Random Acts

I’ve been working hard the past few days, but I know I’m going to bleed any day now and make another huge, lazy mess in the house. It’s been a bad day…a really bad day. Fruit’s been mad at me since midnight and I just can’t help but be in a mad mood. The girls have been clingy today, and I know they sense the tension. Fruit didn’t even want me to walk her to the car this morning and they seemed a little lost and confused for a while after she left. I’ve been trying to reassure them…not getting upset with them when they’re underfoot, sharing my cereal, dancing with them to the music I’m blasting. But, all I really want to do is crack open a beer and stare at the wall for a few hours. It’s so hot that I had to turn on the AC. When I was upstairs folding clothes the air kicked on up there…and I knew it must be bad because that thermostat is set to 90.
I don’t know what to do with myself today. The house is actually in good shape…and the Tivo has nothing to record right now so I can listen to Lucy a while longer. It’s keeping the chatter out of my head…and I’ve exhausted myself breaking up concrete outside. It hit me that I’m a little lonely. I sent emails to my friends the other day and nobody has replied. I struck up a strained conversation with a cashier at Vons yesterday, for God’s sake, and was a little disappointed when I was all checked out. I just need to keep busy…I know it’ll pass as soon as I bleed…and Fruit’s not mad anymore…and I figure out a way to stop having imaginary conversations in my head with friends who don’t exist.

I was developing a thin film of sweat working in the bathroom, cleaning the soap scum off of the glass shower doors. I felt like a genius for getting them clean so easily with vinegar and newspaper and wondered why I had never thought of it before. I wondered if my Fruit would notice…or think it cute that I was so proud of myself for getting the same results as CLR…and how much I love vinegar. Somewhere along this line of thinking, as I was getting closer and closer to done, I remembered my mother screaming at any one of the three of us asking if she was our fucking maid. Sometimes she used any number of racial slurs instead of the word “maid”, but, I won’t get into those. We would always say no to her and try to appease her, but, sometimes I would love to go back in time and give her a talking to. I would say, “Yes, actually, you are. You’re a stay at home mother and it is your job to take care of the family. It is your job to clean up after us, cook for us and teach us to do the same. If you wanted help, teach us how to help. We weren’t born with a bucket and squeegee in our hands.” When I was about nine years old, my grandma insisted on coming over. My brother and I were terrified because the house was absolutely unliveable and my grandma was such a neat, clean and organized person. When she finally came, I clung to her the whole time…hoping she wouldn’t go into my room and possibly to calm her down if she got into it with my mother. I remember her getting on her hands and knees in front of the refrigerator and showing me how to clean the linoleum with a sponge. I cleaned the entire floor that day because she had somehow managed to make it fun. From that day on, she threatened my parents that she would report them for the state of the house and have my brother and I put into her custody. I used to cross my fingers, but, she never did. I don’t think she would have done anything that could have potentially hurt us. Not on purpose, anyway. Now, though, I wish I could talk with her about those little secrets she picked up along the way. She used to work at a hospital cleaning up and ensuring that the conditions were sanitary inside and out. I don’t know what her title was…or what she did beyond that really. But I know she was good at what she did and she loved what she did…and everyone loved her back. Her funeral was held at the chapel in that hospital and people were lining up out the door even though she had retired five years earlier. Many of her friends gave me a hug and said, “You must be Henry’s grandbaby.” and comment on how much they had heard about us…that they felt like they knew us. That always stuck with me…and for all the time that’s passed and memories diluted or sweetened with time, that was my favorite title…not C’s sister or M and V’s daughter. I’m Henry’s grandbaby, and if I have to take after any of my family, I hope to God that it’ll be her.

