Brother

I was talking to Stacy one night about Brother, and the guilt that I carry with me for not being a better sister to him when he was small. 

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the things I did, or didn't do, as a child. 

(And then I realized that if I carry this much guilt, how must my Momma feel?)

Brother needs a job in a bad way.  Brother has a past that is fighting against him, turning leads into dead ends and favors into smoke.  Brother's trying, but his frustration is palpable, and I worry for him if someone doesn't give him a break soon.  

We all need second chances.  Third, fourth, fifth chances, some of us need. 

Of course, when we talked, I said all the wrong things.  I always do.  I forget myself.  I forget the lens through which he sees me.  I wish he didn't think I had my shit together.  I wish he didn't think I'm old and out of touch. 

I wish I'd been a better friend to him when we were young. 

He was upset when we hung up the phone yesterday, and he didn't call me back.  Of course, I was in bed at 9:45; his night was probably just getting started.  I am old and out of touch.  His voice is what I heard before I went to bed last night and as I was becoming conscious this morning. 

He could sure use some positive thoughts sent his way, or prayers sent up on his behalf.  If you've got a moment today, would you spare it for him please? 

O Brother...

Brother is home.  His first act as a newly free man was to make breakfast - sausage and eggs.  He says he was browning the sausage, and got impatient, so he just threw the eggs in with the sausage.  But the skillet was way too hot for the eggs, so they got scorched.  "It's okay, though, they'll still be good," he said.  Then he told me how, when he'd attempted to salt his meal, the lid to the salt shaker came off.  "It'll be fine, though, can't be any worse than what I'm used to."

Momma's got apple pie and chicken stew.  We're all full of tentative joy and desperate hope.  (For Brother, not the meal.  We know the meal will be good.)

If I were the praying type, I'd hit my knees right now and beg.  Oh please let this have been the lesson he needed.  Please let him understand that he has to do the right thing now.  Please let him want to make good choices.

Please let this be the first day of the rest of his life, a life full of good things and happiness and accomplishments like getting a job and a GED and a place of his own and a life he's happy to live.

Please let this be my Brother again.  My parents' son.  Our family, whole.  Please let the fear of brokenness be gone for good.

Sunday musings

I'm wanting to beat up the TV again.  It's hard to sit here and think and try to remember what all I've done this week when Daffy Duck is screaming in my ear.  Except now Daffy has been replaced by Joan Rivers, and it's not an improvement.  Oh, and there's Larry the Cable Guy.  Okay, now there's a show about Border Collies.  Finn's part Border Collie, so this is okay, i guess.  Now i want to put him through agility training.  (We couldn't even make it through obedience classes, who am I kidding?)

The water problem was solved by a visit from our favorite plumber and a few turns of a pipe wrench.  It really was that simple, thank goodness.  (Of course, that was something we learned after Jimi spent 3 hours and an entire bottle of propane trying to torch the handle off, but whatevs.)  We've not yet addressed the water line on the fridge, but we'll get to that this week.  I'm still thrilled by the novelty of turning a knob and water coming out of the spigot.  The little things are huge, you know.

I was thrilled that Mississippi's proposed "personhood" amendment failed on Tuesday.  It would've made abortion completely illegal in Mississippi, and also would've banned contraceptive methods such as the IUD and certain forms of birth control pills.  Pregnancy threatening the life of the mother?  There's no choice or option - the pregnancy must be continued.  It surely would've been defeated in the Supreme Court had it somehow tragically passed, but I'm happy to see that the people of Mississippi, like those in Colorado before them, were able to recognize this attack on the reproductive rights of women and defeat it soundly.

My mouth/face has hurt all week, but (fingers crossed) I think it's over and all better now.  I guess I just really burned the fuck out of the roof of my mouth - I've never had something so long-lasting and painful result from a french bread pizza before.

It's so windy here today - I was finally able to turn off the TV, and I hear Granny's windchimes making beautiful music, accompanied by a hollow howling sound made when the wind whips across my front porch and through the cracks under my front door.  It's a creepy sound, that wind blowing.  It makes me think of dark and stormy nights, locked away in a cabin in the woods, where some madman is stalking and waiting...but it's 11:30 Sunday morning in the middle of the South End of Louisville Kentucky, and it's 60 degrees and overcast outside and the madmen don't hide and stalk, they're out there walking the streets with the rest of us.  Or we are them.

I applied for a credit card this week.  I don't know why I did it...if I had to guess, I'd say it was probably because of the whole "what if I need to go to the dentist and I don't have any money" thing.  I know the right thing to do is to have a savings account from which to draw those emergency funds.  I'm working on that.  Meanwhile, I will have this little dangerous piece of plastic.  This is a test, to see if 5 years of cash-only living and a few really painful lessons have taught me to live within my means and not spend money that isn't mine.  Wish me luck.

I think I blinked and all of a sudden it's the middle of November.  Thanksgiving is less than 2 weeks away; so's Stacy's birthday.  Her baby shower is the first weekend in December, then there's the company Christmas dinner, then Christmas and New Year, then the baby will be here - holy crap!  Time is flying!  I've gotta get on the ball - I'm taking Stacy to a day spa for her birthday for a massage and facial (it's her 30th, and I can't exactly treat her to a fifth of Patron, you know?), and I still have to find a place and make appointments.

Brother comes home on Tuesday.  He made it.  He will be home for the holidays, home for the first time in over a year.  Able to sleep in a dark quiet room that's not shared with 39 other men.  Able to eat real food, meals complete with fruits and vegetables that grew from the ground.  Able to come and go as he pleases, without requiring a pass or a "by your leave" from a guard or counselor.  I'm terrified for him.

I went to the local coffee shop yesterday for a fix and came away with three huge cupcakes, one for me, one for Jimi, and one for Steve.  They were all three different flavors, but all three had a squirt of whipped cream icing in the center.  This seems to be a recent trend in cupcakes, and it's sorta pissing me off.  Now, a year or so ago, my boss's wife brought in a six-pack of gourmet cupcakes from a bakery near them; one was a lemon, and inside was a wonderful squirt of lemon curd, all tangy and sweet.  The wedding cake cupcake had the whipped cream icing, with a surprise injection of strawberry glaze.  Those surprise fillings add a great flavor element and are welcome and completely acceptable.  The plain ol' whipped cream icing squirted into every single cake, though?  Come on.  If your cupcakes need that, you need to make better cupcakes.

Jimi's got a list a mile long of shit we're supposed to do today.  I don't want to do any of it.  Are you shocked?  I'm sure.  I want to sit here and do nothing.  Maybe take a nap.  Then do nothing some more.

