Today’s theme is “a song that reminds you of yourself”. But I’m gonna cheat and make my own category. Similar to one we’ve already done, really. But different enough.
Leaving town tomorrow, but I’ll be back on the 17th/18th.
So how about…
Day 30: A Song to Kickstart Vacation
What would you choose? And I promise to catch up with replies upon my return. Y’all have been wonderful, and I’ve missed you.
Day 28: A Song By An Artist Whose Voice You Love
What the hell kind of question is this? Obviously, I only listen to music by artists whose voices I loathe. Pfft. Who listens to music they enjoy? Fucking peasants, that’s who.
Seriously. This one is stupid.
Instead, how about a song I recently Shazammed because I thought it was lovely and I’d never heard it before. And its fucking beautiful.
“Still” by Niall Horan.
Your turn.
Doing today’s post from my phone. Which is a royal pain in the ass, but I’m being lazy and also don’t wanna miss a day this month. So this is my compromise.
Day 25: A Song You Like by an Artist No Longer Living
There are so many, so so many. But, as I’m on my phone, I’ll just pick one. And since I can only choose one, it’s gonna be “Space Oddity” by the late David Bowie. This one could also double as an entry for the day that called for a song that has multiple meanings for me. Have a listen.
What would you choose?
I’m cheat-blogging. It’s 9:52 PM on Day 16. But I’m going out of town tomorrow (now today) and won’t have time to do this. So I’m scheduling this post. Haven’t done that in years. Anyway, I’m saying all of this as present me, but you’ll be reading it in the wrong tense by the time it posts. My bad. But at least I made sure to do the thing! So there!
Let’s get to it.
Day 17: A Song You’d Duet in Karaoke
Okay, first of all, I don’t karaoke. Second of all, I don’t karaoke. Third of all. Okay, okay, you get the point. But if I did? I wouldn’t.
Shit, I hate this one.
Uhm.
Uhhhh.
How about this one?
Is that a duet kinda song? I suppose it could be. I mean, there are two characters. But. Shit, I dunno.
What would you perform a karaoke duet to?
Today, I’ll be posting the first song that pops into my head. No thought given here. Today, I’m posting simply for the exercise of not missing a day as I attempt to establish blogging as a habit again. My eldest cat passed away today, and I’m sure to write about him soon. But for now, I’d just like to go to bed and curl up with his pillow.
Day 5: A Song that Needs to be Played Loud
She came over last night. Texted first.
Hey you gonna be home 2night?
Yes, I’ll be there by 7 for damn sure – hopefully sooner. What’s up?
Holler when you get settled we can have a nightcap
Sounds good.
~
I’ve only met her twice. She lives across the street and is a friend of my roommates. We sat outside, laughing and toking and sipping alcoholic beverages, trading stories around a fire. (Well, I mostly listened and laughed as Sal and one of my roommates traded stories and bantered.)
I’d ignored her Thanksgiving text.
Hey this is sal across street. I’m making yummy food & watching football if you wanna come over
I heard the soft alert. Picked up the phone. Discovered my roommate must have given Sal my number. Swiped to read the text. Read the text. Turned the screen back off. Flipped my pillow over for a new, cooler side. Smooshed my face back into said pillow. And went back to sleep.
Though I apologized only a couple hours later and was honest about what my day looked like (this time of year is rough on me, y’all, but she was also alone), she hadn’t spoken to me since. And, of course, I’d read into that, but I shouldn’t have.
So this time, I immediately responded. “Sounds good. :-),” was my reply, even though it didn’t. Sound good, that is. It’s fucking cold out, and I knew she’d wanna hang outside. I was hungry. Grumpy. Sleepy. Itching to read my third book in as many days.
But Sal is lonely…no, starved for attention and affection is more like it. Polite. And harmless, if occasionally flirtatious. The roommate she’s closest to was out of town, and the other roommate hides in his room more often than not. So this would just be me. Me and Sal.
~
I get home from work, tend to the kittyboys, bust out the leaf blower to clear the back patio and pool cover, use the bathroom, wash my hands, pop open a sour, and let Sal know I’m home.
I perch myself on a kitchen stool and try to focus on the words of the book in my hand as I wait. Half an hour. Not really frustrated, but wishing I knew if I had time enough to eat.
