Long story, unhappy ending

Last night The Boy and I went to a wedding reception. First we started out by meeting a couple of his friends in the bar of the hotel where the reception was taking place. This was fine. After about an hour or so, we move into the reception hall and found seats near The Boy's sister and other co-workers/friends.

We ate, took silly pictures, they all drank, including The Boy's underage sister (she'll be 21 in two months), and I sat there feeling left out as I normall do at these things. I barely know his friends and most of the time the guys sitting around accusing each other of being gay, of having a dick in their mouth, etc. And it's not very funny after a while, especially since my brother is gay. My brother is a homosexual and I know how much it has hurt him when a group of guys sit around calling each other "faggots" and other things to stop on their masculinity. My brother is probably one of the most masculine men I know. No one would ever suspect. He is not a stereotype.

So, this talk bothers me, but I indulge The Boy because they are his friends and have been performing this ritual, this act long before I came along. I just hope some day they out grow it. I don't see this happening. Also, they drink a lot. I don't really enjoy drinking and even when I was not on a medicine that prevented me from drinking, I rarely took part in it. I don't understand the need to down alcohol, I don't like the feeling it gives me.

The Boy's sister became drunk and beligerant after drinking too many screwdrivers. She made it clear to me that she did not want to talk to me, by stating just that. The Boy left me sitting at the table with his drunk sister and two of his co-workers/friends. I don't know these people very well and when they got up to dance, I felt very lonely. Then his sister went to the bathroom and indeed, I was lonely. I didn't know where The Boy had went, he last mentioned he was going to use the bathroom, which peeing does not take 20 minutes. So, I go in search.

I find him in the bar playing Blackjack with one of his friends. I get on his case for not telling me where he was going. He said, well I told my friend, pointing to the guy sitting next to him. I said, whatever and walked away. I went back into the reception hall, his sister came back, clearly irritated with me, daggers shooting from her eyes and piercing my emotions. The couple was still dancing so I decicded that I was going home. I hadn't driven to the hotel, but The Boy's apartment was a scant three blocks away. I went back to the bar, found him, and announced my intentions. He said, "Sorry. What do you want me to do?" I said nothing, that I just wanted to go home.

I went home, cried, and went to sleep. He showed up around 2:30am. He didn't think I was there, not seeing my car in the parking lot, forgetting we left it at the mall earlier that day. I walked down the stairs to find him dialing my number. We sat together on the couch. We talked, chit-chatted about this and that. Then he told me, "I might have smoked pot tonight."

I lost it. I do not tolerate drug use of any kind. None. He knows I don't like it. I got upset and all he can say is, "I shouldn't have told you." I retorted with you shouldn't have wanted to do it. I cried and yelled at him for about an hour. I went out the door and was ready to walk the 2-3 miles to my car, when he was standing in the window calling for me. I went back in, shaking with angry. I have never shaken with anger, my arms crossed with my fingernails making dents in the soft skin of my inner arm. He said he was sorry, but that it's not like he is an addict, that it was only the second time in his life that he's tried it. I asked why he did it, his answer was the most hideous one he could have given, "Everyone else was doing it." I scoffed and walked away again. Then came back filled with more rage.

I told him why I don't like drugs. That I lived with a drug addict, that I lived with an alcoholic, that I got to have fun at Family Days at rehab, that every Sunday for a year I visited my brother in baby jail because he decided to commit a felony in order to pay off drug dealers. I told him this and said that shouldn't have made a difference in his thinking. I said he shouldn't have wanted to do it. He replied that nothing he said was going to make me not mad, that it already happened, and that there was nothing he could do. I asked how he could do it after he bitched, complained, and moaned about how his ex-fiance used to use marijuana. He said nothing.

Finally, exhuasted, we went to bed. I still love him, but he undermined my trust. He broke something in me. And it will take a long time to repair that injured piece. His nonchalance irks me. I made him promise that as long as he is with me, he'll never do it again.

I am still angry and irritated.

Is it Your Birthday?

Every day at work, a girl, perhaps she's even a woman, her age is indistinguishable, walks around all the cubicles with a highlighter and a printed sheet of names. She takes attendance. This makes me laugh and it makes me feel like I am in elementary school. I keep waiting for her to ask me if I am having hot or cold lunch. However, she doesn't and most likely won't, which is a good thing. Sometimes, she'll also hand out print out of reports that are run each day.

So, when she came to stand near my desk, and I caught the sight of her out of the corner of my eye, I returned to my computer monitor, barely noticing her presence. She asked, "Is it your birthday?" I had no idea why she said that or if she even said it to me, but then I looked over and a tall carboard box was in her arms. I said, "No." No other words came out my mouth. I was so confused as to why I was receiving a box at work. I thought back and wondered if in a stupor I ordered something from the LTD catalogs that float around between cubicles.