I had been incredibly sad all day yesterday. Even on the way home from the Farmer’s Market with Mags, I started bawling for no apparent reason. I tried to ignore it all day…tried smiling despite my mood to see if it would convince me that I was happy. I still couldn’t help it, and being congested from crying made everything that much more miserable. I’ve been feeling sick anyway…and I think I have another cyst on my ovary that is on its way to rupturing in another week or so. It hurts with every step like putting pressure on a bruise. Come four o’clock, I was determined to start cooking. I began boiling the ribs and marinating the chicken and ground beef. I didn’t realize how much needed to be cooked before going bad until after I set the ribs to boil. This managed to keep me distracted long enough to get some work done around the house. Things were still off, though. When bringing the meat outside, arms full, the screen door fell off the track and Mr.D’s eyes were the size of saucers at the sight of his clear escape path. It was just one more thing…one more unexpected and annoying thing that could have sent me into a rage. I made myself smile again, put the meat on the grill and waited…trying to be patient and not overflip like I usually do.
I went into the house to grab some of the seasonings I could not carry with the meat trays. There was an oddly familiar scent that seemed to calm me down…and I thought how nice it was that my house smelled good. I went out a little calmer and when I eventually came back in, the smell was much stronger and hit me hard. It was the smell of my grandma’s house. The feeling flooded over me and I could imagine being a child again, running up those concrete steps to the wooden gate…flinging it open, running through the freshly cleaned blankets on the clothesline and into the back door where my grandma was always waiting with a big smile and open arms. I hugged her hard with my arms around her waist as she squealed, “Hi honey!” and kissed the top of my head. All the sadness drained out of me, and I couldn’t wait to tell my Fruit what the house smelled like. But, when I came back in from outside again, the smell was gone…in fact, I couldn’t smell anything at all…nothing but the faint twinge of soy sauce from the chicken wings in the oven. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe somewhere in the cosmos, my grandma is looking in on me from time to time. Or maybe it was just an odd coincidence that I walked in at the exact time that the living room smelled that certain way and I was so sad that I clung to anything that felt good. I really want to think that it was her though, telling me that there is nothing to be sad about and giving me that big hug that only a grandma can give. You were so afraid you would be forgotten…and here it is thirteen years later and I still miss you like it was yesterday.

I’ve been listening to Mad Season this afternoon, but I really have a hankering for More Than You Think You Are. Before that, I was stuck on my old Countin’ Crows from ninety-five or so. It got me a little too nostalgic, and the furkids could probably only stand so much of my sobbing out Time and Time Again and Perfect Blue Building. Mad Season does the same to me, but, it’s actually nice to be so far from that time in my life that it counts as reminiscing rather than obsessing/dwelling. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I remember like yesterday moments listening to both albums. I got Countin’ Crows one night at Barnes and Noble with my friend Fern, who was spending the night. My dad and brother let us tag along and I’m sure grew regretful of their decision. We listened to that album on repeat all night long and knew it by heart when we woke up the next morning. Fern was the first person I was ever allowed to have sleep over at my house. I think that may have been the first time she did, and maybe that’s why it’s still one of my favorite albums. That and Aerosmith’s Big Ones…the ones we bonded over that awkward day in Freshmen Phys.Ed. Somehow it seemed more collegiate to call it Phys. Ed. instead of the P.E. of grammar school. I had to call her this afternoon after listening to it again. I’m saddened that I was finally able to get back to spending time with her on a fairly regular basis only months before I moved down here. She’s got the wedding to plan and is always too busy to make the drive on the weekends…even though I try to talk her into checking out California’s “other” wine country.
Mad Season came to me eight years later. I went to Tower on one of my lunch breaks and splurged on it. I listened to it in my office for quite a while, but what I remember most is sitting in the passenger seat of my ex’s Blazer on the way back from Vegas and singing Mad Season to my Fruit in the back seat. It fit with everything I was feeling at the time…being in love with her, and too much of a pussy to tell my ex. I didn’t want to hurt anyone involved and ended up hurting everyone. I guess I’m still a child and hopeless…and I’ll probably always wish that someone would tell me why I feel stupid.
I need to get out more…get myself away from myself for a while.