I repotted the love tree and brought it into the house this week.  Well, I actually replanted it into the same pot, but it had a nasty lean to it, so I had to add some extra soil and make some adjustments for the odd angle.  As I dropped the root ball into the dirt-filled pot, the loose dirt blew up into my face - and my open eyes.  Wow, that sucked so bad.  I was blinded immediately; I stopped what i was doing, made my way to the front door, and once inside, I stripped off the clothes from my top half.  I walked straight across the living room and hall into the bathroom, where I flushed my eyes over and over for the next five minutes.  So. Much. Dirt.  Eventually they weren't so red anymore and the tears stopped, and I was able to go out and finish the job.  Fast forward to yesterday, when I'm talking to Jimi as he digs around in the shed where we keep the gardening stuff.  I was standing on a bag of dirt, just like the one I'd used to repot the love tree, and looked down and read "Important:  We strongly recommend the use of gloves when using this product." and "Not for container plants".  It's organic garden soil.  It's supposed to go in your flower beds.  It's a big ol' bag of shit, and I got it all in my face and mouth and nose and eyes.  While repotting my container plant.  Pretty good metaphor for the whole week, really.

Jimi and I are good, though.  We spent a couple hours a couple nights this week talking to each other - really talking, like looking at each other while we spoke and everything.  No distractions of television or computer, just us, the way we used to do all the time.  The sort of talk that reconnects you as a couple; the sort that's as therapeutic as good sex.  We're always here, but I'm always grateful when we're able to take the time and reaffirm that fact.  And then I feel guilty for doing my part in not making it happen more often.  But not too guilty, because that's just life, and I don't need one more thing to beat myself up about.

He picked me a rose from the bushes that line the White Castle drive-thru.  Then we made out like teenagers (the drive-thru line wasn't moving anyhow) and got our food and came home and I put the flower in a little tiny mason jar full of water next to the laptop.  A pretty good metaphor for our whole relationship, really.

I'm in a Sims phase.  I'm addicted to this Pets thing - I've adopted a unicorn and five cats and three dogs and some horses and birds and rats and snakes...it's awesome.  (When I say I want to do nothing, that's what I really mean - I want to play Sims Pets.)  I guess I'll go do that until he makes me do something else.

Happy Sunday!
 

Holy crap the sun's not even up yet!

It's twenty till six on Friday morning.  WTF?  In case you were wondering, if you need to start your period, GUARANTEED, tell the internet you're feeling yourself up because you can't tell if your boobs are sore or not.  Or take a pregnancy test.  Works.  Every fucking time.

So I'm going to go to work early.  Or I'm going to sit here and write some bullshit till it's time to go to work, and then I'll kick my own ass for not taking advantage of the fact that I was up at five till five this morning.  Well, if we're being honest, I was up at 4 - I just didn't get out of bed till almost five, when I'd finally gave up on getting back to that dream about ...  I can't remember anymore what that dream was about.  It was weird, though, and I wanted to see what happened.

I remember what I dreamed about before I woke yesterday morning, though.  Heather Donovan.  She was this geeky (before geeky was cool) chick who went to middle school with me - The Girls and I were tortuously mean to her.  We were in the sixth grade - as I remember it, sixth grade was pretty fucking awful.  (Except that I learned the word "fuck" in the sixth grade, so that's kinda cool.)  Sixth grade was full of awkwardness and not fitting it - a bunch of hormone-laden kids bouncing off one another and trying to figure out where they fit.  We all fell into our individual roles quickly enough - my role was outcast-wannabecoolkid.  Heather was like three rungs below me on the social hierarchy scale.  She wore blue eye shadow smeared up to her eyebrows.  Her hair was thin and she pouffed her bangs into this see-through bird's-nest thing and lacquered it with hairspray so it moved in one giant piece in the wind.  (Okay, we all did that, but hers was really bad.)  She wore button-up flower-printed blouses, buttoned all the way to the top, that wreaked of her mother's particular sense of  (old-lady) style.  (Let's not discuss the fact that I discovered jeans for the first time in this same year.  For the first half of the school year,  my favorite pants were a pair of stirrup pants in some pattern that involved big yellow flowers and purple something- I don't remember what was purple in the pants, but something was, because I always wore them with a long purple shirt that I thought made me look awesome, and I never would've worn a purple shirt with those pants unless there was purple in them somewhere.)

Anyhow, back to Heather.  She showed up in my dream yesterday morning.  We were maybe at a party or something?  There was a big open room, people mingling, and then she walked through the door.  I was startled by her presence - she looked, in her face, exactly the same as the last time I saw her, but without the crunchy bangs and coke-bottle glasses.  Her hair was sleek and smooth, and her skin was clear.  Her eyes were free of the magnification of the glasses that always made her look a little googly-eyed...and they weren't held down by a gram of blue powder, either.  She was pretty.

We didn't talk beyond a "hey, good to see you" because my alarm sounded.  But in the shower, I thought of things I'd say to her if I saw her now:

"I'm sorry we were so mean to you."

"I'm sorry we put Ex-lax in that caramel cookie bar and then let you eat it."

"I'm sorry we made fun of you."

"I'm sorry we thought we were better than you."  I mean, there was a reason she was sitting at our lunch table, people; it's not like there were assigned seats.

"I hope we didn't cause any lasting damage."

Kids are mean.  We were mean.  Brutal.  I hope she's doing alright.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the sins I committed as a child."  I said that to Stacy not too long ago; I told her if I ever write a book, it'll be the first line.  Today, right now, I feel like I'm a pretty good person.  I try to leave a good impact wherever I go, even if it's just a smile or a few coins.  I've been a bitch, though; I've been a mean asshole, I've been cruel and vindictive.  For fuck's sake, I once convinced my 2-year old brother that he was adopted and mom and dad were going to take him back because they decided they didn't like him anymore.  When I say convinced, I mean, I only retracted my story when he started crying.

God, that brought tears to my eyes.  See what I mean?  I hate myself for that memory.  I hope Brother doesn't remember it.  Of course, is that better or worse?  That it could be seared into his psyche that he's unloved because his sister was an evil 11 year old?  Maybe it's all my fault he was all fucked up.

Stacy, too.  She and I are only 18 months apart; I treated her as if she were my minion, there for my personal enjoyment and entertainment.  About 10 years ago, she told me she'd always admired me and looked up to me; I've never been so ashamed or felt so low in my life.  I don't deserve her kindness, and sometimes, even now, I'm surprised that she wants to hang out with me or listens to my advice.

But people change.  We grow up and we figure out that our actions have consequences and we learn what empathy is and we start to not be assholes all the time.  I think Stacy and Brother have forgiven me; I imagine Heather Donovan thinks nothing of me at all.

I am my own worst critic, because I remember.

Yo!

I'm all drowsy from the phenergan I took before bed last night - I tried to wake up and get out of bed three times this morning, but it was so much easier to just go back to sleep, so that's what I did till nearly 11.  I took the phenergan because my belly was upset, but in retrospect I think it's because I drank that bottle of Exotic Fruits Arbor Mist - or it could've been the grapefruit-flavored beer I chased the wine with.  I should stick to Busch Light.

