Monday, December 20, 2004
I wouldn't call it a depression, or even a 'funk'. Just a sense that something is missing. The magic I remember as a child, when I swore that I had heard Santa Claus and his reindeer on the roof, has faded away, and I desperately want to have that feeling back. I'm sad because I mourn for the excitement of Christmas morning (no pun intended) and the rushing downstairs to see what Santa left.
There isn't much that I really need to ask for. I have a great family who I enjoy spending time with. I've been fortunate enough to be self-sufficient and provide for my own home. I am relatively healthy - except for those few pounds that like to stay around.
I think what really has me down is that I look around at the things that I've accumulated over the span of 30 years, the family that will love me no matter what, and yet I still feel alone. Where's the boyfriend you ask? Well, that's a damn good question.
The seperation is growing between us. He's been at his mother's place while he begins to sort his life out. He's job hunting and soul searching - and I am fully supportive of that. I think it's about time that he's taken this step for himself. It should have been done over a year ago. But in that year that he wasted finding a place for himself, I've been excelling. Now I feel that the seperation, much more than physical distance, is now too wide to bridge.
What makes this all so frustrating to me is that I know he's trying, so I don't want to be yet another person in his life who's given up on him. He does a good enough job of giving up on himself. But I'm not happy in this relationship - I can hardly call it that anymore. It's not the person he is - because I love that person, but is the way he views himself and his worthiness that puts the strain on me. I want an equal partner. I want to be challenged and encouraged. I want to explore the world around me and I want to do it with someone who is not afraid of taking chances. With Jim, I have my doubts.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
I love the intensity in which its said - regardless of the context. Just the shape of the mouth to make the 'F' sound is so forceful, that sometimes I can just say 'F!' as opposed to acutally saying Fuck (especially at work). It still get's my point across.
Fuck is just fun to say. I like how it takes on various meanings and connotations and it is instantly recogizable. For example:
Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
It just rolls off my tongue so easily. Like poetry - from your local truck stop.
Now, I'm not a vulgar person really. People don't normally associate me with having the mouth of a sailor. You might hear me say 'crap' more often than a carelessly spewed 'shit' or 'dammit'. The latter two are said too quickly. There's no time to really reflect on the word. 'Crap' is a little better in that it allows you to intensify the amount of crappiness just by how long you hold the 'a'. Another example:
'Craaaaaaaapp!' would be appropriate for forgetting your wallet at your desk when you're at the register in the cafeteria.
But the Hosannah of all curses is 'Mother Fucker'. That is saved for special occasions, such as for the asshole that cuts in front of you when you've waited for a quarter mile line to get off the exit ramp of the highway. It holds the top honor because it allows you to trail off the final 'er' into a loud, primal scream that holds as long as your lungs can supply breath.
Sometimes I say 'fuck' when I'm alone at home, just so I can hear my own voice. It makes me feel alive.
'Fuck' doesn't always have to be said in anger. Apart from the obvious horny command 'fuck me', or the juvinile retort 'fuck you', there is also the endering 'fucker' that I normally reserve for my pets.
"Hi fuckers! What are you up to today? You like your food?"
So, as I've shown, curses no longer need to be reserved for women with questional morals, New Jersey mobsters or acne-scarred teenagers hanging out at the corner smoking cigaretts. They can be a part of mainstream America. 'Fuck' especially can be the cherry on top of an otherwise bland vocabulary.
Fuck you very much and go fuck yourself.
After I thawed out in the office of the garage, the mechanic told me that they did find something wrong with the car. The whatcha-ma-call-it was bowed out, thus flooding out my engine as I started it. And they also found that the wires connected to the thing-a-ma-gig was all crapped out and needed to be replaced.
Oh. Ok. Sure.
So I took my car-less self and walked back home IN THE COLD where I could call my brother to pick me up and bring me to my parent's house where I could borrow my dad's pickup truck.
When all was said and done, my car is now one happy little bucket of bolts. I have her back and she starts up on the first try. Her engine just purrs and and the pickup is great. All she needed was a little TLC. I know the feeling.
Monday, December 13, 2004
This morning I hopped in my car all ready to go to work. I had a hair cut and this really cute pink wrap on that I was just ready to flaunt. However when I turned the key, my car would try with all it's might to wake up, but the engine just never turned over.
I tried for about 20 minutes to start my car but nothing changed. I had to resign to calling up the service garage at the end of the block to have them help me out. Apparantly, it was a busy morning for cars not starting. By 8:20 AM, they already had 4 phone calls. They didn't do tows, but since they were so close, they were going to send someone out to me to jump start my car so I can drive it back to the garage.