As the cliche goes, if it wasn’t attached, I surely would misplace my head. I never did fully understand that statement. One could clearly open their eyes and deduce their approximate location…I would be more concerned about my headless body navigating back to said disembodied appendage. Needless to say, I’m an idiot. Not just any idiot…a fucking idiot. I went to the nursery this morning in a foul mood as usual for the month. I got some greenage for the front yard and came home to plant them and pull out a shrub I hate in front of the door. After finally liberating the stubborn thing, I went back to the nursery to get a palm I saw for $18. Halfway there I realized that I forgot my wallet and came back to pick it up and try again. Once at the nursery, they ushered me into the office saying, “We’re so glad you came back!”. I thought I may have been hallucinating or perhaps that they thought I was somebody else. As it turns out, I left my debit card earlier. At least I left with it this time.
I came home and checked the phone…equal parts glad and disappointed that nobody called. I sat down at the computer and checked my email as I always do…but, I don’t know why. I’m always a little slighted when I find that the only messages I have are spam, and I think how I miss my friends…and I am a little sad that they don’t write more often…and I remind myself that I don’t write often either. I know it goes both ways and my friends are as flaky as I am mostly. I always feel like I’m the one who has to make the effort, so I tell myself to wait until they write to me…which is just fucking stupid…but, I can’t help it…and I really have nothing to say anyway. I feel like my mother when I catch myself doing things like that. Like how she would leave stuff laying around to see if anyone would pick it up or put it away, and then yell at us for not. I would say that I was following her example, and she would slap me across the face. And here I am, 26 and married and catching myself leaving the toilet paper on the counter to see if my fruit will put it on the holder. I don’t yell at her for it…it doesn’t bother me that she doesn’t…but, I have to wonder why I do stupid things like that. I catch myself inclined to cover something up rather than clean it on the spot, and the voice in my head kicks in to tell me to just take care of it now you lazy ass…and I do…and I feel better…and the voice becomes haughty and self righteous, and I have to tell it to shut the fuck up…and I realize…I’m a fucking idiot.

It’s my day off, and I suspect that I would have had to take it off even if it wasn’t. I’ve been completely drained all day…tired and crampy. I woke up at four with Magpie licking my hand and opened my eyes to the two of them sporting their cutest smiles. I got up, ran to the bathroom, took them potty, put the clothes from the washer into the dryer and fell fast asleep on the couch. I was having really strange dreams and started awake when Fruit closed the bathroom door. There was coffee and lunch to be made, and I had to get the sounds of strangeness out of my head. The dream is a hazy memory now for the most part. I was in an exceptionally odd two story house with my family…my mom, dad, brother and my dad’s extended family. I was very tired and kept going upstairs to sleep, and my dad came into the bedroom, jumped on the bed and told me to go downstairs and say goodbye to my grandfather before it is too late. I keep hearing that echo in my head…say goodbye to your grandfather before it is too late. I wonder if the cosmos is trying to tell me something. I almost called my dad today to get his phone number…but, I think he might be listed. After all, he is my only living grandparent. He was never in my life very much when I was a child, but, he really wasn’t able to be. He is blind and isolated himself because of it. He always seemed a little bitter and angry, but, I suppose I would be too. Going blind is the one thing that has always terrified me. I think I could take about any other affliction, but blindness I wouldn’t know how to deal with.
I’m still tired and feeling run down, despite all the naps I’ve taken throughout the day. Just an hour ago, I fell asleep on the couch with Nut. She was laying on top of me and I just couldn’t bring myself to get up.

