for the third trimester)--but worst in that I will have no emotional control. My road rage will magnify to the point that I just drive around town with my palm to the horn the entire time, laying out that sound to warn assholes not to be assholes while I'm near. I'll be irritable to the point that television commercials make me threaten to punch babies or that when I hear certain Journey songs that I will proclaim that they are the greatest songs ever written and that anyone who cares to argue can just fucking fuck off and die because they know nothing about great music anyway.
That's how it's been this week. I fucking love Journey.
I realize that there are lines can be crossed when it comes to blogs--how personal do I want to get? How much do I care to disclose here in this little white box that let's me change the color of my font if I want to.
Just know I've thought of that before writing. I'm off of a certain medication I've been taking for the last 9 months, and as a result, my body has gone into brain shock. This medication--this evil medication that on Web MD threatens will destroy me [my words] if I don't consult a doctor before going off of it is causing the worst side effects to anything I've ever been on. And I've been on medications that thin blood and kill my white blood cells if I'm not careful. I've been on Lithium. But this generic version of Celexa, this Citalopram is chewing my brain from the inside out. And I have three more weeks of this. Three more weeks until this brain crack is out of my system. I regret any and every decision that led to me agreeing to these drugs in the first place. Ah, yes, Jeano I say to myself now. This is why you agreed to never take SSRIs again.
Plus, for a fundraiser, they're playing "bad" music in the halls in between class--if they raise enough money, they'll stop playing it. "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." I want to fucking punch a baby.
I probably shouldn't be off it, but I've found myself out of options. As I've mentioned on this blog about 700 times, I don't have health insurance. So when I need to see a doctor, problems arise. Problems arise because mental health is treated like a scratch like a treatment that can be prolonged, like those stitches that were put in a week ago but that you can just take out yourself, hand over the sink, sanitized scissors in hand, one by one until you see the pink glossy scar underneath.
I'm stressed out. I mean, I'm fine, but with the depression I've had for ten years couples a bitchy little wife of anxiety, and the holidays and the lack of cash and the students and the class and the shit I have to mail to people and the tests I have to register for and the emergency loans I have to take out and the papers I have to grade--not boding well. The meds were good for that, because it kept the anxious wife at bay. She sat at home and did some knitting for awhile, baked a loaf of pumpkin bread, recorded all of her favorite Law & Order episodes and watched them in a row, without commercials. But now the meds are gone.
I have a bottle at home--but I've gone without them--because it's now, or it's a month from now, when I'm teaching nearly full time, when Christmas is over, when I have 120 papers to grade instead of 60, when I have two preps instead of one. I can't go to the doctor and say: give me more! And in truth, I shouldn't be just begging doctors for such strong prescriptions without a nice check in and "hi, still feel like driving your car off a cliff?" every now and again. So, I'm going off.
I live in Wabasha County. There is a free doctor in Olmsted County, but I don't live in Olmsted County, and when I called and said yes, but I can see the county line from my house, I just please need to come they said well, you live in Wabasha County so you'd have to pay. And then I called Wabasha County and they said that they don't have a sliding scale, plus they don't have any openings until March because they're short on doctors and I said fuck this. I'm sick of this game. I'm sick of starting over every time I move somewhere, I'm sick of calling around to find a doctor who's willing to have me and I'm sick of waiting lists and I'm sick of having to explain this shit over and over again. I'm sick of waiting lists to see mental health doctors, and I'm sick of people not understanding that if I were--I don't know--missing a couple of fucking toes and needed them sewn back on no nurse would be like yes, but are you on the waiting list? Because then I'd have to take my toes and shove them in her nose.
More, though, I'm sick of anxiety attacks. I had one on the way to school on Monday--in the fucking car--and if you know how miserable anxiety attacks are, you know this is not good. It's been a least a year since I've had one--and again. It's not just the stress of the attack, but the stress of knowing I haven't beat this, that I never will, and that as much as I want to quit playing this game that nobody is going to let me. I went home, Monday, after trying to teach and nearly passing out in front of the freshman from the crazy vertigo that this medication has caused--it defeats me, bitterly, and I don't even know what else to say about it--and then I lay in bed for hours and hours until I went to town to write a five hour lesson plan that I barely used and that bombed miserably but that I managed to save today.
And, what is worse, is that I am so out of it--I am so not me, that on my way home from school on Monday, James sent me a text that said when I woke up this morning, the door was wide open and the house was 17 degrees. : ( I apparently had not shut the door tightly. I apparently had left it open, so the inside--the inside--of the house was a balmy seventeen degrees. And then, I put on layers and climbed into bed, and James left for work, and I sat there, shivering, for the next hours, dreaming of hell to get rid of such icicles.
And I woke up, dizzy and sick, trying to overcome all of this weird illness while at the same time trying not to just be pissed about it in general. I've spent the last days literally freaking out. I sit in my office and rock back and forth in my chair. My alarm goes off late and I get to school minutes before the bell rings, and I have to make copies and I run into the room with papers flying behind me, as though a bomb has gone off and everything is just settling. I called Mr. O one day this week, and he ended up saying: you realize that nothing you've said to me in the last minute forms a complete sentence, right? He was joking, but he was right. My conversation with him in those minutes had been like Homer in that one episode of The Simpsons where he just goes muh! buh! ssssuh!
I'm going nuts. Some minutes I'm fine, and the next, my heartrate shoots through the roof and the vertigo gets so bad that my eyes can't see a foot in front of me. Yesterday I sat in the office with the shivers, waiting to cry, but nothing came. Mr. O keeps saying relax, relax, relax but he could record his voice on a tape and I could listen to it on repeat over and again without feeling any more sane.
That's how it's been this week. I fucking love Journey.
I realize that there are lines can be crossed when it comes to blogs--how personal do I want to get? How much do I care to disclose here in this little white box that let's me change the color of my font if I want to.