I’m out back
As I’m opening the sliding glass door from the dining room to the patio, I see Sal standing there, slightly stooped over and cupping her hands to coax a flame from her lighter to the tip of her cigarette. She’s tall: a good six inches taller than me, at least. Sturdy, but not in the way “creative” authors use “sturdy” as some innovative and less-offensive term for “fat.” No, the woman is sturdy. Strong. I don’t know what hair, if any, she has. It’s winter, and I’ve only ever seen her with a hoodie on, over a beanie. No stragglers peeking out. She’s wearing tan colored overalls. The hoodie she’s donned over that is orange, and her beanie is gray. Fuchsia slippers adorn her feet. That’s right: slippers.
She has some mystery foot ailment, you see. I heard hints at it on the first night I met her, but last night she explained.
Doctors don’t know what ‘n the hell’s wrong with my feet. Open wounds. Blisters-like, but not blisters. They’re hard. Can’t stand them fuckin’ shoes any more’n I have to, so I put on my slippers soon ‘s I get home. Reckon I’ll lose my feet one o’ these days. But for now, these slippers sure are nice.
Sal, would you like to sit down?
Naw. I’m use ta standin’, but thanks.
Sal fires up a joint and puff-puff-passes it right on over to me. Of course, I oblige. And she chats.
And chats.
And chats.
That’s all Sal wanted, really, all she needed: someone to talk to. Not necessarily with, but to. And to know that that someone was listening, actually and actively listening. She’d first arrived under the pretense of borrowing something from one of the sheds.
Promise I have permission. Told her I needed a scale, and she says there’s one on the shelf in her shed.
HOLY shit! Holy SHIT! *Sal emerges from the shed, holding aloft a bulky black scale.* I told her it was for WEED. I could stand on this thing! I mean, I’d break the motherfucker, but point is I could fit both my feet on this som’bitch.
That scale was a source of random jokes over the course of the next hour or so, but her true purpose was to chat. No, to not be alone. If only for a little while.
~
The longer she was there, the happier I became. And not because of the herb. I didn’t let myself partake enough to be too far gone. I just became aware of how special it was to her to not be alone for a while, and I indulged in that feeling a bit myself. Allowed myself to be happy and present, rather than silently willing time to fast-forward to a not-so-distant future point when Sal’d be gone and I’d be alone again.
Sal’s forty-nine years old. Did I tell you that? A forty-nine year old self-described “uber butch” lesbian, who tries really hard not to flirt with me but would “eat [me] from sundown to sunup” if I let her. She’s actually cut it out, so I can relax and enjoy conversing. (First night in her presence was rough, lemme tell ya. She was relentless.)
She filled me in on weighty chunks of her life story last night.
Her father molested her as a child. For ten years. Ten. Fucking Years. The state finally found out when she was twelve. (That’s right. TEN. YEARS. By the time she was TWELVE. Let that shit sink in.) No thanks to her mother, who knew all along and said nothing. Did nothing. She was placed in foster care, group homes, but ran away and struck out on her own at sixteen.
Her relationships have composed of a series of women whom she busts her ass for, remodeling kitchens, constructing retaining walls, designing elaborate landscapes, building furniture to desired specifications, staining and restaining this surface and that. Only to be brushed aside when the last project on the list gets checked off. The last one was so nuts, she locked Sal in their bedroom (with her own children witnessing it all) for twelve hours. Barricaded her there. Then called the police on Sal and had her jailed, making all these wild accusations about her life being endangered. Even the woman’s kids reported on Sal’s behalf that their mother was the crazy one, here.
~
There were tears in Sal’s eyes as she told me of her adoptive parents. She’s going to live with them in Upstate New York, where she’s from. Moving sometime before Christmas.
She just met them a couple of months ago and went to visit them for a couple of weeks.
My dad has cancer. I know this is gonna sound bad but I don’t mean it but I do but I was hoping that som’bitch would die while I was in the area. So I could poke that motherfucker and make damn sure he’s really dead.