We visited Brother yesterday afternoon, and took him a lunch of PB&J, kosher dill pickles, chocolate milk, and no-bake cookies.  I'd intended to grab a bag of chips on our way to him, but I forgot and so there were no chips.  I don't think he liked the no-bakes (pretty sure I should've gone with only 2.5 cups of oats rather than 3), but he politely ate one and declared them delicious before claiming to be too full to eat the other.  He looks good, he speaks well, and seems to have his eye on the prize, despite various situational frustrations (like when they had no water or AC for 48 hours last week - in a dorm of 60 men.  Can you fucking imagine the smell?).  He's taking classes to get his GED, and should be finished by the end of August.  He's scheduled to be home by Thanksgiving, and I've got my fingers crossed that there won't be any setbacks or delays - it would be nice to have our family whole and together for the holidays.  

I was furious with him when he screwed up back in March - I just couldn't believe his ignorance.  But now I'm grateful for that back-slide; if he'd gotten away with it, he would've been back on the shit and back to the same old games within a week of being home.  He would've further destroyed himself and my family.  Now, though - now, I think for the first time in his life he fully understands that there really are consequences for his actions.  I think he gets it - I think he knows that he's an addict and that things that roll off of other people take over his mind and control him.  He wouldn't be in this wiser state had he not been so fucking stupid back then.  Funny how life works that way, isn't it?

We finished our visit and rode out to the Mall - Stacy and I had a date so I could buy her a knock-off BellaBand (I ended up getting her a black one and a white one, plus a super-cute maternity shirt).  I don't go to the Mall - to me, it represents everything wrong with the world - something about the combination of the shallow desperate need for things, the stink of too much perfume and greasy food-court food and chlorine-treated wishing-well water, and the teenage girls in bra tops and short-shorts and the boys with their Justin Bieber hair - it makes me feel anxious.  But that's where they sell BellaBand knock-offs, so that's where we went.  Jimi was content wandering around Dick's, looking at shoes and camping equipment, and I must admit I enjoyed window-shopping at Teavana (a new store they're opening that sells teas and teapots and tea accessories).

After shopping, we scooped up our friend Ashley and came back to the house to hang out and be social for a few hours.  She broke up with her boyfriend Friday night and needed to not sit alone in her apartment, poor girl.  (For the record, her boyfriend was a complete and total bag of roosters (cockbag) and I'd happily punch him in the dick if I had the opportunity.)  While she caught us up on the story, I drank aforementioned bottle of wine and beer, and by the time we were driving her home, I was on a total sugar-high and had a good buzz going, so I cranked up the 80's tunes on my mixed CD and we drove through town singing to "King of Wishful Thinking" and "It Must've Been Love" and "Eternal Flame".  And then we dropped her off and it's like she was my energy source; I suddenly was tired and my belly was feeling funny and I just wanted to go to sleep.  

Jimi and I had plans to see the last Potter movie today, but my slow start led me to ask if we can do it after work tomorrow instead - I do this crap to him all the time but he's forgiving and kind and hardly ever bitches about it.  He's going to see Captain America with Steve - I think I'm going to take a shower and spend my day making homemade tomato sauce for a lasagna tonight and watching documentaries on Netflix.  And reading blogs.  Because I'm just that fucking talented at multitasking.  

I hope you have had a lovely weekend, and that the coming week brings you sunshine and rainbows and unicorns.  Happy Sunday!

ETA:  I can't believe I forgot to mention the random penis sighting yesterday!  We were leaving from visiting my brother and Jimi says, "That's man's peeing over there."  I turned quickly and sure enough, there was an old man peeing on the concrete pylon that holds up the train overpass.  I kept watching him pee, and Jimi says, "Natalie, quit watching that man pee!"  "But I NEVER see random penis!"  I mean, it's true - how often do you see random penises?  Not very often, right?  

Sunday always comes with a side of guilt.

I walked the dog and mowed the back yard before 11 this morning.  Jimi made us an awesome breakfast of ham & egg croissant sammiches.  We loaded Finn into the truck and explored Jefferson Memorial Forrest. We made a healthy dinner and ate not-so-healthy ice cream for dessert.  I stripped the bed and washed the sheets and blanket and Jimi made the bed once those things came from the dryer.  I swept the kitchen floor and washed the rugs.  I ran the dishwasher, Jimi unloaded and reloaded it.  We carted the week's dirty clothes downstairs, sorted them into piles, and started the laundering.

So much got done today; I should feel a sense of accomplishment.

All I feel is guilt; I didn't go see Brother this weekend.  I worry I've let him down.


He sent me a letter.  I've not yet sent one in return.  I'm bad about letters...I start them, but I never finish them, never send them.  In this letter, he included a list of music he wants me to find and burn onto discs for him.  A page of names and words I don't recognize,

lol Boosie - Incarcerated

lil Boosie - Bad Azz Vol 1 & 2

lil Boosie - Superbad

Yo Gotti - Cocaine Music

Lil Wayne - No Ceilings

Gucci Mane - Guccimerica

Camron - Killa Cam

Young Jeezy - Trappin' Ain't Dead

What is this shit?  In the days of Napster or Limewire, I would've had it covered, but I don't know how to get music these days without paying money for it, and I'm not paying money for this music.  

I'm going to write a letter.  And send it.  Tomorrow.  I double dog dare myself.  

Namaste

(I'm assuming a lot of you are familiar with this story, as Katie is HUGE in the blogging world, but if not, the links are there.)

Katie Granju filed a lawsuit yesterday against two people who gave her drug-addicted son a large amount of methadone, which caused him to overdose.  Then they refused to call for medical help, which resulted in Henry's death just over a year ago, at the age of 18.

Today is my brother's birthday.  He's 22.  He could be Henry.  Their stories, they are so much the same.  My brother, too, is an addict.  My brother has done horrible things to support his habit.  My brother had been a very bad person at times.  My brother has been really hard to like for a long time.  But he is my brother, and I love him, and if someone did something that hurt him or caused his death, I'd fight like hell, too, to see justice served. Because he is my brother, and I love him, and he's a good person when he's not high or chasing a high.

On Facebook, Katie said something about how she'd made the mistake of reading the comments responding to the news story about the lawsuit...and because I could never not go look after reading something like that, I made my way to the comment section, too.

I wish I hadn't.  Why are people so mean?

I'm not copying and pasting that bullshit because it shouldn't have been posted in the first place.  I just cannot believe the callousness and heartlessness and downright cruelty people are showing toward this woman, this mother.  And Henry?  To so many, Henry was a nobody.  Henry was scum, he was unimportant, he was worthless - not because they talked with him and determined his views and opinions to be unimportant or worthless, no; Henry was an addict, he was weak, he did bad things, so Henry was a nobody.