Just know I've thought of that before writing. I'm off of a certain medication I've been taking for the last 9 months, and as a result, my body has gone into brain shock. This medication--this evil medication that on Web MD threatens will destroy me [my words] if I don't consult a doctor before going off of it is causing the worst side effects to anything I've ever been on. And I've been on medications that thin blood and kill my white blood cells if I'm not careful. I've been on Lithium. But this generic version of Celexa, this Citalopram is chewing my brain from the inside out. And I have three more weeks of this. Three more weeks until this brain crack is out of my system. I regret any and every decision that led to me agreeing to these drugs in the first place. Ah, yes, Jeano I say to myself now. This is why you agreed to never take SSRIs again.
Plus, for a fundraiser, they're playing "bad" music in the halls in between class--if they raise enough money, they'll stop playing it. "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." I want to fucking punch a baby.
I probably shouldn't be off it, but I've found myself out of options. As I've mentioned on this blog about 700 times, I don't have health insurance. So when I need to see a doctor, problems arise. Problems arise because mental health is treated like a scratch like a treatment that can be prolonged, like those stitches that were put in a week ago but that you can just take out yourself, hand over the sink, sanitized scissors in hand, one by one until you see the pink glossy scar underneath.
I'm stressed out. I mean, I'm fine, but with the depression I've had for ten years couples a bitchy little wife of anxiety, and the holidays and the lack of cash and the students and the class and the shit I have to mail to people and the tests I have to register for and the emergency loans I have to take out and the papers I have to grade--not boding well. The meds were good for that, because it kept the anxious wife at bay. She sat at home and did some knitting for awhile, baked a loaf of pumpkin bread, recorded all of her favorite Law & Order episodes and watched them in a row, without commercials. But now the meds are gone.
I have a bottle at home--but I've gone without them--because it's now, or it's a month from now, when I'm teaching nearly full time, when Christmas is over, when I have 120 papers to grade instead of 60, when I have two preps instead of one. I can't go to the doctor and say: give me more! And in truth, I shouldn't be just begging doctors for such strong prescriptions without a nice check in and "hi, still feel like driving your car off a cliff?" every now and again. So, I'm going off.
I live in Wabasha County. There is a free doctor in Olmsted County, but I don't live in Olmsted County, and when I called and said yes, but I can see the county line from my house, I just please need to come they said well, you live in Wabasha County so you'd have to pay. And then I called Wabasha County and they said that they don't have a sliding scale, plus they don't have any openings until March because they're short on doctors and I said fuck this. I'm sick of this game. I'm sick of starting over every time I move somewhere, I'm sick of calling around to find a doctor who's willing to have me and I'm sick of waiting lists and I'm sick of having to explain this shit over and over again. I'm sick of waiting lists to see mental health doctors, and I'm sick of people not understanding that if I were--I don't know--missing a couple of fucking toes and needed them sewn back on no nurse would be like yes, but are you on the waiting list? Because then I'd have to take my toes and shove them in her nose.
More, though, I'm sick of anxiety attacks. I had one on the way to school on Monday--in the fucking car--and if you know how miserable anxiety attacks are, you know this is not good. It's been a least a year since I've had one--and again. It's not just the stress of the attack, but the stress of knowing I haven't beat this, that I never will, and that as much as I want to quit playing this game that nobody is going to let me. I went home, Monday, after trying to teach and nearly passing out in front of the freshman from the crazy vertigo that this medication has caused--it defeats me, bitterly, and I don't even know what else to say about it--and then I lay in bed for hours and hours until I went to town to write a five hour lesson plan that I barely used and that bombed miserably but that I managed to save today.
And, what is worse, is that I am so out of it--I am so not me, that on my way home from school on Monday, James sent me a text that said when I woke up this morning, the door was wide open and the house was 17 degrees. : ( I apparently had not shut the door tightly. I apparently had left it open, so the inside--the inside--of the house was a balmy seventeen degrees. And then, I put on layers and climbed into bed, and James left for work, and I sat there, shivering, for the next hours, dreaming of hell to get rid of such icicles.
And I woke up, dizzy and sick, trying to overcome all of this weird illness while at the same time trying not to just be pissed about it in general. I've spent the last days literally freaking out. I sit in my office and rock back and forth in my chair. My alarm goes off late and I get to school minutes before the bell rings, and I have to make copies and I run into the room with papers flying behind me, as though a bomb has gone off and everything is just settling. I called Mr. O one day this week, and he ended up saying: you realize that nothing you've said to me in the last minute forms a complete sentence, right? He was joking, but he was right. My conversation with him in those minutes had been like Homer in that one episode of The Simpsons where he just goes muh! buh! ssssuh!
I'm going nuts. Some minutes I'm fine, and the next, my heartrate shoots through the roof and the vertigo gets so bad that my eyes can't see a foot in front of me. Yesterday I sat in the office with the shivers, waiting to cry, but nothing came. Mr. O keeps saying relax, relax, relax but he could record his voice on a tape and I could listen to it on repeat over and again without feeling any more sane.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Today I had to lay some smack down. Yesterday I wrote a list that could teach me to be mean, because right now I'm way too nice.
How to be Mean to Students OR Ways I Can Finally Earn the Uncle-Given Nickname “Mean Jean”
Stop waiting for them to be quiet, patiently. If there are more issues with the talkative class—even if they’re talking about Englishy (shut up, that’s a word) things. During stern conversations about being serious, don’t mention that they are puppies who pee on the floor. Don’t make jokes. Don’t blame myself for their misbehavior, even as a joke.
Practice mean faces in the mirror, particularly the one raised eyebrow and looking over my glasses.
Remember: Students may think I’m fun, but they’ll only take me seriously if I take the time to act serious in class.
