I just logged into the high school's student tracker program to double-triple-octupal check, but no go: grades have been frozen until next week. So I'll just have to trust Joe when he says, "Trust me, Rory--I have graduated."
And unless his online class credit somehow doesn't post,
and unless he somehow bombed his last English project (a performed poem),
and unless we've missed one of the many, many absolutely critical pieces of paperwork,
my brother's going to pomp and circumstance it UP!
!
Excuse me--I need to throw together a commencement luncheon e-vite....
Since it's been a long and official while--and since my life is at sixes and sevens right now--I figured this post better aim for epic.
SNAP SHOT
¶ Right now I'm eating a bowl of what we just designated "give-a-crap ramen": some Lipton rice mixed with Trader Joe's soycutash. Non-Trader Joe is sitting on the ottomon a few feet from me, in the room I rearrangeda and insisted on calling "the lounge" a few months ago. I've give up on using too fine a nagging technique with Joe, so I'm not actively annoyed by the steaming pyramid of pizza rolls next to him. And I don't care quite as much as I would have thought that he has yet to put away laundry he washed over a century ago.
¶ Mike, meanwhile, is dutifully busy with laundry right now. We had a dozen loads to get through today and only a sheer force of conjoined wills made it happen. I don't feel so guilty for asking him to run downstairs for stuff now that he has to go downstairs all the time to smoke anyway. A neighbor complained about him smoking on our balcony, as all of JARM's neighbors complain about all things not worth complaining about.
I cannot wait to move.
¶ Abi is in her room. Wait a sec--I'm going to yell at her to come out here and give me an update on her life.
Okay, her life is pretty spectacular right now, except the boy she likes is being a doof. She claims it's "not fair AT ALL" because, after all, "I don't necessarily want his buns. I just want someone who isn't weird to be around."
Abs just walked out of earshot ("out of earshot" is only possible if a teenager does not suspect there'e something to be listening in on), and Joe just revealed that he'd been eavesdropping. Without turning his face away from his video game he just asked me, "So...what then? Abi and this guy aren't...going to hang out any more, or what?"
Awww.
UPDATES
¶ I live in a household where the paper towel holder can have an empty roll hanging on it for up to 96 hours before someone [besides me] might persuade themselves to change it. Dealing with this has taken some heroic mental re-conditioning on my part.
¶Joe is holding onto his graduation prospects by a pinky. A few weeks ago his English grade was lower than 30% and he'd had an F in Algebra all quarter. I wrote and begged his guidance counselor to tell me which credits my brother absolutely needed to pass to not flunk out. I wanted to be as sure of the stress-glazed situation as possible. Her answer shocked me--Joe only needed English. Not Algebra after all. And not even any of his other classes. Just English.
It was hard to decide whether to actually tell Joe all this. I didn't want him to start completely ignoring the rest of his classes like a jerkoff...but then, if he really just needed to pass one stupid class? Yeah, I went ahead and told him. WE BOTH FEEL A LOT BETTER NOW THANK YOU.
¶ Abi is a going all Wonder Girl--or at least going for "most improved." She works hard enough, she's turning into the drama geek I knew she wanted to be, she constantly and genuinely thanks me for my wisdom and effort, and she straightens my hair almost on command. We're in a good place.
¶ At least half of my friends have children by now and I adore them all. Well, except one.*
¶ My social life has more social [media] in it than life, but that's okay for right now. I'm so grateful when someone's willing to come to Oak Park, just to hang out with me or all of us. Even more than I ever have, I'm actively seeking out the simple pleasures: a shared homemade meal, a juicy conversation in a waiting room, a spontaneous dance party in the kitchen, a walk through some of Oak Park's nicest blocks.
But I also feel the pull to keep taking advantage of living in a metro area--I want to make sure Abi sees some cheap plays, that Joe can navigate the city busses on his own, that Mike finally gets to Manny's Deli. So: semi-socializing hibernation for now, more eager-beaver date-making later.
*There actually isn't one I don't adore. I just knew all you parent-types would jump down here to make sure it wasn't yours. HAHAHAHAH.
INTERLUDE
My relationshippy update deserves its own inset.
Mike broke up with me a week ago last Sunday. I didn't see it coming, and the way in which he did the dumping was unsettling and shitty to the point where I suspected a particularly nasty nervous breakdown. A few complicated, exhausting days later, he himself asserted this is probably what happened, and we were back together. I still don't feel like adding him back as my "partner" on Facebook again any time soon, but he is still my partner.
Here's a bona fide revelation, though: "still" isn't a word I've used a lot lately. Mike's changed. Changed, at least, into someone who wants to change, and that's powerful.