Now, I'm not generally one to quote from the Good Book, but there's a first time for everything:

"Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.' They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?' He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least among you, you did not do for me.'" Matthew 25:41-45 
 
Even if you're not a Christian, you're a shithead if you don't abide by that passage there.  Henry was someone's (Katie's) child, grandchild, brother, nephew, cousin.  But for the grace of God, he could've been YOUR child, grandchild, brother, nephew, cousin.  He was a person, with thoughts and feelings, who loved and was loved.  These people who are being sued, they let Henry choke on his own vomit and convulse for hours in the middle of the floor of their house trailer, refusing to call an ambulance for him.  And people are attacking Katie for wanting those shitheads to be held accountable?

It's easy to want to blame the victim, to say Henry was nothing.  If he just fades into the woodwork with all the other druggies, everyone can pretend that Henry wasn't JUST LIKE their son, daughter, brother, sister, cousin, niece, nephew.  If Henry was just some messed up junkie, there's no correlation between him and Todd, who's the Captain of the football team, or Jessica who's Head Cheerleader.  If Katie was a bad mom, if she just turned a blind eye and let her kid become and addict, then there's no way that'll ever happen to the child of the Patty the PTA President, because Patty really pays attention to her children.

Wake up!  The drug problem is in your back yard!  Hell, it's probably in your bathroom medicine cabinet.  But no...better to pretend this problem belongs to the margins of society and brush it away from our sight; shame the "good" victims into keeping quiet to protect themselves - there is so much guilt by association.

I've lived with this fear in the back of my mind and heart for the last few years - a fear that one day I'm going to get a tearful, hysterical phone call from my Momma or Daddy saying my brother's dead; that he's overdosed, or he was robbed and beaten horribly, or someone's thrown him from a car, or he was shanked in jail.  Drugs are really bad - they make people do really awful things - and when you've got a loved one living in that world, your imagination runs wild.  Brother's currently on an upswing of sobriety, and he's making good steps toward the future.  We're all cautiously hopeful...while we're telling ourselves we're fools for being so optimistic.  This is the hilly tightrope we walk, those of us who love an addict.

Those commenters said those horrible things about Katie and Henry for one of a few reasons:  maybe they've never known unconditional love; maybe they or someone they love have/has an addition problem about which they're in denial; or maybe they're just assholes - you've got to be a special kind of low to direct a bunch of hate and vitriol toward a grieving mother who's only trying to help get a couple drug dealers off the streets before someone else's kid dies.  Mostly I think they just can't possibly understand - they can't relate to Katie's grief, they can't relate to Henry's addiction - and what they can't understand scares them, and so they attack.
I hope Katie comes to realize this before any more of those word daggers find their mark.

Try to leave the world a better place than you found it, would you please, friends?  Show some love to your fellow humans and remember that we're all fighting our own private battles.

If you want to help Katie in her quest for Justice for Henry, go here to sign the Petition, or visit Justice for Henry for more information.  

I love today because I don't have to work tomorrow.

My brother's not allowed to save any of the food we bring him during visitation - to prevent bugs, I imagine.  I didn't realize this when I brought 2 pizzas, bread and sauce, salad, and cookies.  There's a way around the rules, apparently - put all the food you want to save in a plastic grocery bag, then inside an empty pizza box, and gingerly place it in the trash.  Either have a friend looking out for you to sneak it upstairs, or you wait until later and do that deed yourself.  You can eat like a king for a day or so at least!  He said this was only the second time he's had salad since November.


I swore I was going to clean my house this weekend.  I ran the dishwasher before we left earlier - and even I recognize this doesn't count as cleaning the house.


I walked and I biked and I tried to do a 10 minute yoga program but only lasted 5 minutes.  In my defense, I don't know what I'm doing and the chick was going too fast for me to keep up.  I'll try again, though.  Oh yes I will.


This dude showed up on my crown molding just a bit ago:

He lives in a ziploc bag now:

(Jimi was going to take him outside and let him go free, but for some reason Jimi's not wearing pants and so he obviously cannot go outside.  I'll be damned if I'm going to get my fingers anywhere near this monster, so until Jimi puts on pants, this spider has to live in this bag.  I hope he can breathe.  Sorta.)

Did I mention I need to clean my house?  I should do some grocery shopping too.  I need more ziploc bags.  

Rainbows and Sunshine

I don't have the right words to express the happy I feel today.

Yesterday, one of my favorite people learned that she's going to have a baby.  (I'm not sure who she's telling just yet, so for now, I'm not naming names.)  I'm overjoyed for her - in the purest way, I'm so glad that her dream is coming true.

Yesterday, I knew I had to go see my brother.  I didn't want to, and I almost didn't, but at the last minute I knew it was something I had to do.  So I did.  He wasn't expecting me; I thought Momma had told him I was coming, which was part of the reason I felt like I had to do it - I didn't want to disappoint him.  He said he'd had a bad day so far, and he was really glad I came, because it made the whole day brighter.  He said when he was high, he'd look at me and see my job and my car and my home and my relationship and he'd think "she only wants to be around me so I can see she's better than me".  It makes me cry just to type those words.  I love my brother so much; he knows that when he's sober.  He hates himself so much when he's high that he can't believe anyone would ever love him. But he knows he's loved right now.

Yesterday, Jimi and I woke up happy and in love and the feelings carried throughout the day, without me being an unnecessary grump or bitch even once!

Today, we woke up happy and in love again.

Today, I've made biscuits from scratch to marry up with Jimi's sausage gravy.  I've washed several loads of laundry, baked a cake, marinated chicken breasts.

Today, I polished my finger- and toenails.  Hot pink.  I dig it.  I don't think there's been polish on my nails in 3 years, maybe longer. My fingernails will forever be stubs because I can't keep them out of my mouth, and I'm just not enough of a girly girl to bother with my toes.  Maybe I should work on that.  I feel pretty.

Today, we took the dog for a walk.  It was raining, but we did it anyhow.  

Today, I changed the sheets on the bed.

Today, my world is full of rainbows and sunshine, even if it is 62 degrees and rainy outside. There is love and happiness and promise for the future.

From Dark to Light

I started a detailed post about my last 30 hours or so, but then I paused to tell Jimi a story and ended up having a meltdown.

I feel like there's a big heavy wet blanket of sadness hanging on me - but none of it is for me, except maybe a little piece of that breakdown that involved thoughts of "why can't I just be happy and ignore all of this?!"  This whole week has been full of shittiness and awfulness, but none of it is mine, not really.

I haven't watched the news in 2 days, or read the internet for more than a few minutes, so I don't really know what the latest is on the situation in Japan.  NPR has kept me up-to-date on the goings-on in Libya while I've driven to and from work and to and from Kimmie's house, but I haven't yet heard/seen the results of the UN vote that was going to be happening this evening.  Jimi's watching Destination Truth From Iceland on Syfy, and really, I've already had one crying fit tonight - I'm not interested in expending the energy it would take to ask him to find some news.  He's not really watching TV - he's got it on, and he was watching it, but now he's playing Radiohead's Creep on his ukulele - and he's singing.  He's good.  It's like having my own personal minstrel.  Why would I interrupt that for more reality-based terror?