I care about English, so it makes sense that I expect them to take it seriously.
Don’t rush through the important things to make a joke. Even if I have a really good one.
When they’re not listening to the serious parts, when they’re not taking notes, when they’re yawning during discussion, take the time to remedy that behavior immediately. Call them out on it.
Use a calm, steady tone when reminding them about misbehavior. Make eye contact with them. Stop trying to soften everything with my wit and impeccable timing. There is time for that later.
Imagine every student is my sister. Smell the evil and sloth steaming out of their pores. I am mean to her, vile, even. A classroom of Amanda’s will bring out the aggressive side of me.
Or, channel my mother in a moment where she finds that I have left my clothes on the bathroom floor again or left makeup powder all over the sink or put my glass “right next to” the dishwasher instead of “in.”
Serious moments will make the funny moments even more hilarious. In the sense that couples fight for the make-up sex.
Stop thinking students will be “hurt” if I am mean to them. They feel about me how they do, that relationship is there.
Space out the meanness. Don’t yell at them for 20 minutes one day and then the next pretend like nothing happened.
Remember the mantra of a friend: So what if I’m a bitch? Sometimes women have to do the teaching thing differently. Take pride in this. Stop wishing I’m a male, sometimes for the “aggressive” reasons. Do the womanly thing and manipulate students into giving me what I want. Then accuse them of calling me fat.
Stop whining in front of the class. Don’t make “deals” with them for good behavior, expect it.
For the love of God, stop taking time to argue with them. It’s what they want, and there is no time.
Talk more with my eyes.
Remember that I am smarter than them. It is my job to impart this wisdom. It is my job to make them listen. If they learn anything, it should probably be discipline.
Stop thinking about it. Stop them. Seriously stop them, and stop them seriously.
There can be learning in shame.
Take students aside before class, and in conversations with them, make eye contact and ask what they need. If students are often late, make a note to them to stay after class to have a conversation with me. Talking to them is the easy part, really. Much easier than getting frustrated with inattention or behavior issues on a daily basis. Stop thinking about it so much, especially now that this list is complete.
***
Now you tell me how to be mean.
Stop waiting for them to be quiet, patiently. If there are more issues with the talkative class—even if they’re talking about Englishy (shut up, that’s a word) things. During stern conversations about being serious, don’t mention that they are puppies who pee on the floor. Don’t make jokes. Don’t blame myself for their misbehavior, even as a joke.
Practice mean faces in the mirror, particularly the one raised eyebrow and looking over my glasses.
Remember: Students may think I’m fun, but they’ll only take me seriously if I take the time to act serious in class.
I care about English, so it makes sense that I expect them to take it seriously.
Don’t rush through the important things to make a joke. Even if I have a really good one.
When they’re not listening to the serious parts, when they’re not taking notes, when they’re yawning during discussion, take the time to remedy that behavior immediately. Call them out on it.
Use a calm, steady tone when reminding them about misbehavior. Make eye contact with them. Stop trying to soften everything with my wit and impeccable timing. There is time for that later.
Imagine every student is my sister. Smell the evil and sloth steaming out of their pores. I am mean to her, vile, even. A classroom of Amanda’s will bring out the aggressive side of me.
Or, channel my mother in a moment where she finds that I have left my clothes on the bathroom floor again or left makeup powder all over the sink or put my glass “right next to” the dishwasher instead of “in.”
Serious moments will make the funny moments even more hilarious. In the sense that couples fight for the make-up sex.
Stop thinking students will be “hurt” if I am mean to them. They feel about me how they do, that relationship is there.
Space out the meanness. Don’t yell at them for 20 minutes one day and then the next pretend like nothing happened.
Remember the mantra of a friend: So what if I’m a bitch? Sometimes women have to do the teaching thing differently. Take pride in this. Stop wishing I’m a male, sometimes for the “aggressive” reasons. Do the womanly thing and manipulate students into giving me what I want. Then accuse them of calling me fat.
Stop whining in front of the class. Don’t make “deals” with them for good behavior, expect it.
For the love of God, stop taking time to argue with them. It’s what they want, and there is no time.
Talk more with my eyes.
Remember that I am smarter than them. It is my job to impart this wisdom. It is my job to make them listen. If they learn anything, it should probably be discipline.
Stop thinking about it. Stop them. Seriously stop them, and stop them seriously.
There can be learning in shame.
Take students aside before class, and in conversations with them, make eye contact and ask what they need. If students are often late, make a note to them to stay after class to have a conversation with me. Talking to them is the easy part, really. Much easier than getting frustrated with inattention or behavior issues on a daily basis. Stop thinking about it so much, especially now that this list is complete.
***
Now you tell me how to be mean.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
FUCK THIS SHIZ.
I didn't get a snow day. Mr. O called at 5:30 because I asked him to, and he said: 2 Hour delay. All of the other schools in our county got a snow day. But not us. We have good plows that pave the way for buses. We have school on our agenda. What a load of shit.
Anyway. I called my mom on the way to work today and asked her to send me a pair of snowpants. In this case, I'll be prepared for when we do finally get our snow day. And I won't have to wear 7 pair of pants just to shovel the driveway for two hours, since our snow blower has officially taken a giant, snowy shit. But I like shoveling the driveway, when the wind isn't blowing in my face, when the sky is cloudy and snow falls all soft and snowy like how it's supposed to. I liked on Saturday when we shoveled, too--James and me singing Christmas songs, me sneaking up from behind and dumping snow on him only to claim it was an accident. We'd been inside all day until then, and when we finally gone out the top layer of snow had hardened so we had to crack our shovels into the top layer of snow to get to the plush underneath. Like a Creme Brulee.