A half hour later, I see a red truck cruise down my street, but as I ran out the front door he was gone. I saw him drive to the other streets in my area, but he didn't see me waving my arms. This happened three times. Then I saw him turn out of my complex back to the garage. The garage called me back and I told them that I'd seen the little red truck drive by many times, but he never stopped.
Finally Jim the truck guy came over, hooked my car up to the battery charger and I tried to start up my car. Nothing different. Jim said that the battery was fine, but it might be the fuel pump, or the ignition somthing-or-other. Great.
I got the number for the tow service so they can carry my car the 100 yards to the service garage. The cost for this little adventure - $50. And what sucks even more is that I'm not covered for roadside assistance until my new auto insurance kicks in next week.
I went into the service garage office while the tow truck dropped off my car in the back. A few minutes later, the mechanic came in and told me, "Would you believe that your car started right up? As soon as it came off the truck, I tried it just to see what was going on, and it started."
My car is a tempermental, little bitch! She got brand new tires last week and a tune up about 2 weeks ago. What else does she want? I bet she just wanted to get a little lovin' under her hood. Feel of warm grease against her gears... Hmmm. Maybe she has something there.
Well, since I'm already paying for the tow, I'm having her looked at anyway. I just hope my car gets this out of her system because I will not tolerate any more outbursts. It will be straight to the parking lot without any oil change if she's not careful.
** Update **
6:00 came and there was still no phone call about the car, so I called them. They weren't able to replicate the problem. My little Sunfire Slut started up every time for them. So I guess that's good for me - nothing has to be fixed. But I'm letting them keep her overnight for observation. If she starts up tomorrow morning after a cold night with no problems, she's really going to get it!!
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Tonight my mom hosted dinner for my whole famly: my aunts & uncles, my cousins and their kids because my grandmother was going back to her home in Puerto Rico. My dad is really a big kid trapped in a grown man's body. He loves playing with my cousins' kids. I know my parents are just waiting for them to become grandparents, but first things first.
This afternoon, dad came home with a big moving box.
As soon as he brought it in the house, I got to work preparing it for a cool playhouse. I cut out the front door and window. Above the door, I added a cute little lookout window with shutters. I even put in a flashlight in the roof so there would be light inside. I had so much fun putting it together that I was upset that I wasn't able to play in it.
When the kids came over I could barely wait for them to take off their coats. "Hurry up. Uncle Nelson brought a surprise for you!"
I brought them over into the spare room where I had the playhouse set up and when they saw it their eyes light up. "Wow!" Right away, they crawled inside, peeked out the windows and got to work decorating the inside with the crayons that I left for them.
For hours they played in their imaginary world, and I remembered when I used to build forts out of the couch cushions, when the backyard became another world, when a cardboard box was the biggest treasure you could hope for. I missed those days. Now my 'box' comes with drafty windows, maintenance fees and a mortgage.
But this coding thing is addictive. It actually pissing me off. I try and adjust one thing, so I attempt to find the source within the CSS and it winds up throwing everything else off. To hell with it. I will drag myself away from here, force myself to have some brunch and clean myself up for the rest of the day.
Tomorrow my grandmother leaves to go back home to Puerto Rico. It's a big send-off dinner at mom's and the whole family is sure to be there.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
This is the photo I used on my Christmas cards this year. I figure everyone else sends out pictures of their kids for the holidays. Well, me being childless didn't want to miss out on all the "Look at this cute kid" moments. So I bombarded my friends and family with a Christmas photo of me when I was 7 months old.
So here I am, 10:26 on a Saturday night, and instead of spending time with my boyfriend (where the hell is he anyway?) or doing any of the holiday crafting that I was meaning to do, I'm clicking away at my keyboard.
It's funny... 15 years ago it was the social kiss of death to be home on a Saturday night. Even if there was nothing to do, just driving around town with your friends was better than sitting home. As long as you were seen crusing the strip, you could go to school on Monday knowing that you survived social leporacy for another week.
I wasn't a complete potato today. I got up early, as if I was going to work. By noon I made breakfast, cleaned my hall closet, finished a book I was reading and had ample time to mope around in my pajamas. Determined not to spend the entire day at home, I went to the library to get a new book, went to Bed Bath & Beyond for some new towels and went to the movies. I didn't expect to like National Treasure, but I really enjoyed it.
Now I've earned the right to slip back into my pajamas, make some hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and hop into bed to read a book. And quite honestly, I can't think of a better way to finish my day.