I laid on the floor next to my friend today, and rubbed her back and squeezed her arm and kissed her head while she said goodbye to her faithful companion of 13 years.  I sobbed with her.

This afternoon I got the latest on my brother, and maybe one day I'll be brazen enough to blog about it, but tonight is not the night for that.  Suffice to say there's been a setback with his homecoming plans; it's his own fucking fault; I'm pissed and heartbroken, for him and for my parents.

That's the story I was telling Jimi, the one about the brother, when the waterworks began.  There's just so much sadness, so much heartbreak, so much tragedy, so much helplessness, so much ignorance - sometimes it's all so much.

I'm scared.  Like, viscerally, makes-my-stomach-hurt-if-I-think-about-it-too-much scared.

I'm scared that everyone I love is going to die and leave me (one day, they will, unless I beat them to the punch - and that's a whole another set of fear stories).

I'm scared that my brother has fucked up his life beyond repair, or that he's too fucking stupid to realize how serious his situation is, or worse, that he knows and doesn't care; I'm scared he's given up on himself, before his 22 birthday.  I'm scared that he's not going to spend his 22 birthday at home; I'm scared that he will and he'll get wasted to celebrate.  I'm scared that he's going to spend years in prison, that he'll become institutionalized, that he'll never do anything other than exist, and marginally at that.  I'm scared that he's going to be raped; I'm scared that he's going to die; I'm scared he's going to end up beaten horribly and paralyzed or worse.  God, I'm so scared.

I'm scared that Japan is going to suffer a nuclear meltdown and hundreds of thousands of people will be killed slowly over the next 5 decades.  Well, 5 decades - or 2012, whichever comes first.

I'm scared this 2012 shit is real.

I'm scared some shit will hit the fan while I'm still thinking about planning to maybe talk about buying some supplies to put together 72 hour kits.  I'm scared that I don't have much in the way of food storage yet; I'm scared that if I build up my food storage it won't matter anyhow because I'm scared we'd have to flee our home.  I'm scared that we don't have enough of an arsenal built up, or piles of boards and windows and foil and duct tape and plastic sheeting to cover all the windows in the house.

I'm scared that we're going to go to war in Libya.  I'm scared of what another war will mean for that region, and the impact it will have on the world.

It's just a lot, all in my head, all at once.

Life is scary.  Most days I can block out all the scariest parts; I can ignore most of it because it's not all up in my face and touching me and getting its slime on me.  A gradual building up of sucktitude, this week has piled all the worst parts right on top of me - none of them are my burdens, really, but they're all RIGHT THERE, right in my face, and it's just a lot.

But I have Mista Jimi and his ukulele; my personal minstrel.  And we've got our little sanctuary here, where sometimes things suck, but mostly things are pretty awesome just about all the time.  And sometimes, I have to step away from reality, turn off the news and enjoy the lame Syfy programming (we're to Leprechaun now, how appropriate), hug that man of mine as close as I can, kiss his lips and remind him how much I love him - even if he's heard it a million times before.

You know, the WHOLE week hasn't sucked.  On Monday, my boss brought me two "Kiss Me I'm Irish" Mardi-Gras-esque necklaces, two shamrock-laden rubber duckies, and 3/4 of a dozen cupcakes.  And I've run 3 out of 4 days this week.  And Jimi and I cleaned the kitchen together and cuddled and he played lots of music.  And I spent hours with Kimmie last night, and as sad as the undertones of the evening were, we had a good time.  Here's proof:

We're ridiculous.  And awesome.

Life can be so happy and good.  

I fail at resolving things.

We're, what?, 21 hours? into the New Year and I've already messed up several of my resolutions:  I've not started the budget working, I smoked half a cigarette I bummed from Momma on the way home from the jail, and I haven't done a bit of exercise today.  No one is more surprised by this development than I.

On the bright side, I did put $200 into savings on Thursday when my check hit the bank, and two days later, I've not moved that money back into checking, so that's gotta count for something, right?  (Of course, I've not gone anywhere where I'd be tempted to spend money, but still...)

Our New Year was exactly as I'd predicted, but with the added bonus of a half hour spent dancing together in the living room.  I'm a horrible dancer, but as with the painting, I've decided I'll never get better by NOT doing it, so what the hell?  If I can't dance comfortably in my living room, I'll never be able to dance anywhere.  And Jimi's a great dancer; maybe he can teach me a thing or two eventually.

So we danced.  And I got my kiss at midnight.  And then we went outside to share the last cigarette EVER, and the cold rain had arrived just on time and we were glad we had stayed home and didn't have to drive anywhere. And then we had hot monkey sex.  (TMI?  Sorry.)

Today we'd planned to go visit Brother, and Momma called around noon to ask if she could go along too, so the three of us made the drive down, the visit, the drive home.  It was a good day.  It was good to spend the time with Momma, and it was good to see Brother face to face, to hug his skinny little waist, to touch his long bony cold fingers and know that he was in front of me, real and okay, not terrified or miserable or hurting. It was good to have a conversation with him where I not only recognized the words he spoke as being English (which was hard to do a time or two in the last four years or so), but also understood those words fit together to form coherent sentences and phrases and paragraphs of thought (which didn't happen much in the last four years or so).  Off the shit, my brother is funny and clever and a great story-teller and sincere.  He's a different person.

We're all praying that this version will stick around.


At some point tonight, I'm going to feel guilty about the no exercise thing and I'm going to either go for a walk or I'll spend thirty minutes on the balance ball trying to sit-up and crunch my way to a less-fat belly.  I won't see results immediately and I'll be pissed off and assume I'm not doing it right.  I'm guessing I'll end up on the ball because it's freakin' cold outside - down to 25, I think is what the bank clock said when we passed it on the way home an hour ago.  25!  from 60-something yesterday!  It's so much easier to make working-out resolutions when the weather is mild.

Oh, and the smoking thing.  Eff My Life, I suck at having will-power.  I rationalized that I deserved it because it was a long road trip and going to see Brother was stressful and it would make me feel better.  And then the angel on my other shoulder was all "Shut the eff up dumbass, you know you're just making excuses and that you'll never actually quit if you keep rationalizing that cheating doesn't count, that you're still somehow 'quitting' if you're puffing along on 'just one'."  I hate it when that bitch talks sense.  So I smoked half a cigarette of Momma's.  It didn't even taste good.  There was no pleasant head-rush.  And then I felt like an asshole.

And I'm scared of the budget thing.  Let's just call a spade a spade; I'm scared to see the mess I've made and I don't want to face it and if I just bury my head in the sand and pretend it's no big deal eventually it won't be, right?  Right.  Jimi's going to the Gun Show tomorrow (with Steve!), so I guess I'll spend my alone-time tackling this long-standing member of the "things that scare me" list.  Conquering fears and all that jazz.  Yeah. Something like that.  Growing up and facing the music, more like it.