And it broke off, that top layer, in magnificent chunks. Very specific shapes. I said: look James! A perfect pentagon! And then I thought of the story that Lil' P had once told me about her math teacher finding geometry wherever he looked. Kids! Geometry is everywhere! He'd said. Shapes here, shapes everywhere you look! He wasn't even my teacher and he inspired me in a story through Jenny. He wasn't even my teacher and I know that he wore disgusting, somewhat translucent white pants to school everyday.
I also decided that the stiff Creme Brulee chunks of top-snow could most definitely be different countries. Like that time that Jenny and I debated whether a cloud looked more like Cuba or Austria while in the wave pool at Wisconsin Dells. The East side of it was wider; clearly it was Austria. Jenny just said Cuba because she's a Communist, like Lillian Hellman. (Who is not like the mayonnaise.)
Anyway. I wrote a poem this morning as an joke/anti-Ode to this two-hour delay teasing bull-honky. I read it to the students. I wrote this in 10 minutes, I said to them. So be nice. First hour clapped. Second hour looked at me like I'm lame for having written a poem about an almost-snow day.
Two Hour Delay, Thou Art a Villain, Thou Art
BY MS. P
An unsigned yellow cast
on an awkward child,
leaving the flesh of the forearm
in a stinking vacuum,
dehydrating like prune fingers
in a cool bath. You are flat
soda, but decievingly cold, wet
on tongue, but no bubbles. Brown water.
It is as though my neighbor's house started
on fire and from the street we crossed
our arms, blew clouds of breath,
and watched it burn--but the smoke,
like a dark spirit crawled
into my windows and weaved into
the fibers of my clothing, hid
beneath rugs, plated itself like fresh food
onto my dishes. Two hour delay,
I have eaten the loaf of you and found
your last piece to be moldy, the green fuzz
like the dried, soft hair of a newborn. I am thirsty,
two hour delay. But you say: go to class--
and instead of giving me water,
you spit yellow snot into
the bottom of my glass.
Anyway. I called my mom on the way to work today and asked her to send me a pair of snowpants. In this case, I'll be prepared for when we do finally get our snow day. And I won't have to wear 7 pair of pants just to shovel the driveway for two hours, since our snow blower has officially taken a giant, snowy shit. But I like shoveling the driveway, when the wind isn't blowing in my face, when the sky is cloudy and snow falls all soft and snowy like how it's supposed to. I liked on Saturday when we shoveled, too--James and me singing Christmas songs, me sneaking up from behind and dumping snow on him only to claim it was an accident. We'd been inside all day until then, and when we finally gone out the top layer of snow had hardened so we had to crack our shovels into the top layer of snow to get to the plush underneath. Like a Creme Brulee.
And it broke off, that top layer, in magnificent chunks. Very specific shapes. I said: look James! A perfect pentagon! And then I thought of the story that Lil' P had once told me about her math teacher finding geometry wherever he looked. Kids! Geometry is everywhere! He'd said. Shapes here, shapes everywhere you look! He wasn't even my teacher and he inspired me in a story through Jenny. He wasn't even my teacher and I know that he wore disgusting, somewhat translucent white pants to school everyday.
I also decided that the stiff Creme Brulee chunks of top-snow could most definitely be different countries. Like that time that Jenny and I debated whether a cloud looked more like Cuba or Austria while in the wave pool at Wisconsin Dells. The East side of it was wider; clearly it was Austria. Jenny just said Cuba because she's a Communist, like Lillian Hellman. (Who is not like the mayonnaise.)
Anyway. I wrote a poem this morning as an joke/anti-Ode to this two-hour delay teasing bull-honky. I read it to the students. I wrote this in 10 minutes, I said to them. So be nice. First hour clapped. Second hour looked at me like I'm lame for having written a poem about an almost-snow day.
Two Hour Delay, Thou Art a Villain, Thou Art
BY MS. P
An unsigned yellow cast
on an awkward child,
leaving the flesh of the forearm
in a stinking vacuum,
dehydrating like prune fingers
in a cool bath. You are flat
soda, but decievingly cold, wet
on tongue, but no bubbles. Brown water.
It is as though my neighbor's house started
on fire and from the street we crossed
our arms, blew clouds of breath,
and watched it burn--but the smoke,
like a dark spirit crawled
into my windows and weaved into
the fibers of my clothing, hid
beneath rugs, plated itself like fresh food
onto my dishes. Two hour delay,
I have eaten the loaf of you and found
your last piece to be moldy, the green fuzz
like the dried, soft hair of a newborn. I am thirsty,
two hour delay. But you say: go to class--
and instead of giving me water,
you spit yellow snot into
the bottom of my glass.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Are you there, snow God? It's me, Jeano.
I know it's been a long time since I've gone to church, and I know I wasted almost a whole day this weekend eating too much and getting drunk on Sunday before 1:00 on Bailey's in my coffee, but tomorrow seems like a pretty sweet day for a snow day. Let's be honest. When I was deciding: teach college, or high school? That "snow day" was one of the things that pushed me over to the high school side. Snow days.
Tonight, we're supposed to get 10 inches of snow. It's been snowing for five hours, and it started just 15 minutes after me, 3 chaperones, and 200 students got back from St. Paul. My first field trip. Only three kids died and only about 20 got left behind, so I consider that a success. And, as Mr. O said, it was the icky kids that got left behind, anyway.
So, I'm thinking that with a snow day, I'll get a couple of poems written. Like, it will be a free poem day! I'll start that essay, I'll write my Hunter plans for the week, I'll sleep in. I'll go for a 6 mile run in the snow. After having slept in. Sleeping in. My alarm will go off, I'll check the internet, and it will say school closed, Tuesday, 9 December. Then I'll crawl right back into bed, wrap the blankets around my neck, curl into a fetal position and dream of a roaring fire. I'll wake up, have some oatmeal. I'll say snow day! Snow day! Snow day! Snow day! It's been so long since a real snow day. Snow days! The true "free lunch."