She sets the box on my desk and walks away. I open the box and see green leaves and purple-pink flowers. I pull them out and feel something heavy stay in the bottom of the box. When I reach in further, I pull out a pink and red striped pot. I set the Calla Lilies into the pot and then notice the card. I wonder who they are from, I wonder why they have come.

The card explains how he can't explain his love, the card speaks of love becoming more love, and the card is from The Boy. The flowers are for no reason other than to express his feelings for me. I cry and I try to call The Boy. I can't get a hold of him, so I call my mom instead. My voice thick with happy tears. Later, I get in touch with The Boy and the tears stream again, my voice barely audible as I say, "I love you."

We meet for tacos at lunch and I am able to touch him, to know he's real, and I feel giddy. I kiss him and could continue to do so for hours, months, years.

My mom said she would not mind his as a son-in-law. I tell The Boy this and he mockingly says, "Everyone wants you to marry me." I say back, "And no one wants you to marry me." He replies that he was once there, not married, but supposed to be married. I know this, I tell everyone that it'll be a while before we're ready, before he's ready for that level of commitment again. Everyone else seems to want to rush things, want us to put rings on our fingers, and repeat some vows. But I am already committed to him, I am already his. I believe he is mine. If things are meant to be, shiny marriage markers will adorn our fingers in time but until then, I am enjoying living in sin because I am dirty.

It's a mixture called Life

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. I am tired of spending my days in the bathroom. I should just move my office and my bed into the bathroom. That way I can just sleep right next to and work right by the toilet so that when my bowels decide to evacuate, I will be prepared and ready. I know my bed won't fit in the bathroom, but I could start sleeping in the tub and at work, I don't think there is internet access and that's crucial to my job. So, perhaps that's not such a great idea after all. I may also mention that since it's become so humid I am having trouble breathing, catching my breath. I don't know if it's anything or merely nerves.

Speaking of my natural disposition, which is a little on edge all the time, I recently met someone who felt that right off the bat. I got a haircut today. I do not have a regular stylist and will go to whomever is open. I saw this woman and judged her, and judged wrongly. She seemed old, too old to give me a hip, modern haircut, she was foreign, her accent seemed Easten Block-ish. Of course, all of this was incorrect. She was a lovely lady, while she is older, her mind is sharp, her spirit is vibrant, and she is Croatian. So, while I had parts of it right, I had the best parts of it wrong. She gave a great haircut and was interesting to listen to. So, I stand corrected.

I am now the proud owner of a bra with its own boobs. I purchased a strapless bra today for a wedding I am a bridesmaid in this summer. It is more comfortable than the previous one I owned and seems much more supported. Maybe my old bra just needed boobs of its own. I thought today about how women's clothing would be so much different if we didn't have breats. Think about all the things that are done to shirts to play-up, play down, play with, the breasts. It's interesting to think about how fashion would have evolved, would we dress like men? Would there be a different in male/female tops? Just a thought.

I was thinking the other day about how everyone is either getting married, talking about getting married, or just became married, and I get a little jealous. But mostly, I think I want the shiny metal that goes around my finger. I've never been a jewelry person, nor a materialistic person. I love stuff, weird, kitschy, ugly, things, but rings have never really drawn me in. Now, they are. I want some bling and I don't know who I am.

Stacy and Clinton

I did not see The Boy last night. I saw one of my best friends instead and another girl I haven't spoken to in a long time. It was fun to be without him, to be the other person I am with the girls. Some people say that you should be who you are around everyone, but each person gets someone a little different, that's just the way things are. I am not the same person I am in front of my parents that I am with The Boy, that I am with a bunch of giggling girls talking about fashion, What Not To Wear, and our lives. It's a different connection, it's a different feeling, and I enjoyed it.

It's been so long since I've spent time with just girls, sitting around with the tv on, commenting on life, throwing out the details of importance and non-importance. It was fun and I hope to do it again soon. I shall be seeing those same girls tonight and we wish one of them a Happy Birthday, which I hope it is indeed.

Currently, I am looking for music online, trying to find something with meaning, with substance, and a sound I like. This is hard and I am not really sure why I am doing this. I no longer listen to music in the car. I strictly listen to books on CD. Each time I enter the car a story plays for me, a story that I recall the last edges of, shimmery edges of excitment, of feeling I didn't want to get out of the car because then the story will end. But I do not bring the tale inside, no. It stays in the car. It is only meant to be heard in bits and pieces, not in long stretches. For I listen to books I would never otherwise read, could never otherwise finish. I would have given up on them in the first few pages, but with a voice slipping from the speakers, the story takes on a lifelike quality... as if a friend is in the car beside me waiting for so she can finish telling her story.