But personal growth is supposed to hurt, isn't it?  Isn't that how it goes - you do a bunch of shit that's miserable and unpleasant, be it working out or sticking to a budget or suffering through nicotine withdrawals, for what seems like an eternity at first, until it doesn't suck quite so much and then one day you look around and you're thinner and working out isn't so miserable and you've got all kinds of money in savings and you've raised your credit score a hundred points and you can breathe and taste and smell better.  Years of not doing the right things pile on top of each other and eventually the world is going to demand a reality check and some punitive damages.  I'm 30; losing weight, stopping smoking, getting my finances in order like a big girl - these are things that will only be harder to accomplish and cause more damage the longer I ignore them.  No time like the present.

On that note, if I exercise for an hour tomorrow, can I skip it tonight?

My first phone call from jail.

My brother called this afternoon.  I wanted to cry; from happiness at hearing his voice, from relief that he's okay.  

He sounds good.  He sounds level-headed and clear and he makes sense when he talks.  He acknowledges his past mistakes.  He sees the error of his ways.

For now, at least.

He's not scared, he's not miserable, he's not in danger.  He feels lucky to be where he is and not somewhere worse.  He knows he screwed up and that he has to do his time.  (Those really are his words.)

I feel so relieved.  To know he's not suffering, that maybe he'll make the right choices next time he has choices to make, that he can think clearly when his mind isn't all fucked up with drugs.

Oh please let this be the last time.

Yada yada yada...blah blah blah

This getting up early thing rocks.  It's five after 7, and I've eaten breakfast, showered, and moisturized.  I've watched the news (wind chill factor today?  -1.  YAY!  not.), I've caught up on the blogs that were posted after I went to bed last night (at 9, when I fell asleep curled up next to Jimi on the jaxx sac, then again at a quarter to ten, when I woke up and realized I wasn't in bed and had WAY too many clothes on.), I've put on pantyhose (I mentioned the wind chill factor, right?  I'm wearing them under my jeans.  It's effing cold.).

I'm so productive in the wee hours of the a.m.  I really enjoy having this time to chill before I have to go start my crazy day at work; it helps get my head in a good place.  And it's so much less frustrating than tossing and turning and trying to fight for some more sleep between the times of 6 and 7:15, which had become my habit.  That only makes me grumpy and late.

I learned yesterday that my Brother will not be home for Christmas; he's going to be where he's at for at least 90 days, Momma says.  That certainly sucks.  Actually, I'm really bummed.  I miss my brother.  I'm so sad for him that he's having to spend the entire holiday season so far away from those who love him, without any comforts.  No Christmas dinner that Momma spent hours putting together, no presents Christmas morning, no 24 hours of A Christmas Story, no hanging out in the family room with coffee and games and Christmas music.  No guitar-playing, no singing with the family the carols we were taught by Granny and Papaw.  No hugs and I love yous.  I'm so sad for him.  :(

Okay, that bummed me out and now I can't remember all the other stuff I was going to write.

OH!  My little sprouts I posted about last week?  Yeah, they died over the weekend. Apparently they were not able to survive two whole days without watering.  Which seems a little high-maintenance, if you as me, so eff them.  I would be really sad about the loss of this mini-plant, but I was only able to plant like 5 seeds in that teeny tiny pot, so I put the other 83423849 seeds in the dirt of the corn plant - and they've all sprouted and are living happily ever after.  I think they probably need more sun, but they seem to be doing okay.  That corn plant tolerates anything - Finn buried a bone in it once:

A few weeks ago, it sprouted a mushroom.  And now, the little sprouts.  (I don't know what they are - I bought them at the Target, in the dollar bins - and they're supposed to be little green leaves with little white flowers.  I've only got sprouts with tiny little leaves right now.)

I want coffee.  Good coffee.  Have I mentioned it's cold here?

Happy Tuesday!

We had two dinners yesterday, one with Jimi's family and one with mine, but I only ate at the first.  I drank wine when we got to Momma's.  :)  And then vodka when we got home.  I'm pretty sure last night's depressing post about Granny was alcohol-induced melancholy.  My bad.

We're hosting a meal for our BFFs tomorrow - a brined and smoked turkey, my Momma's cornbread dressing, roasted potatoes, fresh green beans, cranberry-orange gelatin, pumpkin and pecan pies, Hawaiian rolls.  I love having people over.  I love having a house full of good smells and laughter and happiness and our favorite people.  I'm not crazy about the clean-up before/after any gathering, but that's why God made dishwashers and boyfriends, right?

I missed Brother yesterday.  I kept thinking about him, wondering what he'd had to eat, knowing he wasn't having seconds or thirds or watching The Godfather with Daddy or playing LRC with Momma and Pam and Sheila and the kids.  Kristin asked about him a few times.  Momma told Sheila the truth about where he was spending his holiday.  She found out that if he's not able to get shock probation next month, he's not eligible for parole until April 2011.  Mom handled it well not having her baby home on Thanksgiving; I don't think she'd manage Christmas quite as easily, certainly not without tears.  I'm torn between wanting him to come home (for Momma, for his comfort) and wanting them to make sure to keep him long enough to convince him that he never wants to go back there again.  I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but I want it to sink in with him that the shit he's been doing is no way to live, and that prison or death are very real options if he doesn't make some serious changes in his life.

Meanwhile, Jimi's preparing the brine, Jason's on his way over, I'm doing laundry.  Life goes on.

Jimi and I shopped earlier; Kroger was the only plan, and it was easy.  Black Friday apparently doesn't apply to grocery stores.  Well, at least not at noon.  As we were loading our foods into the trunk, Jimi said we needed to go to Wal-Mart so he could get some hardwood for the smoker tomorrow.  Wal-Mart, he said.  On Black Friday.  Of course, my reaction was O FUCK NO.  But we went anyhow, and it wasn't really bad, either.  There were not-too-far parking spaces, and the aisles weren't as full as I'd expected.  It wasn't as bad as a typical shopping trip there on a Saturday afternoon, in fact.  The huge gaylord boxes full of holiday special sale items created more of a traffic hassle than the shoppers.  I was surprised and pleased.

I was chatting with my internet British friend, and he was bitching about all the hullabaloo surrounding the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton.  Apparently it's all royal wedding all the time on his side of the pond and he's sick of it.  Guess he wouldn't be interested in knowing that my parents also married on April 29th, eh?  :)

Happy Weekend!

It's deeper than it appears

Today is Stacy's 29th birthday.  There was a birthday dinner.  She rode a saddle.  We sang.  We drank discount margaritas.  Much fun was had.

Lunch with Momma today.  I love my Momma.  

Brother was moved to another jail yesterday; one far far away.  Well, on the state line.  (The other one.  The one south of here.)  Apparently there was real biscuits and gravy this morning, and a church group is making them a real dinner on Thanksgiving, so at least he's eating better.  He told Momma to tell me he loves me.  

Dear Heavenly Father, 

Please let this be the last time.  

Please let him:

come home safe, 

get straight, 

stay straight, 

get a job, 

get his own place, 

fall in love, 

find happiness, 

live happily ever after.  