I suppose for the past few months I’ve been tentatively attempting to ease back into a relationship with my dad. I reluctantly called on his birthday, he equally reluctantly called on mine. I called back to thank him for the gifts, relieved to talk solely to the answering machine. Then, yesterday, he calls back. It was still an awkward conversation to start, but, it was a start, I guess. All was going as smoothly as possible until he asked me if I could send him an extra satellite receiver so he could steal a connection from his house. He tried to guilt me by saying, “It won’t cost you anything and we could watch TV again.” Why should I care whether or not they can watch television? He should pay his goddamn bills so he can watch TV. I asked him why he puts me in positions like this. He told me not to answer yet and just to think about it. I asked him for my fast track device back so I could cancel the service. I gave it to them when they were visiting me in Oceanside, and I don’t want to pay for it anymore. He said that they threw it out when they wrote me off. I asked him if writing me off was easier than apologizing. He asked how much the device would cost me. I gave him the figure and hung up the phone. What a pathetic excuse for a human being.
When I came out to them eleven years ago, my mother told me that I was the disappointment of her life. I guess it’s poetic justice that in all those years of disappointing them, they do me the favor consistently in return. My Fruit would say that she liked having family here when they would come over…and now that their true nature has surfaced, I think she sees that they really aren’t family. I wish they could have been. I would love to have a house full of family, but to do that, I know that we just have to start our own. I am at a complete loss for words, and I think it would be best to be through with them altogether. I don’t want them around my children…and after this whole thing with my brother that surfaced, I don’t want him around them either. It’s just not worth it. I had a dream last night…one of those dreams that is really the replaying of a memory. I was standing in the kitchen…I think I was sixteen…and my mother was chopping vegetables for dinner. I don’t know why I was in there…I think I might have been washing a dish or something. She had this insane look in her eyes and she turned to me with the knife poised as if she were going to stab me and said, “Do you know what the Japanese do when their children shame them?” I firmly planted my feet and clenched my teeth as she pointed the handle at me. I said, “Are you really suggesting I kill myself?”. She turned back to chopping and said, “I was just making conversation.” Bravo, Bessie.
I guess it’s no wonder that I’m in such a foul mood. I was going to say it’s inexplicable, but I know they are the cause. I shouldn’t let them get to me like this, but I can’t seem to snuff that burning little ember of hope that they could just be my mom and dad. I know they will always dissapoint me if I keep wishing for the impossible…and if writing me off was so easy for them to do…so much easier than apologizing, then perhaps I really should do the same.

When we took Nut to get spayed last week, they told us that we couldn’t bathe her for two weeks after the surgery and charged us $50 to do it prior to the procedure. It felt like the canine equivelant of the Clinton haircut debacle, but, it was definitely needed. I’ve been keeping an eye on her…trying to make sure she doesn’t run and jump too much (right, keep a puppy from running and jumping) and have just the last few days been giving her a bit more freedom outside. I can’t keep an eye on them all the time. I try, but I can’t. Sometimes she digs. Sometimes the neighbors fill the hole between our fence with water. Sometimes she plays in the mud. One week to go, five minutes out of my sight, two seconds from pulling out my hair, she did the inevitable. Snout to tail, covered in mud. She is now in the garage with her slightly less muddy sister. I’m going to keep them in there until I’m damn good and ready to bathe them. I called the Vet and asked them what to do, because she absolutely is getting bathed whether I have to tie a plastic bag around her waist or not. For $50, that bath should have come with a force field to deflect dirt for the two week period following. Somehow, I have to get her free of dirt, and then I have to keep her still long enough to dry the incision with the cool setting of the hair dryer. If she isn’t scared of the vacuum, this may not be so hard…although, the blowing of air is probably more of a canine repellant than the sucking thereof. What’s a mom to do though, right? Monday, it was Mags and the squirts…today it’s Nut and the mud. I can’t help but wonder what a baby would be throwing into the weekly filth variety mix. I guess this is just good practice. I’ve put my hands in so much disgustingness already that I don’t even think twice about putting my hand under the mouth of a gacking cat to protect the couch or carpet anymore…and a baby spitting up on her mom, and subsequently the floor at Costco the other day made me smile…although, the bagger with the paper towels did not share the sentiment. I guess the only complaint I have is that there just aren’t enough hours in the day to get to everything.
Meanwhile, I have a few baths to give.