What's that? More actual details? Right:
So my boyfriend went bonkers but thankfully I managed to maintain my sanity and pointed out that it didn't seem in his best interest to run away from stuff like love, and happiness. After the shock of being dumped had worn off and the heartbreak had started settling in, I decided to give Mike one more shot if he agreed to try anti-depressants.
By then he was willing to agree to anything to come back home, I think, but I was in for more shock: he wasn't just willing to see a therpist and get a drug scrip--he's been willing to do everything. Work with me as a team to fight his demons. Express his feelings even if they aren't the easiest feelings. Discuss our future together as something that's real, malleable, potentially wonderful. Reach out to his friends. Think about going back to school. There's just been mad amounts of talking, lots of planning, lots of smooching.
I'm thrilled to be in his head so much more--it's like having a relationship renewed, this time with a subtitles option. If I wasn't still feeling some emotional whiplash from all the bullshit which precipitated the epiphanies and progress, I'd be ecstatic.
Nonono, hold on: ecstasy will have to wait until we're no longer in thousands of dollars of debt I just learned the existence of. That's the dirt, really: that turns out, my beloved has been getting into deeper and deeper financial doodoo since we've been dating. It got worse when Abi and Joe moved in and Mike felt he couldn't admit he couldn't contribute as much as he wanted to. Last month, he realized his next paychecks were going to be gobbled up almost entirely by payday loan debits.
I'm not mad at Mike. I was, but now I'm not. I admit I've wasted a fair amount of time this week being mad at what's starting to feel like a curse of bad luck and bad beginnings--a hex of never catching up to the sort of people who've never had to think about life in terms of "catching up".
Now my madness has mostly turned to radness: I'm determined to get our family's finances 1. knotted together better, 2. back in the black, and 3. not so rednecky-seeming.
¶ I'm thinking about writing a memoir. I already have a "can't tell if it's awful or brilliant" title picked out which I won't tell anyone except Dash.
¶ I wrote/outlined a bunch more here about my mom, my generational angst, my huge butt, my restlessness at work, my current penchant for leaving the tv on Palladia for hours. But I just deleted all that crud because I'm tired, that stuff is hard, and I want to get to this fun part:
DAYDREAMS & DAYSCHEMES
¶ I want to work in Human Resources at a huge library. I imagine my quiet and serene office, the grattitude of my peers and charges, and a clothes rack heavy with well-fitted blazers.
¶ I want both the kids to graduate from a college they still have good feelings about every time they make a student loan payment.
¶ I want to live in my friend's stunning, sunny, sumptuous home when she and her family move to LA this summer. It's a long shot that it will work out in my favor (and, since she's my friend, I'd be happy if it worked out in her favor, too), but I'm convinced the stunning, sunny, sumptuous home wants me to live in it, too. It knows I will vacuum it just right.
¶Or, I want to live in a cabin in some pretty, mid-growth woods with Mike, and I want him to have an axe because he looks super cute when he's axe-ing stuff.
¶ This is the chart-topping bestseller lately, personal daydream-wise. A bank opens up and offers Get Your Life Back Mortgages. The banker looks like Mark Ruffalo. He says to me, "You've already identified the exact number of dollars it would take to break you from the shackles of debt, from the nasty rings of poverty you've been trying to scrub off your back for years? Excellent! It's only $27,450!? That's nothing. And you're also a nice person who's trying to help The Children? Why, it says here that you even make payments on time! Let me just get my "pre-approval" stamp out of the drawer here..."
¶ I time-travel and get to share several late-night, Coke-and-coke-addled heart-to-hearts with Freddie Mercury. I've always dug him but in the last few weeks I've learned how to correctly spell his name, have tried unsucessfully to put a biography of him on my Kindle, and have watched Queen Rock Montreal three times.
I'm wading back into Twitter for awhile! I'll keep the feed at the top of Rawr so you don't have to remember (or make any effort) to keep track of me there :). I'll still be blogging here sometimes, pwomise.
20: I deleted that last post, #19. I got a kick out of putting it together, but then a few people mildly complained (they didn't want Google ever showing prospective employers anything unprofessional connected to their name, they didn't understand why they got a certain "award," etc.) and I felt bad.
While I could have just taken off surnames or actually explained myself--I did match folks up with certain categories all in good fun and for complimentary reasons--instead I just deleted it. Not just because that was easier but also because brain-sadness, apparently, makes confidence and conviction equally hard to muster. Anyrawr.
* * * * * *
21: I haven't bought a new bra in more than three years, and I only own two.
* * * * * *
22: This morning I swore to myself I wouldn't add one more thing to my social calendar for March. I'm feeling the need for more intentional home-time. Since this morning, a birthday party, a free trip to Washington DC, and babysitting for dear Oscar all came up. I don't know whether to stick to my guns or not.