Please?

Note:  If you're related to me, or you know my Momma, and you just read that and thought "WTF?  He's in JAIL?", read this before you make any phone calls, please.  No, really.  I mean it.  

I've been meaning to blog for 3 days now about how I shaved my legs on Sunday.  Yes, it really is that big of a deal; I mean, it's practically a semi-annual event these days.  Okay, that's an exaggeration, but only barely.  Once upon a time, I was that girl who shaved, while never daily, at least every couple of days.  I always had smooth legs; you know, just in case.  But I was single then, too.  And now I live with a man who loves me so much it's ridiculous, and he says that he doesn't notice my legs aren't shaved once we're past the prickly, just-growing-back stage.  He blames it on my baby-fine hair; I think it's an extension of that whole love-is-blind thing...love is maybe numb to long leg hairs, too.  But anyhow, I finally shaved my legs, and it took forever.  I hadn't shaved them since the day I found out I was pregnant, at the beginning of September.  I remember that very clearly, the decision to shave that morning.  I suddenly felt very feminine.  If I'd had an extra hundred bucks laying around that day, i would've gotten a facial and a haircut, too.  Maybe even a manicure, even though I don't have any nails.  

But I finally shaved my legs, and I feel feminine again.  I feel sexy.  

Except for the razor bumps.  Fuck you, razor bumps. 

Thanksgiving Preparation

My mom asked me not to tell anyone about this.  Mom, if you read this, know that my intentions are good.

If you're wondering about my brother, he's in jail.  I don't know how long he's going to be there, but he won't be at Thanksgiving dinner this week.  When you ask my mom where he is, she's going to say, "He's at a friends house" or "he eating somewhere else" or "I don't think he's going to make an appearance today".  She won't say "he's in jail".  He's embarrassed.  She's embarrassed.  It's all a vicious cycle.

He's had problems for years, and he's never been able to handle them well, and a lot of his bad choices are starting to catch up with him.  Sometimes, I think he's a really bad person.  When he's fucked up, which is just about all the time, he is a bad person.  I try to remind myself that it's the drugs; it's not my brother that steals and lies and cheats.  But I have a hard time liking him when I spend too much time thinking about the things he's done.

And my parents.  Oh my goodness, my poor parents.  They've given every ounce of everything they have to try to help him.  They've paid for therapy and attorneys and rehab...and still, here we are; there he is.  Their hearts have been broken so many times I sometimes wonder if they'll ever fully recover from the damage the last 5 years have done.  Momma is so sad.  Daddy is heartbroken.  I know they're doing what I do; they're picturing that adorable little redhead that strummed an invisible guitar and tapped his little foot every time someone started singing "doo doo doo doo doodle doo doo, dooo doo dooodle doodle doodle doodle doo!".  They're wondering how that little boy became this "man" who can't tell the truth and would prefer to take what you've got rather than ask you for it.  This "man" with a drug habit to support.

How did we get here?  I don't know, and at this point, it doesn't matter.  Reality is catching up with my little brother, and my parents, my mother especially, are afraid the world is going to point a big fat accusatory finger at them and scream YOU DID THIS!!! YOU FUCKED UP!!!

If you see my mom, don't ask about my brother.  If you must ask about him to be polite, accept her explanation with the comfort of knowing she's carefully considered her answer to make sure she's not lying to you, even if she's not exactly telling the truth.

Don't blame her; this is not her fault.  Don't blame my dad; he didn't cause this either.  They both have been nothing more than loving and supportive, and everything they've done has been only with the intention of helping my brother become a man, a good person, a productive member of society.  If that hasn't happened yet, it's not due to lack of effort on their part.

Don't badmouth my brother.  Yes, this is his fault, but you pointing it out isn't going to make it any easier on anyone, and it'll hurt my parents even more.

Let's just not talk about him, okay?  Let them get through this with minimal trauma; it's pretty fucking traumatic without having to rehash it all with everyone, you know?

My Momma came over and carved pumpkins with me tonight.  My Momma is so amazing and wonderful and awesome.  We laughed and talked and toasted pumpkin seeds and smoked cigarettes and laughed and got near tears when we started talking about the brother, but we moved away from the topic quickly and continued to talk and laugh and smoke our smokes.

I made a LOVE pumpkin:

Momma made a Lady Liberty that turned out awesome and I'm mad I didn't get a picture of it.  

Then she put on Jimi's mask and danced in the dining room a bit, and I took pictures of that, but it was with her camera, which means those pics will never see the light of the internet.  

I love my Momma.  

OH!  Jimi's costume won the company costume contest.  He's currently putting on the finishing touches before our GAY BAR DEBUT tomorrow night.  There will be many pictures to follow, some how, some way.  

Just say no.

I'm supposed to pick up my 21 year old brother in an hour or so.  I'm supposed to babysit him for the weekend, because he can't be trusted to stay in my parents' home while they're out of town for the weekend without stealing something, breaking something, destroying/damaging something, or doing something illegal that could cause my parents to lose said house.

I wonder what it'd be like to be a 21 year old "man" who can be trusted to stay home alone for the weekend?  Or to need a babysitter.  Or to know that no one wants to babysit you because they don't really want you in their house either, because you may break something, steal something, destroy/damage something, or do something illegal.  And to not be able to have a conversation with people because the dope you're on has effed up your brain so much you can no longer form coherent sentences.  

Man, it would suck to be that person.  It sure does suck to have him as a brother.  It's sad and heartbreaking and depressing and scary.

I keep telling myself its the drugs.  That he isn't really such a shitty person.  But man, I don't know how much I believe my own words.  When he says that he doesn't mess with pills or meth or coke or the other "hard" stuff, I want to believe him, but if it's true, and he's really just a bad person, that sucks.  But if he's lying, and it is an addiction to which he won't admit that makes him steal and lie and cheat and generally treat everyone around him like shit, well, that sucks, because he's not doing anything to get any help.  

I don't know what the answer is.  I know it sucks to be on this end, and it sucks even worse to be where my parents are.  And his life?  His life is going to be full of disappointment and struggle.  

Don't do drugs, kids.  Don't do drugs.  

About Me.

I'm 30 years old.  I turned 30 in April.  For my birthday party, we had a cotton candy machine and a pink and purple Barbie Princess bouncy dollhouse.  "How old are you, Natalie?" my mom asked with a sneer.  "Only as old as I feel, Momma!" I answered with a smile.

I'm not married.  I've been married, but I'm not married anymore.

I live with my boyfriend.  He's been putting up with my particular version of crazy for nearly 4 years.  We probably won't get married, but we'll live happily ever after anyhow.

I don't have any children.  As far as I know, I've never been pregnant.  I'd really like to know what it's like to be pregnant.  I'm not sure I want the responsibility of raising a whole other person, though, so we'll leave this as it is for now.

I have a job.  It is alternately the best job in the whole wide world and a soul-sucking whore.  Which definition fits is dependent upon which day you ask the question.

