My Imperfect Life

Being of patriotic nature and also fortunate enough to have the 4th & 5th of July off, I’ll be packing myself and a six pack and possibly some of those wondrously dyed rocky mountain hot dogs out to the lake, where I’ll join my friends in using our nation’s independence day as an excuse to party.

I love summer. The burnt blue skies, the barbecues, the three-month long excuse to swim as often as humanly possible. And normally I love sleeping under the stars, too, but seeing as we’ve had a lot more humidity than normal and the lake is now a mosquito-infested pit, I’ll probably be sleeping in a securely zipped tent with a can of bug spray cradled lovingly in my arms.

And maybe I’ll just zip myself into some kind of air-locked seal when we float the river, because rumor has it that to venture down there requires first being marinated in a vat of bug spray.

I should just drive to Havre and watch the big fireworks show with my sister to spare myself the trouble, but I want to go camping, BADLY. And I’ll be damned if I let the threat of a little pesky west Nile virus stop me.

Okay, I moved past having a poisonous, three foot snake plunked down on the desk in front of me. I let it go, and if you know me you, you’ll understand I have trouble letting stuff go. But I did, in what I like to believe is a very forgiving and mature manner.

EXCEPT.

The co-worker, herein known as The Fucker (named for what I called him repeatedly, in a voice of utter hysteria) decided NOT to let it go. He thinks it’s FUNNY to see me screech and cower and stand on chairs.

Today he said something about: didn’t I see the snake he put in the bathroom? And I said I’m not falling for that shit, OF COURSE there was no snake! Ha! Good try, pal. But of course, being of suspicious (paranoid) nature, I got up to check. And there was a bucket, an EMPTY bucket!

The top was popped up, as if some reptile had managed to somehow slither to freedom. And I yelled, in a voice edging on blind panic, that if ever there was a snake coiled in that stupid fucking bucket, it DID NOT REMAIN THERE.

And he got up to come check, and started poking around with a BROOM, making noises that he had no idea how it could have gotten out, it was so unlikely, and continued looking for the rattlesnake that was loose in the office.

I was inching around, glancing in corners and behind furniture and wincing at the slightest movement, and sort of half-yelling that if I got attacked I was going to kick his ass so hard and alternatively accusing him of being full of it, or pulling some kind of sick prank.

And then something brushed my leg and I squealed (I’m sorry, fellow females, there is no other word to describe the highly undignified noise I made) and whirled, and he was standing there clutching the broom LAUGHING.

He bumped me with the broom. There was never any snake - just an elaborate prank. I was murderous. I yelled and made degrading hand gestures and slugged him a couple of times on the arm for good measure, none of which caused him to do anything but LAUGH HARDER.

IT IS ON. I don’t care that he has some kind of reputation as the best prankster who has ever worked here, and supposedly no one can best him, blah blah fucking blah. He has PISSED ME OFF. And humiliated me (see: squealed). I will find a unique way to make him suffer that will completely put his balls on the chopping block, so help me god.

This is war.

Dear Co-Worker:

I’m sure you thought it was gut-bustingly funny to bring a rattlesnake to work, cleverly (ha!) disguised in a minnow bucket. I’m equally certain that you were dying with impatience when you set the minnow bucket containing the VENOMOUS snake on the desktop in front of me, and who could blame you? The suspense must have been driving you crazy!

When would I notice? What would I say? Fortunately, your wait wasn’t a long one, because when I set the bucket on the floor (wondering to myself WHY you would set it on my paperwork to start with?) and I heard the very distinctive sound of a rattlesnake, you got the show you were expecting.

I hope it was entertaining to watch my eyes bug out and to hear me shriek like a little girl as I careened into the nearest wall in my haste to escape because you HELD THE BUCKET UP and encouraged me to get a closer goddamn look.

Please note that any future occurrences of snakes in the office will lead to a very definite occurrence of my bashing you several times over the head with something heavy, such as a lead pipe for instance.

Sincerely,
The Person Who is Currently Plotting Nasty, Delicious Revenge

Any ideas?

If it hasn’t already been made clear in previous entries, I have what are known as intimacy issues. Or whatever the PC word for being completely unable to participate in a healthy romantic relationship is.

