I spent the first six years of my life, the part that I like to refer to as the “first half” of my childhood in a small house on Highland Boulevard, in Santa Monica California. Those walls housed my life as an only child up until I was six years old and I noticed that my mother’s stomach was expanding at an interesting rate… I mean, nothing for me to be all that concerned about, because after all she was my mom, and I didn’t really see her as anything else, besides just a mom—not a lady who looked pretty in her sundress with the yellow Sunflowers on it, or the woman who’s eyes sparkled with the charms of youth while harboring a glimmer of sophistication gained from a life lived long in a short time.
My days were spent refining my first found talent in life; being a daddy’s girl. I was incredibly good at this, but I have come to realize that perhaps this may not have been all my doing. My mother informed me later in life, (I was probably around 14 or so), that when my dad and her found out she was pregnant with my sister, they made a deal with each other—My dad would make sure that after lil sis was born, I would still get plenty of attention from him so that I wouldn’t feel like I had been abandoned.
Looking back upon my youth, I still cannot decipher whether or not his behavior was indicative of this agreement, or if he simply continued along on the same path he was initially on. All this theorizing aside, the point of the matter is: My father gave me a phenomenal gift—a childhood marked with seemingly insignificant firsts, and a start in life with a full understanding of the basics.
I “helped” him build the second story for the deck in the backyard. We were a block away from the beach, but had no ocean view, so my father, never being one to bow to circumstances decided that we would have our ocean view even if it meant walking up a flight of stairs to get it. This deck must have taken a massive amount of planning to build, not to mention, a natural talent for construction (he built and designed it himself), but to me, it was just one more thing that my dad did… Didn’t all dads build things around the house? For all I knew, he could’ve built us a new house at the drop of a hat.
My dad assured me that my “helping” was responsible for the bulk of the work being completed… After all, in the twilight hours, we would sit up on the second floor, and he would provide me with a plank of wood, and some nails, he would let me know that my hammering those nails in would be the turning point for the work of the day… So while I labored on my nails, next to my father we would finish our work on the deck just as the sun was finishing its work in the sky.
I tasted gum for the first time on one of these sunset curtained nights. My dad chewed it while he was working, and I decided that I needed to be involved in this aspect of our project as well. My gum came with the standard explanation; “Now Hana, just chew it, don’t swallow it, you’re supposed to keep on chewing it.” “OK dad, I can do that.” It was delicious, spearmint, a bright green ball of flavor (I know this because when I took it out of my mouth to examine it, my dad added an addendum to his prior instructions: “You don’t play with it, you keep it in your mouth, or else you’ll get junk in it and then it’s not worth chewing anymore.”).
Back in my mouth it went, and as I sat on the deck watching the sun go down, my dad told me that I should watch closely for the green flash. He said that when he was a merchant marine, you could see the green flash every sunset, but now, on dry land, he was lucky to see it once in a while. “Everything is bigger and brighter in the sky when you’re on the water Hana. I swear there were times that I thought if I reached out far enough from the bough of the ship I would be able to take a piece of the moon home with me.” The night was dawning, and our time outside was winding down, he looked at me and noticed that I wasn’t chewing anymore. He chuckled saying, “You swallowed it, didn’t you?” “Well, I didn’t know how long I was supposed to chew it for, and I didn’t know what to do with it when I was done, and well, I was done.” Thus ended my day as deck construction worker extraordinaire and gum chewer novice.
Time to head inside, to the dinner table where the family all gathered after their respective days out changing the world to talk about exactly what kind of impact we had made, and what else we could do with the world tomorrow. My mother always had dinner ready when my father and I would come inside from our long days toiling on our ocean view, and while we ate, the plates were cleaned and our lives were shared. “I chewed some gum today.” “She swallowed some gum today.” “Kent, you let her swallow it?!” “Well, I couldn’t exactly stop her… I wasn’t about to stick my finger down her throat and pull it out.” “It tasted good, I wanted some more.”
Mom would tell me how proud she was of all the work I was doing, with helping out dad and all, the job couldn’t be done without my assistance. I would inform her that after the deck was completed, dad had promised to teach me how to “throw like a boy.” This first half of my childhood will be forever remembered for these firsts.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Time Flies
I’m right around five months pregnant, and I can’t believe how quickly this time has gone by. I think that this has to be the fastest five months of my life, which is kind of disconcerting seeing as how I’m a little more than half way to the big day. I’m sure that things will continue to go at warp speed, for it always seems that there is never a slowing down time, simply a lets pick it up and move even faster time.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how my life is going, and where I am at in it. My priorities have changed, and I have noticed that my will power is not so great anymore. I’ve always been an avid reader, but since I started taking heavy class loads and working, I’ve cut back and actually eliminated most of the reading for fun that I used to do. This past two weeks I’ve seriously rebelled against this new me and read three books back to back in two days that I WANTED to read, simply for the sake of reading them.
I stumbled across a collection of Non-Fiction short stories called In Fact which offers some very poignant advice to fledgling writers like me in its introduction. I found myself nodding and smiling along to most of this advice as I indulged this old habit until I came upon this particular jewel: “You will have time to read whatever you want after you finish college.” At 1:30 in the morning with John breathing softly next to me I got that eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I put the book down on my lap and whispered, “Alright, I get it” under my breath.
I’ve been feeling rather guilty for my rediscovered reading zealot and it took one of my treasured books to let me know, “Hey, stop slacking and do some Calculus homework rather than sit here and read me into the wee hours of the morning, I’ll still be here when your finals are over.” So, with that terrible revelation, I once again have vowed to lay my hobby to rest, well mostly to rest, I’ll still always have a book in my purse, another in my car, and one in John’s car just in case traffic gets really bad, my class starts late, or someone takes too long at the drive through window at the bank.