She waits for me. And it's nice. Just like my friend waited for me to ditch The Boy for a night, just like I waited for her to finally have time for a social life, we all wait. And the wait is worth it.

It's memory weekend

The sun shines, the car heats up, and I ride.

The Boy and I went to the Big City this weekend. We took in some sights of life, of real life in some unsuspecting places. (We went to visit his friends and didn't get a chance to see my friends. I think the next trip we take out there will be to see my pals so he can have the chance to do the meet and greet. )

We drove through rain and beautiful sun. Then on Saturday we enjoyed the sun on our skin, too much sun our on pale skin. From peachy tones to red they went. Dreams in the Mist, Miss Blueberry Juice, and Little Wagon entertained us with their strong muscles, sleek coats, and flying tails and manes. They ran for our delight while we tried to bet which horse would come in first. I was often wrong, but was right a few times. I took that long shot and earned two dollars. Count 'em, two. What a booty to take home. Alas, all I took home was a new hat in order to prevent my head from burning and to be allowed the luxury of not squinting into the sun for hours, the Boy still holding my hand, and a new experience. The horses were not the experience alone. I witnessed love in the bleachers. An older couple, two women, both of whom smoked their lungs that day, like jerky, tough and dry women, who held their arms around each other and spoke of the mundaneness of life. It was not that they were lesbians that was new, it was the way they looked at each other, with adoration, that caught my eye.

Another new experience was the Bon fire we went to late that night. While the bon fire itself was not new, getting lead poisoning from a 50 year old picnic table that was destroyed by karate kicks and a chain saw in the dark of night was new. The early morning trip while driving drunk people to Denny's was not new. However, being the only white people in a room filled with 40-50 Black people was new, especially since many of them lived up to the stereotype of "urban black." Baggy pants, huge t-shirts, sideways hats, the n-word flying fifty miles an hour at each other, the man who blames the African-American manager for being an Uncle Tom because the manager is trying to do his job and force an unruly patron to leave, the belly and booty bearing clothes on the women. The girls were quiet, eating their meals, and talking amongst themselves. It was the men, the boys who called attention to themselves.

We sat silent and soaked it in. My French Toast soaked the sugar free syrup. Perhaps the French Toast absorbed more than syrup, maybe it took on a bad attitude, maybe it carried in it's crevices a negative connection, but whatever that French Toast hid in itself, I threw it up four hours later.

We went home on Sunday. I did not feel well most of the day. A slow nausea wandering around my body, coming to roost here and there as if my elbow would suddenly be on the verge of throwing itself out or my hair desperately wanted a hat in case it had to purge excess oil or something. We stopped by an outlet mall, picked up some clothes for The Boy and a shirt for myself. I will write more at another time.

Baby Bubbles

'Allo,

Sometimes, I feel otherwordly, maybe in this case other-country-y. I hear myself in an Australian accent in my head. I think I am just trying to make myself feel more exotic than the boring Midwesterner that I am. Accents seem so much more exciting, offering an imagination to those around you. Ah, the excitement, the enticement of lilting languages and drawling diction. I do love illiteration. I think it's marvelous.

I recently made the drive to my grandmother's house again. This time to say goodbye to her things rather than her body. It is a daunting task to clean her house, for it is not a normal house. There used to be paths in the house, things piled to the ceiling, boxes filled with unknown treasures, but mostly unwanted junk. Everything could be used for a part, everything had a purpose to someone. However, logic fails when you have to find that perfect someone in the midst of the nearly seven billion people on the planet.

During this last trip I looked at dolls. As a child, I did not care for dolls and the imaginary play that accompanied them. For me, dolls were boring as they did not do anything. Unfortunately, they still do not do anything. Even more unfortunate, there were boxes upon boxes of them. When I left after a long weekend of peeking into boxes hoping something else would be found in them, there were 50 boxes of dolls. When my father finally finished going through all the dolls, they would total 78.

One would think this would be a child's dream, a doll collector's paradise, and it would have been. However, these dolls were the neglected children of the doll world. Matted hair, pen inked onto their peach bodies, not even done well enough to be considered cruse prison tattooes. Merely, ugly, sad, worn out dolls that one their owners were done abusing them, were left for dead. They were sold for a quarter, they were given away, and my grandmother was the one who scooped them up.