I was talking with my friend K (she’s such a good sport, isn’t she?), and she pointed out that I never say the words ‘make love’ in relation to a sexual act. Okay, sometimes I say them, but it’s less in the sense that I’m requesting alone time with a lover and more in the sense that I’m scoffing at people who say these words and take them seriously. And I was pretty incredulous when K announced that she could see herself ‘making love’.

Because personally, I’ve drawn a very large black line - no, a spacious canyon, potentially of the Grand variety - between the idea of love and sex. I’ve been in love, and I’ve had sex. I’ve had sex with someone I loved. But I never considered it ‘making love’. K was puzzled by this, and my explanation that sex is not about mutual love, but about mutual gratification, did nothing to settle the argument. In fact, she accused me of thinking like a man. She’s right.

I realize my view of things isn’t necessarily normal, or maybe what I should say is that my view of things is nowhere near the ballpark of being remotely normal. After we talked I started thinking more about my love/sex life. I like for the sex I’m having to be with people I care about and respect, people I feel I can trust. And yet, usually after the pants and shoes have hit the floor, I pull back emotionally. It’s like I latch a gate or slam a door, and while I can continue to engage in and enjoy sex, I put a strict limit on my emotional involvement.

Maybe I haven’t found the right person? Or maybe my psychological damage is such that even the right person will have to endure my nifty compartmentalizations? Or maybe, as usual, I’m over-thinking things too much? Yep, that would be it.

My niece, who is somehow becoming even more devastatingly adorable every time I blink, turned 1 today. We had a barbecue for her in the local park, with streamers and Carebear table cloths. It was a family party, and probably the last one she’ll ever have, because she’s too charming not to have made eighteen friends by the time she turns two.

My grandma made the cake, which was one rainbow chip sheet cake with an angel food cake on top of it, with a lot of frosting and pretty designs, and a Barbie with faerie wings submerged to her hips in the center. This always disturbs me slightly. I mean, I know it’s all in good faith and cheer, and little girls love Barbie dolls, but…every time I see a cake that way I think of strippers popping out of cakes one scantily-clad leg at a time, and I want to lean over and whisper to L that NO, Barbie is NOT a good role model. Do not imitate Barbie. And cake is for eating, not for wearing or hiding in. And then I remember that I am the one with the mental problems, a fact made quite evident by L’s wide, innocent blue gaze.

Aside from the provocative faerie cake (Barbie has always been such a little slut, don’t you agree?) the food was great. L got several adorable outfits and some great toys, and I think she thrived as the center of attention, which is somewhat less than shocking considering her parentage.

As for me, I’ve got to STOP being around babies. Every time I see her I go all soft and gooey inside and start thinking I want to be pregnant and I want to tell bedtime stories and I want to plan fun-filled birthday parties! I want to have a baby! Even changing horrifically scented dirty diapers doesn’t deter me. The only problem is, I have no father for this project. And, oh, the thought of being responsible for the well-being and happiness of another human being fills me with stark terror.

Maybe for the time being I’ll just spoil and smooch L to my heart’s content.

I’m something of a jealous person. I envy the woman wearing terrific shoes, as I have a weakness for them. I’ve had to fight off the green monster when people my own age make much better money than I do. When I see my sister and her husband, how easy they are with each other, and how happy they are together, it stirs a wistful sigh. Various things - admittedly, sometimes foolish things - make me jealous.

But never, not once, have I been jealous while in a relationship. In my first relationship, I trusted too blindly to experience it. I specifically remember a night in a bar, our bar. We were out among friends, drinking and dancing. I was making conversation, and I noticed a pretty blond I didn’t know standing close to him. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t know her, but I naturally assumed he did, and that they were friends. Later, he came up to me and wanted to know why I hadn’t come over and laid claim, staked my territory, whatever. I was taken totally by surprise - should I have done that? I didn’t see the point. I trusted him to be faithful, no matter what.

I don’t think it was trust that had me shrugging when other women approached my later boyfriends.  It was more that I just didn’t care, one way or the other. They didn’t excite me enough to provoke my jealousy.

The other night, my friends and I went out. There was an older band, a really amazing one. We ate pizza and drank beer and participated in the general merriment. And through it all, he caught my eye. I felt it right away, that hot wash of temper, the uncomfortable, twisting emotion in my gut. Pure, unaltered jealousy. Enough of it to piss me off well and good, enough of it to sour my mood and have me making excuses to my friends so I could leave early on a Friday night.

