He died on Halloween, the only holiday he wasn’t really into, although he still came over every year to take his little sister trick or treating.
It’s been five months and four days.
Every day it gets more real, and more unbearable. My life has no context without Alyx. I had him for twenty-three years. We were a team. He was part of my identity. And now i don’t know who I am, or how I live beyond this.
Everyone says it will get better with time. I don’t know that I even want it to. It always feels like a betrayal or like I’m a sociopath any time I forget that he died, even for one second.
All of my limited energy goes to trying to not explode with grief.
Please use that link from here on out. Finally, I can do some of the shizzle I want without WordPress limitations. But using their free software, of course.
Thanks, Steve. You da man. Many waffles I promise you.
Highwaters came over today and helped me douche my house. It’s part of our Housecleaning Exchange Program, where we come to one another’s house and enable the other to see the things that really can be thrown away, or donated, or placed somewhere better. She has a one bedroom apartment and I have a two bedroom saltbox, but she’s a good sport and devotes scads more time to my abode than I did to hers. (I’m thinking of paying her back by handcrafting a new windshield for her car. I’m sure I can find instructions on marthastewart.com, no?)
What we optimistically thought would take a few hours instead took all day, and we paid the price with blackened fingernails and dark gray dust-boogers, but the result (four bookshelves set up in the living room instead of my bedroom) is pretty awesome. I don’t know where all these books came from (well, actually, I do), but three boxes/bags of books to trade in at a local used bookstore later, I’m still finding fresh stacks of books with no place to call home. And I’m out of wall space for bookshelves.
It’s an enviable problem. I like walking into the living room and seeing my book wealth. It makes my home seem so much more inviting and warm when I see my paper and cardboard friends all assembled, waiting for the party to start.
Cheers to Highwaters, and our freshly shelved pals.
I’ve never watched The Parent Trap, so I never thought too much about the premise. But today, as I wash every dirty dish in my kitchen (also know as “every dish in my kitchen, period”), I am left with The Parent Trap (unless I want to watch some parades, which I really freakin’ don’t). God forbid I should clean without a TV on. That’s just never going to happen.
Anyway, the premise of The Parent Trap. Two girls meet at camp. They turn out to be identical twins. One is raised by the British mother, one is raised by the American father. The two never knew of each other’s existence until a chance meeting at summer camp. They decide to switch places so they can meet the other parent, and possibly get them back together.
Here’s what we are expected to believe.
- The parents willingly split identical twins apart, like separating a set of matching bookends. La la la, you take one, I’ll take one.
- Each child was so interchangeable with the other that neither parent wanted contact with the other child. Why bother? They’re identical. If you know one, you know the other.
- Neither parent seems to miss, in the slightest way, the other child. No trauma. None.
- Despite this fact, both parents seem loving and involved. Is it possible that they were both hypnotized after the birth of the twins, and led to believe that they were each the single parent of one newborn?
- Up until the sisters meet, neither one has thought to ask about the existence of the other parent.
- When the girls switch places, only the dog notices a difference between the two.
I love the movies.
It’s 1099 and part-time to start, but it’s a job in my chosen field, and the pay is good. I’m kind of excited to be learning something new. Something law.
I should go clean this house. Tomorrow is the Day o’ Thanks, and I have a guest coming over. This place is preposterously messy.
I used to really dread physical activity, especially that performed at the gym. Since my 3.5 year old’s daycare is in a community center with a gym, and I’ve already paid for it, you’d think I spent some time there in the last three years.
Not so much.
See, I never got that fucking endorphin rush that I was promised. People who exercise are always going on about the stupid energy boost they get from physical activity. Me? Just tired and sweaty. I could come home from the gym and fall into a deep, stinking sleep. I never understood the appeal.
A couple of months ago my son decided that he needed to be buff. He’s short, so he thought he’d distract from that with sticking up hair and impressive biceps. I offered “going to the gym” as a potential family activity (well, for 2/3 of our family), and I probably cringed on the inside when he accepted my offer.
So we went to the gym. It still sucked. Until I noticed that my iPod improved the experience about 5,000%. And when a rocking song came on… whoo mama. Watch me go. Then, while walking slowly enough on a treadmill to barely raise my heartrate, I read a magazine article about a study that showed that the promised endorphin rush only came with a high impact, aerobic workout.
Oooooohhhhh. No shit? Really? That’s fucked up.
Yeah, they’re kind of right.
Here’s the two things that make me work out hard enough to hear the blood pounding in my ears: an iPod with awesome music (opinions of awesome music may vary), and watching The Biggest Loser. Try it.
Now I want to know why the fuck I feel firmer and better, but my clothes are tighter than ever. First person to say, “because you’ve gained muscle mass!” is a LIAR and will be stabbed in the eye with those blunt safety scissors. What? What brand scissors? Who cares? Jezus. Fiskars, if it’s so important to you. I’m going to stab you with Fiskars safety scissors.
1. I just did something naughty to make a friend feel better, and I don’t regret it. It doesn’t involve sex– it involves Craigslist.
2. I’m not as good a person as some people think I am, but I’m also not as bad a person as some people think I am.
3. I don’t feel things like other people. It’s a relief, I guess (if I was capable of feeling relief like other people).
4. When I was a kid, I went through phases of being fascinated with horrifying times and events in history. American Slavery (specifically the Underground Railroad), Nazi Germany and the Third Reich (specifically concentration camps) were particular subjects of my fascination.
5. I don’t like pets. Well, I like to pet cute fluffy things like bunnies and kittens, but the rest of them? Blech.
6. I worry that my negativity and cynicism are irreversible.
7. I’m secretly starting to like going to the gym. But ONLY if I have my iPod.
I tag no one.
My son brought home a permission slip today. Apparently, he’s one of eight kids selected to appear in some locally-shot Civil War movie. They need people for a marching band scene, and of the other male tuba players, one was “too big” (read: too fat) and one was “too dark-skinned” (read: too Black). The others were “too female.” My son is small and white and emaciated-looking. Just what they’re looking for.
He gets to miss a day of school to travel to Bisbee. He also gets $125 in his student account (can only be spent on band-related crap) and free food and transportation. The school gets paid $1,000.
My son has a really good friend, and I’m kind of casually friendly with the kid’s parents. They’re pretty cool, and I once housesat/kidsat for them for a few days.
Anyhoo, they invited us for Thanksgiving. Which is nice, until I got to the part of the voicemail where the mom explains that they always invite other people who don’t have somewhere else to go, etc.
Um, I’m sorry, nice offer, but I’m not a charity project. My family is no less a family because we don’t have a daddy in the house. I don’t need “somewhere else to go,” because I have a home. I don’t have to assemble with a shitload of people for it to be a valid Thanksgiving event.
Also, I’m always worried about other people’s Thanksgivings. What if they say grace? What if there’s no alcohol? What if they do that thing where they go around the table and say what they’re thankful for? What if they serve tofurkey instead of turkey? No thanks to all of the above.
Jebus. I know I shouldn’t be so touchy about it, but… blurg.