I've never been a member of any organized religion.  When I was growing up, it was a special treat if a friend or family member would let me tag along and go to church with them on Sundays.  Yet I was raised by two parents who have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  My Granny read us Bible stories and taught us how to say our prayers.  My entire religious upbringing consisted of "Know to whom you are thankful for your blessings" and "you don't have to go to church to get to Heaven".  Now my religious views are something like: Don't be an asshole, and you'll probably be okay.

I love Mormons.  I would join their church, except for the whole tithing thing, and all the service requirements, and the religious beliefs.

I like to smoke.  I like to drink.  I like to cuss.  I'm trying to not do all of these, or to at least do them not as much.

I am tactless.  I'm an open book.  I am obnoxious.  I am self-obsessed.  I'm moody.  I'm lazy.  I'm a perfectionist, when I do try.

I love plants.  I don't exactly have a green thumb, but there are definitely shades of blue and yellow mixed in there somewhere.  I've got a house and front porch full of things I've managed to not kill.  I've never tried to garden, but I'm going to one of these days.

I want to have a year's supply of food stored in my basement.

I want to be a runner.  Most days, I can't find enough motivation to take the dog for a walk.

I love to cook, but sometimes I forget.  The work and effort required to get the kitchen clean, do the cooking, then clean the kitchen all over again...it makes me forget and carryout sounds easier.

My parents are fantastic, good, warm people.  They adore me and love me and are on my side even when the rest of the world is against me.  My Daddy told me once, "No one will ever love you the way your mother and I love you.  No one will ever want good things for you the way we do.  You can trust us always, because we will always want only the best for you."  They've never let me down.

My brother is...not someone I want to talk about.  I love him.  I want good things for him.  I want to bitchslap him.

I've only got the one blood sibling, but my cousin Stacy is like a sister who didn't live with us when I was growing up.  Maybe she went to boarding school?  A close one, though, because we still saw each other all the time.  She was my partner in crime, my worst enemy, my true bff, the person I played "doctor" with (our own version, more "E.R."-esque, that didn't involve any touching or taking off clothes), the person I got into trouble with, the person who explored The Property with me, the one who I told all my secrets to and who loved me anyhow, the one who "got" me, always.  (And later confessed that she looked up to me and wanted to be like me, and I'll always love her forever for thinking I'm cool.)

I'm a voracious reader.  I prefer books, paperback ones, but a hardback will do, and if a computer's all that's available, bring it on, too.  I don't want a Kindle and I don't want an IPad, but I will if I must.  I love to go to the Book & Music Exchange and sort through the mishmash of titles on display - and I can't walk away from the shelves until my arms are full or my basket is heavy.  I come home and line up my new-to-me selections on the second shelf from the top, on the bookcase closest to the front door in the front sitting room.  Then I spend the next few days/weeks/months making my way through that shelf, saving this silly romance for later, after the serious Oprah's Book Club selection, and then after that we'll have Amy Tan because hers are always good.

I love elephants.  My Granny loved elephants.  Maybe I get it from her.  Maybe they're just really awesome creatures.  This video makes me teary-eyed, and made me decide I'm going to Thailand on my next real vacation.  And I'm going to buy this:

and two or three like it and I'm going to hang them all over my house.  

I'm a sentimental sap.  I hold on to ticket stubs and show programs and little origami figures he makes out of the foil ripped from the inside of a fresh pack of cigarettes.  I have a treasure trove of shit/garbage/junk stowed in various boxes and drawers and bowls and vases all over the house.  In our last home, I even displayed it, using push pins, on the wall in the kitchen.  When we moved, I packed it all into a box.  That box is in the upstairs closet.  Yes, you probably will see me on an episode of Hoarders one day.

I don't watch television.  (I'll give you a minute, I know it's a shock.)  But no, I don't watch TV.

That's kind of a lie.  I watched 6 episodes of Weeds last night. We have a Blockbuster subscription and they mail movies to our house.  It doesn't count as TV watchin'.  And Friday?  When we were over at Rick's?  I totally watched a half hour of DC Cupcakes (which I'd never seen, and adored) and (you'll never believe it) Say Yes To The Dress!  (Can you believe it?  Jimi and Rick both put on their big boy panties and let me watch the pretty dress show!)  But before that, I probably didn't turn a TV on for 2 weeks.  That's why I say I don't watch TV.  I don't have "my shows".  I don't care.  It's all a bunch of shit, and most of it is gross or depressing or nasty.  (But some of it is great, like the cupcake show and the pretty dress show and the one where those people have all those kids, that one's good too.)

I'm a bad story teller.  I go off on tangents and forget the point and then can't find my way back to it and so I just get to the point and everyone's standing there looking at me like "Did you really just take ten minutes and a detour to talk about gun control legislation to tell us that cherries are on sale at Kroger?"

Now that you know all this...aren't you glad you started reading my blog?  I'll bet you can't wait to hear what kind of crazy shit I talk about next.

Sunday Morning

At 9:30 this morning, I was on my front porch, checking on the little plant I'd moved from it's root-growing cup of water into a hanging basket full of dirt.  A gold Humvee sped past my yard, and took a sharp left onto Southland Terrace - the tires skidded in the turn, causing me to look up from my little seedling just in time to see the Hummer nearly crash into a large passenger van that was coming the opposite direction.  The guy in the Hummer got out - skinny, dressed all in white, he stormed over to the driver's side of the van.  The guy in the van exchanged some words with the skinny kid in white, then got out of his vehicle and clocked the Humvee driver right in the face.  A scuffle ensued, and I went into the house to find my phone and call the police.

This isn't that sort of neighborhood, you know?

Of course, I couldn't find my phone.  Jimi couldn't find his phone.  So I kept going outside to see how the fight was coming along.  Yep, still fighting.  A neighbor walking his husky pup tried to intervene, but I guess the fighters didn't want to stop, so the neighbor continued on his morning stroll.  A white car passing the scene stopped to watch the action unfold.

Eventually, the guys got tired of hitting each other and looked almost as if they were ready to shake hands and move along, then heated words were exchanged yet again (in Spanish) and lots of angry gesturing ensued.  The humvee driver got in his vehicle, but refused to move his behemoth truck.  The van driver pounded on the driver's side window of the hummer for a few seconds before running back to his van and starting it up, then passing the hummer by driving through the neighbors yard.  As soon as the van was off the road, the hummer took off, so the van turned sharply and pursued.

Fun, right?

And then i called my Momma to tell her I probably won't go swimming with her today, and she told me that my brother spent the night in jail Friday night for public intoxication, possession of marijuana, and (possibly) possession of a controlled substance.  This, after he got a ticket 2 weeks ago for PI and Possession while sitting in a buddy's car in front of my parents house.  (The same buddy he went to jail with Friday night.)

I thought we were past this.  I thought he was cleaning himself up.  I believed him when he said, "If I work these two jobs, I won't have time to get into trouble."

Happy Sunday!