I remember getting these dolls from her when she would visit. She would hand one to me so happily, as if I were getting a grand gift. As soon as she left, my mother would make me throw the doll away and wash my hands. I would gladly dump it into the trash and feel dirty, sullen just touching the one arm I limply hung onto while my grandmother was in sight. A soiled doll, with crusty hair, and eyes that no longer blinked open and shut, just one open and one shut, a nightmare of a doll for a gift is something I did not understand.

These dolls are something I still do not understand. I don't know why my grandma would be so interested in keeping these, in buying them, and then throwing them into boxes. If she were wanting to love one, wanting to relive her own harsh childhood in which she had no doll, I do not know where these come into play. I merely know that they do not come into play with me, they did not then and do not now.

This daunting task haunts us. We wonder why she kept these things, not just the dolls, but other things. We wonder so many things and in these boxes, these piles we do not find answers. Just dust and someone else's memories.

I fail

This blog so often is a review of how often I fail at trying to better myself. Once again, I had started skipping my medication. I became a crying, sad-eyed, pathetic sack of life. I didn't laugh, everything hurt my feelings, I wasn't fun, but through that The Boy stood by me. He said it'll take a lot more than that to drive him away. Odd, Andrew was the complete opposite. I drove him away with that, however, that result was entirely appreciated. The Boy is my love. Andrew was but a mere stepping stone to get me to the point where I could meet and fall for The Boy.

Opposites indeed. Another opposite occured this week. I went to the doctor to have my diabetes checked. I again informed my physician (yet another new one albeit in a new town) that I a naughty, eating things I should not, not testing my blood, not taking my medicines, not caring for myself the way I should. She admonished me as she is supposed to and we moved on. My period was late and I thought nothing of it. A week late is nothing to me, well, it wasn't before I started having sex. Now, I suppose it should be a concern. However, when I informed her of the date of my last period, she proposed a pregnancy test. I agreed to one, just to be sure.

My period has been absenst for four months at a time before. If I am in any way stressed more than normal, I will be late or miss it entirely. If I am sick, it will be late. I was stressed towards the end of April, with the death of my grandmother and trying to clean her house out. More on that later. So, I peed in the cup, which I had to do anyway for the diabetic check. I went back to the office and sat there waiting for the results. I wasn't scared or nervous. I guess I figured I'd have to handle it one way or the other. I would have no other options but to deal with it if the test came back positive. So, I waited and twiddled my thumbs while pretending to read a magazine.

The nurse came in and gave a brisk smile, she whispered "Negative" and said I could go back to the lobby to make my follow-up appointments with the nutrionist and the diabetic educator. I left feeling fine, no different than I felt before the results were given. No huge sigh of relief, nor no sad feelings that I wasn't. Just neutral. Then, I started my period about three hours later.

I feel that irony and if it's not, it's sure something.

Guesstimator

My grandmother died on April 21st. I went to her funeral on Wednesday and said goodbye to a body, to a woman I didn't really know.

I sat at the funeral home, staring at her casket during the viewing/visitation on Tuesday thinking about what I would miss about her. My views were so negative. I felt she was this stubbon old woman who loved her junk more than anything else. She had strong opinions about the world, politics, and sometimes those views were incorrect. Opinions can be wrong when they are not based on fact, but on unobjective, false "facts." However, I wasn't viewing her in the right context. My grandmother had some money, not enough to make her a millionaire or even a hundred-thousand-aire, but enough that when people came to visit, she paid for meals out. We always went out while there. If one of her children or grandchildren needed to borrow money, she would whip out her checkbook and fill in those blanks. And while she expected payment of that loan, she had a long grace period and no interest.

I didn't see genorosity where I should have. I didn't see a woman who had a tough life and just wanted to leave something for her children to make their lives easier. She was undemanding, her only desire to choose where we went out to eat. She had friends, whom I saw at her funeral. I never met them before, and one in particular surprised me.

My mother requested that at the fellowship, I take pictures of those in attendance. It is very hard to get all those people together, espectially together while they are looking dapper. I felt very southern, having been to a southern funeral where they photograph at the funeral home, the casket, the body, etc. Very different from our version of, let's hold the tears in, let's not show emotion, and certainly do not take pictures. But we deviated. I stood poised for a photo of an older woman, white hair spikey on her head. She smiled for me and then said, you must be Amber. I said, yes and asked how she knew. She said that my grandmother talked about me all the time. I stood surprised, mouth open, and eyebrows raised. She gave a small smirk and said, you must not have known your grandmother very well.