* * * * * *
23: I miss Kim a few times a season. I miss Karl and Ryan sometimes, too. I miss England more than any of them.
* * * * * *
24: This week I borrowed $2,000 from a friend. I'll pay her back, with friendly interest. She's totally cool with the fact that half of it is for stuff JARM needs--and the other thousand is just for stuff I really want.
* * * * * *
25: Mike kisses the top of my head every morning before he leaves for work; most of the time I'm too asleep to notice. If I ever leave while he's sleeping, I nuzzle his sideburns.
* * * * * *
26: I almost cried with familiarity when I read this.
* * * * * *
27: I dislike the word "lovely"--and extra-dislike how often it's really the only perfect word to use.
* * * * * *
28: I never watched the original 21 Jump Street show yet am bafflingly giddy about this:
Someone asked me yesterday if I'd just run out of confession ideas. No way! I've got a running list of confessions-to-come--and even a mental trail of confessions I've rejected. It's been kinda fascinating to reflect on why I'm willing to share something and not something else.
Maybe confessing things in writing on the internet should be a universal assignment, heh, because it does a handy job forcing you examine your personal ethical framework. Don't we all think/say/desire/have/wonder/do a ton of stuff that we never share with anyone else, which could qualify, if extracted, as confessionary? [Erm, and aren't we all fascinated by our own personal ethical frameworks?]
* * * * *
Confession #19 was actually going to be assigning yearbook category winners to people in my life (based on my actual senior yearbook, naturally). Then I would confess who I thought won "Best Hair" and "Best Car" and "Best Personality." I eventually dismissed the notion because I couldn't shake the feeling I'd done something like that, years ago, in another incarnation of Rawr.
So there's today confession: I worry waaaaay too much about repeating myself, blog-wise. Even though it's unavoidable. Even though no one remembers or cares. Even though my favorite stuff to blog about is observational, here's-what-I-did-and-feel stuff, which is naturally gonna be repetitive. I don't want you guys to get bored and stop reading. If I didn't want you to read this, I'd just journal, or meditate, or shower even more than I already do.
* * * * *
Oh, just remembered another idea I rejected was a list of People I'm Sometimes Afraid Of. Not just for actual reasons like "I'm afraid you'll get hooked on heroin some day and I'll lose you completely," but for tiny, ridiculous reasons, too. Eee gee: sometimes Jennie will send me a short, ultra-dry text that comes across kinda pissed off and for a couple seconds I'll wonder if she's decided to renounce me as a best friend. (Then I remember she's just allergic to emoticons.)
Turns out, it's not at all fun to make a list like this--because almost everyone can, just a bit, frighten the shit out of me--and collecting proof that I'm insecure is lamechops.
* * * * *
On third thought, I think I'll do the yearbook thing after all. Stay tuned!
Self-diagnosing depression has felt like trying to finish a crazy-hard crossword puzzle before noticing it’s actually the Jumble. I’m not sure if or when I’ll write more about it, but thanks for letting me, if and when I do. (Man! This is when I wish emoticons were still cool.)
Hmm. Is this actually a confession? Nah. I should add some value.
Okay, I confess I'm plugging my dear friend Anne's awesome new company, Little World Peas. She's sent me a generous number of samples and everything's adorable and soft and simple and lovely. Next time you need something for a baby shower, let her hook you up!
* * * * *
Okay, that was also not really a confession, either. How about if I share something really embarassing? It's just a paranoid belief I'm currently clinging to--but one I've never admitted to anyone before.
I think Tumblr is the world's most socially significant web platform because it so boldly predicts (and embraces) a numbed, dumbed-down future where people primarily use pictures--instead of words--to communicate even the most intricate, important feelings and ideas.
I subscribed to a bunch of magazines just before the kids moved in, thinking (and later noting I was right) that it’d be an everyday luxury to have lots of glossy paper in my mailbox. When Anne casually asked me which magazines I get, I realized it felt very revealing to reveal them all (and to admit I don’t miss The Economist or Bust):
For the last eight days in a row, at precisely 8:55 am, I’ve received a text from Chase informing me that my account balance is $0.32, which is, as has been established, $4.68 under my $5.00 alert limit. Each time I think, “That’s right! And if I need that 32 cents, I’ll walk to the fucking bank and take it out!”
There's been a delay in my confessathon, and here's my excuse: I didn't feel like confessing.
Which leads me to my next confession: I'm having a hard time feeling like doing much of anything.
Which leads me to my real confession: I'm struggling with some real depression these-a-days. Brain-sadness. The kind of mega-bummer which can only be fixed with patience, professional help, and getting over the pointless humiliation of being depressed.
Recent Comments