Turns out, the woman watched Sal grow up. She was married to Sal’s father before Sal’s mother was. Sal’s father cheated on her with Sal’s mother. This woman never had children and always hated the way Sal was treated. Watched her grow up…from a distance. Even attended her ballgames. But never said a word. Not even when Sal could have used somebody when she went into the system at twelve.
But the woman is there for Sal now. The woman and her husband, both. And they’re – no shit – adopting Sal. Formal, legit, legal papers are being drawn up, so Sal will have the family – the parents – she’s always longed for. She already calls her “mama.”
She was so excited. So fucking excited. Her eyes were filled with it – this giddy, unvarnished excitement that we tend to call “child-like.” But why can’t adults feel that way, too? Yes, there’s a lot to Sal that can be considered “child-like” and under-developed. But she’s also a grownass woman, one that has lived her whole life in search of someone to love her. Need her. Cherish her. Value her. Parent her. Nurture her. And by god, her excitement and relief and hope and regret and optimism and fear were palpable. Palpable.
She tried to apologize, and I had to stop her. Express to her how special this all is and how I’m sharing in her excitement and hope.
You’re fun, Stephanie. *smiles genuinely at me* Really fun. This was fun – thank you for talking to me.
No, Sal. Thank you. Really.
~
Sal left me with more jokes about the incongruous scale, hopes that her old beater truck is up to the several-hundred mile journey ahead, and half a joint.
I shall enjoy it this evening, while reflecting on Sal and her journeys past, present, and future. And the little, tiny slice of her life I’ve gotten to share in before she moves on to her next chapter.
Or perhaps I’ll invite her over and actively engage…save the reflecting for days Sal-past.
Have you ever heard the supposed-Italian proverb, “A bad beginning makes a bad ending”? Well. You’ve heard of it now, and it gives you a succinct understanding of where this is headed: a bad ending. (Or was it?)
Trigger Warning
Before we go any further, I wanna break my own “rule” of not saying “trigger warning.” I haven’t been around for a while, and there may be new people lurking that don’t know to expect to be triggered. Telling you now, expect it. I don’t know if it will be in this part or the next, but I will be talking about abuse (physical, psychological, emotional, sexual). I will be talking about substance abuse: i.e. alcoholism/a raging alcoholic and meth. I will be talking about severe Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). I will be talking about theft. I will be talking about infidelity. I may be talking about rape. There. That should give you at least an idea of what to expect. So move forward with caution, or not at all. Totally cool.
Happy Birthday to Me
I met Dirk (that’s his name now) the day after my birthday last year. That’s July 2017. We were supposed to meet the day before, on my birthday. He changed plans at the last second. (Red Flag #1 – don’t worry; I won’t be counting those. There aren’t enough numbers to cover them all.) He was late, and I had to wait for him. (Red Flag #2) He’d already been drinking by the time he got there. (Red Flag #3. Okay. I’ll stop. You get the point, and so did I. I just chose to ignore it.)
I was wildly uncomfortable, because it was clear, straight away, that I was on a date with someone whom was exactly opposite my personality and not at all my type. He was wild, outspoken, obnoxious, mouthy, and such a fucking bro…but also jocular, incredibly charming, and dead fucking sexy.
So I stayed. Against my better judgment, which was screaming at me and pounding away at the door to my common sense. I locked that bitch and stayed.
And So It Begins
Thus commenced the maddening, ill-fated relationship that followed. What came next was a series of random, unscheduled, nights spent together. Yeah, I’m not gonna go into detail on that. For your sake and for mine. Let’s just say, I’ve dubbed him Dirk for a reason. And so I had fun. I worked hard to separate my heart from it all and remain emotionally divested. It worked, for a time. It worked until he decided he needed to draw me closer to use and manipulate me more thoroughly and efficiently.
It went like this: Random Tuesday night, I get a call. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Random Thursday night, perhaps a week later, I get a text. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Perhaps a week or so would pass. I think I’ll never hear from him again. I’m strangely happy about that. Though I was having fun, his personality was so fucking intense, I could only handle it in small doses and was always relieved when he was gone. Random Saturday afternoon, I get a text. Yeah. You get the idea.
This went on for a couple of months. Until one day, the text was something like, “I miss your face. I miss your gorgeous smile and your awesome fucking giggles and your dimples. I need to see you.” (I don’t have dimples.)