I will be the first to admit, that I did not. I tried. She would not open up to me nor to anyone I knew. There were secrets in her that she was not willing to share and I do not know why. I don't know if it was just a generational thing, if she just didn't like talking about herself, or if she really thought those secrets would be damaging. The white haired woman with the spikes grinned bigger stating that my grandmother had told her that I was mischievous. I inquired as to why my grandmother would say that, the woman just smiled. I told my parents this information and my dad was quite confused and had no idea what his mother would have meant by that; my mom was baffled also. Perhaps, my grandmother didn't know me very well either. The road goes both ways.

I am not mischeivous nor have I ever been. My parents lucked out on getting me as a child, especially after having to deal with my brother's antics. I did well in school, did not have to be prompted to do my homework, I did not drink in high school, did not have sex until a few months ago, did not get into trouble, etc. My downfall as a child was that I was mouthy, which may have caused some headaches due to my high level decibels of yelling, were nothing compared to what my brother brought on.

So, I shall miss my grandma. She had this cackling laugh that drove me nuts. She told me to be a "Good Doobie," and I have no idea what that means, she had a house full of junk, and loved coffee with great passion. Her last words were "I would like a cup of coffee." Now, that's a fan starbucks needed in their corner. So, grandma, my next cup of coffee (I will have to add cream and sugar substitute, sorry) will be for you, for your honor. I will sip and think of you. I will stir my coffee and remember the short moments I had with you. When I pour the cream, it shall disburse in the liquid, forming an outline of your face and this is when I shall weep.

RIP Grandma Doris

Toss Up

This is going to be a grab bag entry, you don't know what's going to be inside. Scary part is, neither do I.

Let's see, what there is to share.

I nearly bounced some checks, which I've never done before. Hopefully I learned my lesson.

I nearly lost my camera in a dance club. Correction, I did lose my camera in a dance club and after crying for about fifteen minutes, having a mini pep talk with The Boy, and moping, it was annouced by the DJ that a camera had been found. A member of our group walked up to the DJ booth and heard some other guy claim the camera was his. Our friend knew the DJ so she passed the camera to him, which if it came down to it, the pictures on there would prove whose camera it was.

I drank a lot over Easter. I tried to keep up with former Frat boys and I think I held my own. It was a fun Easter since The Boy and I went to the BIG City to visit some of his old friends. They are great people.

The Boy and I broke my box spring while gettin' it on. So, when my tax return finally appears I shall be buying a new bed. I am not sure yet if it was worth it. ;)

My paternal grandmother had a massive stroke this weekend and according to the CT scan, she's basically brain dead. My dad and his siblings are going to have to decide whether or not they wish to keep her alive by artificial means. I believe they will choose not to make her body live on when her spirit is already gone. They seem to be leaning towards that. There is talk of me being a pallbearer. My mom keeps wondering if it's okay for a woman to be one. I keep telling her there's no reason I can't be one and the only reason men are usually pallbearers is because they can usually lift more weight. I would like to be one. It would feel right doing something for her.

Another note, all of my friends from afar should come visit me. :)

Work is interesting and keep challenging me each day.

Too Long

Well, I am finally back in my chair and writing again. I have missed it so much.

But my moving plans did not go according to... well, plan. The weather pushed back the move three weeks, leaving me without my computer and internet access for another month. Ugh. So, I have you, my dear readers, haven't abandoned me for more frequent and interesting places.

I am back now, hopefully for many, many posts.

The move went well. I had help from around the world. Or from two states. :) My cousin, her boyfriend, two uncles, my dad, my mom, and my boyfriend all heeded the call for help. It went quickly, much more quickly than expected. Unexpected, was the sheer amount of stuff, of things I have collected in so few years. It's disgusting. However, I seem to be only getting more. My parents, specifically my mom bought me a new set of dishes even though I don't cook very often and I have a complete set already. Oh well, they are pretty. :)

I haven't moved all my stuff in, some of it is still at The Boy's, but slowly it will make it's way over. By the end of this month I want it all in, put away, pictures hung, shelves holding little knicknacks, etc.

My apartment is very similar in its layout to my old apartment so I feel quite at home and relaxed in this one. I am enjoying my new job, though I feel completely and utterly stupid sometimes. They are just so many little rules, little tidbits of information, policies to follow. It's complex and complicated, and some days my head hurts when I shut off my computer and walk out the door to work.

I do want a second job. I have this intense desire to sell furniture. I love furniture and why not sell it. I've never had a sales job before and the extra money would be nice. There's an opening at a store right near where I currently work and live, so tomorrow I may stop in and ask about the position.

Well, this is GOA signing off until my next entry which I suspect will be real soon.