Millions of thoughts have been racing through my head today. It’s finally been so much cooler during the day that I can do more than sluggishly slither around the house like I had been during that horrendous heat wave. These are the good days…the days when the music is loud enough to cover my footsteps and let the girls stay asleep. I was able to sneak upstairs with the laundry and fold the entire basket, all the while singing along to matchbox and playing with Mr.T when the notion struck him. I don’t get to spend nearly as much quality time with the boys as I used to and I feel guilty. Tucker and Dante have each other, so I don’t worry about them so much…and the girls demand so much of my attention that it’s hard to break away. I got a solid chunk of time upstairs, though…and I knew that the second the music stopped, Nut would awaken and start her mad search for mommy. The better concealed I am, the more she squeals with excitement when she finds me. It’s adorable, but sometimes I wish she could have slept just a little while longer…or at least that I could have swept the floor before she could be all over the broom.
I was folding towels mostly and went off on a mental tangent of how odd it was that I know which towels are mine and where they came from. I recognized the ones from my first apartment…the ones I bought at the 99 cent store when I realized that there are so many little things you need when you’re on your own…so many little things that were taken for granted before. Surprisingly, those are the ones that have held up…tattered as they are. The red one with a giant hole in it I bought from Cost Plus with one of my former co-worker’s discounts when I moved to my second apartment. It was part of a feeble attempt to accessorize the place. The ex burned the hole in it with bleach. Come to think of it, she burned a lot of stuff with bleach…some of my favorite clothes included. Why haven’t I thrown it away? Then I tell myself to just cut around it and re-sew it…it’s a rag, after all. Do these thoughts go through everyone’s head? Am I just mentally defunct?
It’s 4:30 and I have some vacuuming to do…and another load to put in the wash. Dinner has yet to be cooked and I have some fresh ghee on the stove waiting to go into one of the glass jars I washed today. My dad’s voice rang in my head as I was rinsing out the remnants of whatever product they once contained…”You’ve gotten quite domestic”, he said. To which I replied, “Indeed” as if I were Teal’c…and thankfully the reference was lost or my true geek nature would shine through. Or, at least I couldn’t pretend that it doesn’t. I flashed back to our old house on Gothic Avenue where he would occasionally make marmalade, and I’d make hime explain to me every time why he boiled the jars…not because I had forgotten, but because I knew it made him happy to teach me. Maybe I should make some preserves…maybe some mango or something. Or, maybe I should just get my fat ass back to work.

I’ve been desperately trying to figure out a routine that works…but, I can’t quite seem to summon the energy to do everything I want to do. Maybe it’s because I’m just inherently slow at everything…or maybe it’s because I’m immature. My Fruit talks about her mother in a constant state of working, taking care of the house at seemingly superhuman pace. I had felt that she might perhaps be exaggerating, but upon visiting it was clear that the woman never stops. I’m 26 and don’t have that kind of energy or discipline. Maybe the latter comes with age, and maybe the former is because I’m so fat…maybe I’m just making excuses. This house is a full time job…if not for the square footage alone, then for the four-legged children constantly making messes and demanding attention. If one isn’t on a counter, one is underfoot, if not under foot, on the carpet shredding paper, wood or a dryer sheet on my freshly vacuumed or swept floor. I love taking care of these guys, but sometimes I wonder where all the time goes.
The office I put together is officially a mess, and I’ve fallen down on the laundry because I’ve been trying to adhere to the goddamn before ten and after seven decree made by edison. I’ve already started the laundry today and I’m not going to stop until it’s done. After all, we haven’t run the AC in a few days and my Fruit put up the new ceiling fan in the living room. I have got to get this place in order. I have another lovely case of PMS and I’m trying to ignore that it’s slowing me down…because I’m entirely too moody for anyone’s good and I’m completely intimidated by all the work I have yet to complete. I guess it’s a plus that I remember and notice things now…moreso than a few years ago. Now I just need to figure out a way to pull them out of the tailspin in my head and put them in their place. Maybe bleeding would help, too.