Snow day! Snow day! Snow day!
Have I jinxed it? I still just have to say it. SNOW DAY!
Tonight, we're supposed to get 10 inches of snow. It's been snowing for five hours, and it started just 15 minutes after me, 3 chaperones, and 200 students got back from St. Paul. My first field trip. Only three kids died and only about 20 got left behind, so I consider that a success. And, as Mr. O said, it was the icky kids that got left behind, anyway.
So, I'm thinking that with a snow day, I'll get a couple of poems written. Like, it will be a free poem day! I'll start that essay, I'll write my Hunter plans for the week, I'll sleep in. I'll go for a 6 mile run in the snow. After having slept in. Sleeping in. My alarm will go off, I'll check the internet, and it will say school closed, Tuesday, 9 December. Then I'll crawl right back into bed, wrap the blankets around my neck, curl into a fetal position and dream of a roaring fire. I'll wake up, have some oatmeal. I'll say snow day! Snow day! Snow day! Snow day! It's been so long since a real snow day. Snow days! The true "free lunch."
Snow day! Snow day! Snow day!
Have I jinxed it? I still just have to say it. SNOW DAY!
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
dingleberry.
On Saturday morning, my dad yelled from downstairs: goddammit! Sonofabitch you've gotta be fucking kidding me!
Craig has moved out, and he left his former bedroom (previously my former bedroom) a mess: dark, crusted stains on the carpet, dusty blinds bent and crooked as though someone's been "peeping" too much, plastic cups with the brown sticky of Pepsi gobbed in the corners, old plates that held entire pizzas next to the bed, holes in the wall the shape of a large fist, the knuckles distinguishable, dings and holes in the door. My dad is fixing up the room to turn into a guest room. The carpet is gone, leaving cool concrete. The holes in the walls have been patched and the walls are covered in another layer of white paint. The holes and dents in the door have been fixed, and my dad has sanded down the door ready for a re-varnish. His plan on Saturday morning was to keep working on that door.
But what he found on the newly sanded door was a new hole. Through the wood and to the other side of the door--a rectangular-shaped hole, looking at him with a snarl of splintered wood teeth. Someone had thrown a heavy object at the door. And we all knew that that someone was Dingleberry.
Dingleberry is Travis, or Edward. Not my Travis. Not the eleven-year-old who should rightfully-so be living at my parents' house, whose voice has changed into a baritone, who gets decent marks on his report card except in Language, where he has a C because his English teacher hates him and always makes him draw. Not the pre-teen who looked over my shoulder while I was grading papers over Thanksgiving break and suggested I fail everyone. I love that Travis. I do not love the Dingleberry Travis, or Edward. I, in fact, hate that one.
In fact, I've decided that even though I'm not the kind of person who could ever stab another person, that Dingleberry is someone that I could see myself stabbing. Not to kill, of course. But to poke. And to scare.
This started last May. My dad and Travis and Amanda came to Minneapolis to help me move to Elgin. Amanda's boyfriend is coming too, said my dad, and I thought that it was ridiculous, but oh well. I'd expected that neither of them were going to do any work, but were only coming because they knew we'd go out to lunch, and that's exactly what happened. Free sandwiches. Who's this boyfriend, anyway, I'd asked.
I learned that this boyfriend was from Florida. He and Amanda had met online, and now he was coming to "visit her" for an extended period. Except "visit her" has turned into "live with her and her parents for 7 months." Whether my parents knew this would happen, I don't know. But I do know that the fact that this stranger has been living in my house is fucking ridiclous. Of course, I don't even think Amanda should be living there. But that's just my opinion, and who am I (except the most sane person in this entire fucking family, which is saying a lot).
His name is Travis, but we can't call him Travis because there is another Travis living in the house who was there first--and we don't want to make things confusing. So he goes by his middle name, which is Edward. His last name is Berry; to my dad, he goes by Dingleberry. In fact, my dad will refer to him as nothing but Dingleberry, to his face or just in-reference-to. To me, in-refernce-to, he goes by Amanda's boyfriend needs to get the fuck out of this house or why the fuck haven't you kicked them out yet or useless or asshole or stranger or fucking fuck face.
My sister continues to attend what I call Couch College, which is probably the one thing she's been absolutely dedicated to for her entire life, other than NCIS or books about Vampires. She hasn't stolen anything that I know of lately, but her appetite has unfortunately gotten out of control for someone who, most days, doesn't leave the house--let alone her "classes" at "Couch College" taught by "Professor Lazy." She's fat. She eats a lot of food, and everytime she has money, she buys a lot of food. I pity her. This probably isn't a good thing, but is sad and selfish and wrong, but I do. She has mental problems, and nobody is helping her to fix them. She has been unemployed for months, since Dingleberry moved in. She and Dingleberry eat all of the food my parents buy and then use to fill the upstairs and downstairs freezer. My mom called me a couple of weeks ago to let me know that my sister had made 50 frozen chicken nuggets for her and Dingleberry to eat for dinner. They threw half of them away, wasting an entire meal of food. Who wouldn't be irrate? My mom has kicked them out a couple of times, changed the locks. Dad is too nice. He changes the locks back. He gives her gas money.
I wake up early now, as though I'm 60 years old. I wake up at 7:30, and I go into the living room to read the paper and eat some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I turn on the light in the living room.
Turn that fucking light off, Jesus Christ! Says Amanda.
I look at her. All I can, again, is THE LIVING ROOM IS NOT YOUR BEDROOM SO GO SLEEP IN YOUR BED.