I didn’t like the feeling, not at all. I’m still annoyed with myself, in fact. How dare someone have so much power over my feelings that they can incite my jealousy? Yes, I’m jealous, but not romantically. I have my standards. I won’t have a man making me possessive and stupid, and I certainly won’t have one aggravating me to the point where I opt to miss a great party. My mind is made up, and as far as I’m concerned he’s nowhere in it.

While my friend K and I were carousing in Havre, the greatest thing happened. We were leaving the mall parking lot, and a good song came on (don’t ask me what, but it had a BEAT) and I started shaking my groove thang (yes, I’m a total nerd) and there was a little old man with a cane walking along the end of the line of cars, and when he saw me dancing he actually started dancing, too! I’m not kidding about this! He shook his cane and his butt and he was wearing this big shit-eating grin, like I’d just asked him to dance or something. AWESOME. Seriously. I wish I’d had a camera.

In unrelated news, and also in complete opposition to the title of this blog entry, I am a BUNNY KILLER. I was mowing my lawn, and there were some taller weeds toward the back of the yard that I somehow missed on the first sweep, and I killed a baby bunny. A little itty bitty one, whose leg twitched until the very end. I stooped over him and apologized and stroked his quivering side until he stopped moving and I felt SO bad I even said I little prayer before I disposed of him in the dumpster. I’m a murderer.

On the plus side, I’m thinking the odds that I’ll allow my weeds to spiral out of control again are next to nothing. Nothing like a little accidental death to motivate a person to stay on top of things.

Edited to note: Could there BE anymore run-on sentences in this post?

My mom loved Friday the 13th. Every time it rolled around, she’d get excited about those all night horror marathons they showed on TV. She dragged our bean bags and sleeping bags into the living room, served popcorn and pizza and Hawaiian punch, and turned off all the lights.

I hate ‘IT’ by the way. Yeah, the Stephen King version? I know a horror movie is SUPPOSED to scare you, but I didn’t sleep for weeks after watching that. And I still cannot connect clowns and humor in my mind. My mom loved to scare us. After watching ‘IT’, she asked me if I’d ride my bike to the store and get her some Rolaids. I happily agreed, even though it was dark. And then she said, “Remember to watch out for the sewer drains!” And laughed at the expression on my face, which I’m sure was memorable. I peddled so fast that my legs were burning by the time I got home.

Nonetheless, we always looked forward to Friday the 13th. This year, instead of renting a horror movie (because now they all suck anyway) I’m going dancing to celebrate my last day of work. There’s going to be a live band and everything. Wish me very little humiliation!

My last day is Friday. Afterward, it’ll be Saturday. Sweet, glorious Saturday. And when Monday creeps up, instead of smashing my fist into the snooze button eighteen times and grumbling under my breath as I forcibly heave myself out of bed, I’ll probably get up early and top my coffee off with whipped cream and sing badly (and joyfully) in my shower.

Because Monday, I go back to my old job. Where I don’t have to read manuals all day long or endure pithy comments from co-worker G, or twiddle my thumbs for hours and hours on end.

I’m in the killing-time phase of my last week. Everyone knows this. And time is dragging on and on, and why can’t it be five o’clock yet? WHY? Hurry up, Universe, I’m ready to go home, change into my sister’s stolen sweats, and snuggle up to some banana split ice cream. Speaking of foods traditionally used in celebrations, I think the move back to my old job calls for some CAKE, don’t you?

My little sister’s tooth is broken. Her new husband sent her careening into the radiator, and it broke very neatly in half. There aren’t words adequate enough to describe what I feel - outrage barely touches the edge of the emotions corked tightly in my chest.

Worse, it gets worse, as such things so often do. After calling the police and getting his worthless, good for nothing ass carted off to jail (where he belongs), she had a change of heart and bonded him out, and now they’re together. Still.

I had hoped she would file for divorce. Hope feels pretty empty to me right now.

I walked into my grandmother’s living room yesterday, and they were on the couch, side by side, as if nothing had ever happened. I stood and I looked, and then I turned and left. I’m sure my sister knows why.

Just as I’m positive that my stance - my refusal to pretend everything is normal - will drive a thick, immovable wedge between myself and T. She has a baby now. At the very least, she should be thinking of her child, if not herself.

I refuse to smile and speak polite words, to carry on this pathetic charade that their problems are the same as any other couple’s. I will not forgive him for this. And as much as I hate to admit this, even to myself, a part of me will not forgive her, either.