Uhm. What? Really? Since when do you say shit like that…my eyebrows are raised, and I’m skeptical. But flattered. And charmed.
“I’m fucking serious! Can I come see you?”
Duh. I mean. It’s been a while at this point, and I could use another marathon Dirking. “I’m warning you if you say yes, I’m gonna stay a while.”
How long is a while?
“I dunno couple weeks”
You sure about that? Just a couple weeks?
“Yup, I gotta be on the road soon, so it can’t be longer than that.”
~
And so began Part 3: Cohabitation. Not trying to be all cliff-hangery, y’all. I can only handle this shit in short bursts.
More to come.
People are going batshit fucking crazy over the impending apocalypse solar eclipse. Freeways are backing up like a motherfucker. Stores are already selling out of staples like water, toilet paper, and marij…yeah, just the water and toilet paper. This is Oregon; nobody’s selling out of pot or potsnacks any time soon.
Traffic here is already unpredictable. Some days, it takes 15 minutes to get to and from the office. Other days, it takes 45. (I’m not necessarily bitching about the commute time – I have a damn short one for the area. But what would be nice is some modicum of predictability. First world problem, I know. Shhhhh. I need a rant. Err. A rantlet, because this is definitely weak compared to my usually rantypants nature.)
But now? NOW? Pfft. It’s either 15 minutes or 2 hours. As we crawl further into the week, the big number gets bigger. More people come in to claim their $300 primitive campsites (not even an exaggeration). And why the fuck are the eclipse chasers clogging up the roads during rush hour?! Do they LIKE IT? Is it a big fat fuck you to Oregonians for price gouging the shit out of private and public properties alike to profit off of these eclipse wankers? GRRR.
I think I’ll carry my fussygrumps ass to the grocery store after work. Wait any longer, and I legit won’t be able to find any potsnacks water.
Oh. Oh! I’m thinking of following one of those writing prompt idea thingamajigs in an attempt to get myself back into it…. if anyone’s still lingering around here (first off FUCKING HI)…any suggestions?
P.S. It’s fucking sweater weather. In August. Fuckyeah.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d be a rapid cycler.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d exit a two-month depression and launch right into an extended mixed episode.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d make some dangerous decisions that would, ya know, put me in danger.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d justify said dangerous decisions with shit like, “this is just what it looks like to live after stifling yourself for the better part of thirty-seven years.”
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d recover from heartbreak by meeting up with a never-ending string of dudes who give less than a shit about me.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d only find pleasure in the kind of job that makes me pull my hair out.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d leave that job on some random Tuesday night, meet up with some stranger, and stay up until 4 AM.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d return to work the next day and alternate between bouncing off the walls and wanting to shoot myself in the face.
It’s a good thing I’m not bipolar.
Exiting the roundabout, I crane my neck.
I have to see the horse, traffic be damned.
He stands there in his meadow-like pasture, outwardly indifferent to the traffic.
Selectively nibbling on the verdant grasses and sweet-smelling flowers, he’s alive.
The horse is alright.
How do I know the horse is a he?
He’s strong, muscular, virile, powerful, secure in his solitude.
Those are masculine traits.
Aren’t they?
Another long day, another fretful drive “home.”
Please let him be there.
I only need to see that
The horse is alright.
Exiting the roundabout, I hold my breath.
Craning my neck, I scan the field.
Nothing.
I risk another look.
Fuck it; if he’s not alright, I’m not alright.
The horse is not alright.
I can’t find him.
Has he given up?
Frustrated and empty from his solitary jaunts,
Today, he doesn’t leave his stall.
His handlers cajole and prod, first sweet talking, now scolding.
You need to get outside, horse. It isn’t good for you us to see you holed up inside all day.
Keeping to yourself.
Why don’t you go outside, seek new grasses and flowers.
And pretend you aren’t still keeping to yourself.
The horse is not alright.
I enter the roundabout with trepidation.
If he’s not there today…
If the horse is not alright…
Exiting the roundabout, my arms tremble on the steering wheel as I turn to look.
He’s there. He’s there.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding,
Dash away tears I didn’t realize I’d been shedding.
And I breathe a sigh of relief,
Of grateful reassurance, because
The horse is alright.
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