She has turned the couch into her haven. Her blankets are always there. The cushions are squished together, and the couch bows to accompany her weight. She has pulled the ottoman from the chair up next to her head, and she uses it as a nightstand. She keeps her vampire library books there, she keeps bowls of food there. She even brings the garbage can out from the bathroom and sets it next to her on the couch; this will allow her to get up even less to throw those food wrappers away. She holds onto the remote control as though it's a hot cup of coffee and the winter wind is blowing hard, she has set up her fan at the head of the couch to blow cool air on her head when she gets hot, and when it cools her off enough she turns it to the side instead of turning it off. I suppose the hum soothes her.
And when I come into the living room to start my morning, when I turn on the lights to read my paper--she bends her arm out of position on the couch to turn the light back off. She shields her eyes and starts screaming, her long black hair frazzled and getting caught in her mouth.
I can't sleep in my bed! Edward's in there! She screams.
Don't care. Go sleep in Travis' bed, where I was. I'm not there anymore. Go kick Edward out. Not my problem. The living room is not your room, and I am going to turn this light on, and I don't fucking care if you're sleeping--especially since you've been "sleeping" on this couch since yesterday.
She turns the lights off. I have to call dad for reinforcements. I win. Amanda covers her head with blankets. I crunch my cereal extra loud and sluuuuuuuuurrrrp the milk from the bowl when I'm done. I can see a little light from under the blanket. Amanda is texting people from under her blanket-fort. I wonder who pays for her phone bill and then I have to stop thinking about it so I don't get irrate.
Dingleberry sleeps in until 10, or noon, or two, depending on what time my sister has to drive him to work at Sam's Club, in Maple Grove, twenty miles away. Dingleberry doesn't have a car. My sister shouldn't have a car, but she does. I suppose my parents gave it to her so she's not home all day. Her car used to have a "Support Bitching" purple ribbon magnet on the back, but it's not there anymore. Now there's a black ribbon magnet that says "Some asshole stole my support magnet" in white writing. Clever.
Dingleberry used to work at the Burger King, not far from our house. He didn't make enough money there. He doesn't pay rent, he doesn't pay for food. But he does pay for all of his cigarettes that he smokes in our garage, and he does pay $100 for concert tickets for him and Amanda to go see a comedian on New Year's Eve. I'm assuming he pays Amanda for gas to drive him to and from work, but I don't know how Amanda pays for gas because she doesn't have a job or Disability or self-respect.
But apparently she has sex. Because I saw a Trojan sticking out of the back packet of her giant jeans this weekend. Who keeps a condom in their back pocket when they're at home? Who doesn't know it's all sticking out? I almost poked out my eyes. You think that's hyperbole, but it's fucking not. I became physically sick at the thought of my sister and Dingleberry, in her twin bed. My 300 pound mess of a sister. Dingleberry. He probably weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, or 100.5 pounds soaking wet and with all of that cigarette smoke in his lungs when he inhales, and 110.5 pounds when he's soaking wet and has a puff of air in his lungs and is also wearing his giant black boots and black trench coat. He looks exactly like my ex-uncle Greenie, the one my mom's sister Patty married. Yes, his name was Greenie. Yes, he was disgusting. Yes, he smoked and his teeth--the ones remaining--were brown and yellow like rotting banana peels. Yes, his own kids grew up to be child abusers.
Dingleberry has grown a pubic-hair-like mess of a beard that sits on his face in clumps. It forms mutton chops on the side. Dingleberry has a drawer in the bathroom at our house, and in that drawer he keeps at least 4 bottles of Axe cologne (the mist spray kind) and Axe after shave and men's deodorant that I think he shares with my sister. Dingleberry keeps a red mesh clothes hamper in our basement, and he keeps cigarettes in our freezer. He has a box of PS2 games in the corner, next to his dragon statues--one is a crystal dragon with white frost glass, and the other is black. These dragons sit on the little shelf in the basement, next to my mother's family pictures and wolf statues. It makes me want to die.
Dingleberry crosses his chicken legs whenever he sits down, and his heavy boots weigh them down like the little gray weight on fishing line. He talks as though he knows things, although he does not. I look at him, always, with a scowl on my face and from the right side of my eye--the evil side. I don't respond to his questions or comments, but Travis, my brother, does. Travis thinks the things that he says are smart, because Dingleberry has a laptop and because he knows how to get free internet and how to download games off the internet. Travis listens. I get pissed. Dingleberry gets home from work, and he wears his big gross boots outside and he turns on the computer and he sits on it until 2:00 in the morning. Then he goes to bed in my sister's room, and my sister falls asleep on the couch upstairs, and Travis falls asleep downstairs, because he thinks it's important to stay awake as long as Dingleberry does.
Dingleberry. He talks slow, like a stoner, his fingernails are long and witch-like, and I've seen him without his shirt on and his spine curves in a weird way and sticks out of the skin on his back like an underdeveloped Stegasaurus. His hair is grease. His ears are elfin. He smokes like Ponyboy. He wears a blue vest at work that says "HOW MAY I HELP YOU" in big white, dumb font. He makes excuses for why Travis doesn't do his homework, when I'm just trying to talk to Travis. He is sometimes watching TV when I want to be watching TV, and he is sometimes in rooms of the house that I would like to be in alone. He is attracted to my sister. They shop at Hot Topic together. They see a White Bear Lake restaurant on the show Diners & Drives and they go there, with Travis, to order a pizza called the "Heartstopper." They wear chains. Dingleberry wears black slacks all of the time, faded, like mechanic's workpants.
And he has a temper problem. The last thing that my house needs is another person with a temper problem--all of us are a bunch of angry Pollocks--but Dingleberry can't control himself. His laptop is from the early 90s. It must weigh at good 15 pounds. My sister has decorated the top of it with Winnie the Pooh stickers. I don't know what the use it for. Other than the fact that Dingleberry used it to put a big fucking hole in the newly sanded door downstairs, because he got mad and threw it.
Travis covered for him. My mom took the keyboard away from the computer until Travis would tell her what happened, and he refused, even though he knew. Did Dingleberry ask for a cover up? How do you stay at someone's house as a guest and have the fucking audacity to destory their property in such a decisive manner? So many fucking questions I have for you, Useless Dingleberry.
Dingleberry whipped that smile into the door, Travis covered for him, my dad got pissed, my mom took the keyboard away and grounded everyone from the internet until an unknown date. Dingleberry has to pay for the door, but he still doesn't pay rent, and he still eats all of our food, and I'm certain he is still not saving up for an apartment so he can move himself and my sister out of Freeloading-land into Adultville.
February my mom told my sister. By February 1st, both of you are fucking out of here.
We'll see. Fucking tools.
Craig has moved out, and he left his former bedroom (previously my former bedroom) a mess: dark, crusted stains on the carpet, dusty blinds bent and crooked as though someone's been "peeping" too much, plastic cups with the brown sticky of Pepsi gobbed in the corners, old plates that held entire pizzas next to the bed, holes in the wall the shape of a large fist, the knuckles distinguishable, dings and holes in the door. My dad is fixing up the room to turn into a guest room. The carpet is gone, leaving cool concrete. The holes in the walls have been patched and the walls are covered in another layer of white paint. The holes and dents in the door have been fixed, and my dad has sanded down the door ready for a re-varnish. His plan on Saturday morning was to keep working on that door.
But what he found on the newly sanded door was a new hole. Through the wood and to the other side of the door--a rectangular-shaped hole, looking at him with a snarl of splintered wood teeth. Someone had thrown a heavy object at the door. And we all knew that that someone was Dingleberry.
Dingleberry is Travis, or Edward. Not my Travis. Not the eleven-year-old who should rightfully-so be living at my parents' house, whose voice has changed into a baritone, who gets decent marks on his report card except in Language, where he has a C because his English teacher hates him and always makes him draw. Not the pre-teen who looked over my shoulder while I was grading papers over Thanksgiving break and suggested I fail everyone. I love that Travis. I do not love the Dingleberry Travis, or Edward. I, in fact, hate that one.
In fact, I've decided that even though I'm not the kind of person who could ever stab another person, that Dingleberry is someone that I could see myself stabbing. Not to kill, of course. But to poke. And to scare.
This started last May. My dad and Travis and Amanda came to Minneapolis to help me move to Elgin. Amanda's boyfriend is coming too, said my dad, and I thought that it was ridiculous, but oh well. I'd expected that neither of them were going to do any work, but were only coming because they knew we'd go out to lunch, and that's exactly what happened. Free sandwiches. Who's this boyfriend, anyway, I'd asked.
I learned that this boyfriend was from Florida. He and Amanda had met online, and now he was coming to "visit her" for an extended period. Except "visit her" has turned into "live with her and her parents for 7 months." Whether my parents knew this would happen, I don't know. But I do know that the fact that this stranger has been living in my house is fucking ridiclous. Of course, I don't even think Amanda should be living there. But that's just my opinion, and who am I (except the most sane person in this entire fucking family, which is saying a lot).
His name is Travis, but we can't call him Travis because there is another Travis living in the house who was there first--and we don't want to make things confusing. So he goes by his middle name, which is Edward. His last name is Berry; to my dad, he goes by Dingleberry. In fact, my dad will refer to him as nothing but Dingleberry, to his face or just in-reference-to. To me, in-refernce-to, he goes by Amanda's boyfriend needs to get the fuck out of this house or why the fuck haven't you kicked them out yet or useless or asshole or stranger or fucking fuck face.
My sister continues to attend what I call Couch College, which is probably the one thing she's been absolutely dedicated to for her entire life, other than NCIS or books about Vampires. She hasn't stolen anything that I know of lately, but her appetite has unfortunately gotten out of control for someone who, most days, doesn't leave the house--let alone her "classes" at "Couch College" taught by "Professor Lazy." She's fat. She eats a lot of food, and everytime she has money, she buys a lot of food. I pity her. This probably isn't a good thing, but is sad and selfish and wrong, but I do. She has mental problems, and nobody is helping her to fix them. She has been unemployed for months, since Dingleberry moved in. She and Dingleberry eat all of the food my parents buy and then use to fill the upstairs and downstairs freezer. My mom called me a couple of weeks ago to let me know that my sister had made 50 frozen chicken nuggets for her and Dingleberry to eat for dinner. They threw half of them away, wasting an entire meal of food. Who wouldn't be irrate? My mom has kicked them out a couple of times, changed the locks. Dad is too nice. He changes the locks back. He gives her gas money.
I wake up early now, as though I'm 60 years old. I wake up at 7:30, and I go into the living room to read the paper and eat some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I turn on the light in the living room.
Turn that fucking light off, Jesus Christ! Says Amanda.
I look at her. All I can, again, is THE LIVING ROOM IS NOT YOUR BEDROOM SO GO SLEEP IN YOUR BED.
She has turned the couch into her haven. Her blankets are always there. The cushions are squished together, and the couch bows to accompany her weight. She has pulled the ottoman from the chair up next to her head, and she uses it as a nightstand. She keeps her vampire library books there, she keeps bowls of food there. She even brings the garbage can out from the bathroom and sets it next to her on the couch; this will allow her to get up even less to throw those food wrappers away. She holds onto the remote control as though it's a hot cup of coffee and the winter wind is blowing hard, she has set up her fan at the head of the couch to blow cool air on her head when she gets hot, and when it cools her off enough she turns it to the side instead of turning it off. I suppose the hum soothes her.
And when I come into the living room to start my morning, when I turn on the lights to read my paper--she bends her arm out of position on the couch to turn the light back off. She shields her eyes and starts screaming, her long black hair frazzled and getting caught in her mouth.
I can't sleep in my bed! Edward's in there! She screams.
Don't care. Go sleep in Travis' bed, where I was. I'm not there anymore. Go kick Edward out. Not my problem. The living room is not your room, and I am going to turn this light on, and I don't fucking care if you're sleeping--especially since you've been "sleeping" on this couch since yesterday.
She turns the lights off. I have to call dad for reinforcements. I win. Amanda covers her head with blankets. I crunch my cereal extra loud and sluuuuuuuuurrrrp the milk from the bowl when I'm done. I can see a little light from under the blanket. Amanda is texting people from under her blanket-fort. I wonder who pays for her phone bill and then I have to stop thinking about it so I don't get irrate.
Dingleberry sleeps in until 10, or noon, or two, depending on what time my sister has to drive him to work at Sam's Club, in Maple Grove, twenty miles away. Dingleberry doesn't have a car. My sister shouldn't have a car, but she does. I suppose my parents gave it to her so she's not home all day. Her car used to have a "Support Bitching" purple ribbon magnet on the back, but it's not there anymore. Now there's a black ribbon magnet that says "Some asshole stole my support magnet" in white writing. Clever.
Dingleberry used to work at the Burger King, not far from our house. He didn't make enough money there. He doesn't pay rent, he doesn't pay for food. But he does pay for all of his cigarettes that he smokes in our garage, and he does pay $100 for concert tickets for him and Amanda to go see a comedian on New Year's Eve. I'm assuming he pays Amanda for gas to drive him to and from work, but I don't know how Amanda pays for gas because she doesn't have a job or Disability or self-respect.
But apparently she has sex. Because I saw a Trojan sticking out of the back packet of her giant jeans this weekend. Who keeps a condom in their back pocket when they're at home? Who doesn't know it's all sticking out? I almost poked out my eyes. You think that's hyperbole, but it's fucking not. I became physically sick at the thought of my sister and Dingleberry, in her twin bed. My 300 pound mess of a sister. Dingleberry. He probably weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, or 100.5 pounds soaking wet and with all of that cigarette smoke in his lungs when he inhales, and 110.5 pounds when he's soaking wet and has a puff of air in his lungs and is also wearing his giant black boots and black trench coat. He looks exactly like my ex-uncle Greenie, the one my mom's sister Patty married. Yes, his name was Greenie. Yes, he was disgusting. Yes, he smoked and his teeth--the ones remaining--were brown and yellow like rotting banana peels. Yes, his own kids grew up to be child abusers.
Dingleberry has grown a pubic-hair-like mess of a beard that sits on his face in clumps. It forms mutton chops on the side. Dingleberry has a drawer in the bathroom at our house, and in that drawer he keeps at least 4 bottles of Axe cologne (the mist spray kind) and Axe after shave and men's deodorant that I think he shares with my sister. Dingleberry keeps a red mesh clothes hamper in our basement, and he keeps cigarettes in our freezer. He has a box of PS2 games in the corner, next to his dragon statues--one is a crystal dragon with white frost glass, and the other is black. These dragons sit on the little shelf in the basement, next to my mother's family pictures and wolf statues. It makes me want to die.
Dingleberry crosses his chicken legs whenever he sits down, and his heavy boots weigh them down like the little gray weight on fishing line. He talks as though he knows things, although he does not. I look at him, always, with a scowl on my face and from the right side of my eye--the evil side. I don't respond to his questions or comments, but Travis, my brother, does. Travis thinks the things that he says are smart, because Dingleberry has a laptop and because he knows how to get free internet and how to download games off the internet. Travis listens. I get pissed. Dingleberry gets home from work, and he wears his big gross boots outside and he turns on the computer and he sits on it until 2:00 in the morning. Then he goes to bed in my sister's room, and my sister falls asleep on the couch upstairs, and Travis falls asleep downstairs, because he thinks it's important to stay awake as long as Dingleberry does.
Dingleberry. He talks slow, like a stoner, his fingernails are long and witch-like, and I've seen him without his shirt on and his spine curves in a weird way and sticks out of the skin on his back like an underdeveloped Stegasaurus. His hair is grease. His ears are elfin. He smokes like Ponyboy. He wears a blue vest at work that says "HOW MAY I HELP YOU" in big white, dumb font. He makes excuses for why Travis doesn't do his homework, when I'm just trying to talk to Travis. He is sometimes watching TV when I want to be watching TV, and he is sometimes in rooms of the house that I would like to be in alone. He is attracted to my sister. They shop at Hot Topic together. They see a White Bear Lake restaurant on the show Diners & Drives and they go there, with Travis, to order a pizza called the "Heartstopper." They wear chains. Dingleberry wears black slacks all of the time, faded, like mechanic's workpants.
And he has a temper problem. The last thing that my house needs is another person with a temper problem--all of us are a bunch of angry Pollocks--but Dingleberry can't control himself. His laptop is from the early 90s. It must weigh at good 15 pounds. My sister has decorated the top of it with Winnie the Pooh stickers. I don't know what the use it for. Other than the fact that Dingleberry used it to put a big fucking hole in the newly sanded door downstairs, because he got mad and threw it.
Travis covered for him. My mom took the keyboard away from the computer until Travis would tell her what happened, and he refused, even though he knew. Did Dingleberry ask for a cover up? How do you stay at someone's house as a guest and have the fucking audacity to destory their property in such a decisive manner? So many fucking questions I have for you, Useless Dingleberry.
Dingleberry whipped that smile into the door, Travis covered for him, my dad got pissed, my mom took the keyboard away and grounded everyone from the internet until an unknown date. Dingleberry has to pay for the door, but he still doesn't pay rent, and he still eats all of our food, and I'm certain he is still not saving up for an apartment so he can move himself and my sister out of Freeloading-land into Adultville.
February my mom told my sister. By February 1st, both of you are fucking out of here.
We'll see. Fucking tools.
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