I don’t know what caused this sudden rebellious attitude, and why I chose to indulge my procrastinatory streak with such an old comfortable friend, but for some reason I did. I’ve been feeling kind of out of sorts lately, it’s probably hormonal, but who knows. I feel almost as if my body is on lease to me right now. It’s doing all sorts of things that it’s never done before and it certainly isn’t listening to me one way or another. I’m even getting kicked from the inside out, and I feel like I’m constantly questioning everything in my life to make sure that it is a good decision for both my baby and I.
I suppose maybe my desire to slip into old behaviors is a testament to my wish for that comfort that used to belong to me when I would sit for hours on end without a care in the world, reading for as long as I wanted, or until my mom caught me not doing what I was supposed to be doing and grounding me from my books for a period of time. I’ve been so incredibly home sick the past week or two, that it’s been difficult to watch even the stupid California Tourism commercials, you know the ones with Arnold Schwarzenegger talking about how nice visiting that state can be.
I guess maybe I’m desiring some familiarity, and stability, I’m in uncharted waters now with my life and my body making me want to withdraw and participate in old behaviors all over again. Thank goodness I have such an understanding guy, who will roll over in the early morning time to remind me that I have school in a few hours, and that maybe I should get some sleep. Someone who tells me that he knows that I can handle anything, and most of all that I am beautiful, even more so now that I have his baby in my belly.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how my life is going, and where I am at in it. My priorities have changed, and I have noticed that my will power is not so great anymore. I’ve always been an avid reader, but since I started taking heavy class loads and working, I’ve cut back and actually eliminated most of the reading for fun that I used to do. This past two weeks I’ve seriously rebelled against this new me and read three books back to back in two days that I WANTED to read, simply for the sake of reading them.
I stumbled across a collection of Non-Fiction short stories called In Fact which offers some very poignant advice to fledgling writers like me in its introduction. I found myself nodding and smiling along to most of this advice as I indulged this old habit until I came upon this particular jewel: “You will have time to read whatever you want after you finish college.” At 1:30 in the morning with John breathing softly next to me I got that eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I put the book down on my lap and whispered, “Alright, I get it” under my breath.
I’ve been feeling rather guilty for my rediscovered reading zealot and it took one of my treasured books to let me know, “Hey, stop slacking and do some Calculus homework rather than sit here and read me into the wee hours of the morning, I’ll still be here when your finals are over.” So, with that terrible revelation, I once again have vowed to lay my hobby to rest, well mostly to rest, I’ll still always have a book in my purse, another in my car, and one in John’s car just in case traffic gets really bad, my class starts late, or someone takes too long at the drive through window at the bank.
I don’t know what caused this sudden rebellious attitude, and why I chose to indulge my procrastinatory streak with such an old comfortable friend, but for some reason I did. I’ve been feeling kind of out of sorts lately, it’s probably hormonal, but who knows. I feel almost as if my body is on lease to me right now. It’s doing all sorts of things that it’s never done before and it certainly isn’t listening to me one way or another. I’m even getting kicked from the inside out, and I feel like I’m constantly questioning everything in my life to make sure that it is a good decision for both my baby and I.
I suppose maybe my desire to slip into old behaviors is a testament to my wish for that comfort that used to belong to me when I would sit for hours on end without a care in the world, reading for as long as I wanted, or until my mom caught me not doing what I was supposed to be doing and grounding me from my books for a period of time. I’ve been so incredibly home sick the past week or two, that it’s been difficult to watch even the stupid California Tourism commercials, you know the ones with Arnold Schwarzenegger talking about how nice visiting that state can be.
I guess maybe I’m desiring some familiarity, and stability, I’m in uncharted waters now with my life and my body making me want to withdraw and participate in old behaviors all over again. Thank goodness I have such an understanding guy, who will roll over in the early morning time to remind me that I have school in a few hours, and that maybe I should get some sleep. Someone who tells me that he knows that I can handle anything, and most of all that I am beautiful, even more so now that I have his baby in my belly.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Reclusive
I’ve spent the last week being kind of reclusive. Well, I guess maybe reclusive isn’t the appropriate word, but I’ve just been laying low. I didn’t necessarily mean to be so introverted over the last week, but something told me to pull all my feelers in and just hang at home with John for the time being. I wasn’t moping in my room with the lights off and sad songs on the radio or anything, I just didn’t feel like being out and about much.
On Friday John and I went out to breakfast and then hit up Wal-Mart, which made me remember exactly why it is that I didn’t want to go out in the first place. Wal-Mart has to be one of the most difficult places to walk into and out of with a smile on your face. There’s just too many people, too many crying babies, and the lines, my goodness, I don’t understand how there can be so many people checking out all at the same time.
We made our Wal-Mart excursion because I had said something about wanting to buy a planter and a couple of flowers to plant outside on our porch, so, John being the good sport that he is walked through the Hell Hole known as Wal-Mart with me. We managed to find the pot that I was looking for, but the flower selection was minimal… So, rather than John telling me that we’d go home and I could go out to this other nursery I had been eyeing for a long time, but had yet to work up the nerve to walk through the door—John looked over at me and said, “Let’s go to that nursery together, I like seeing you happy and I know that this is something that you love to do.”
I could have cried, I love plant shopping, and my past has been peppered with insults from my ex every time I wanted to step foot in a nursery. John not only walked through the doors with me, but enthusiastically helped me pick out some beautiful planters, and made a list of things that we eventually needed to come back for. I couldn’t believe my luck, I was actually walking around this gorgeous nursery with the man of my dreams and he was pointing out the same things that I was looking at saying, “We need to buy this, we’re going to get this today…”
That Friday was perfect… We got back to the house; I planted my lavender and succulents, and played with the puppies outside in the gorgeous sun. Something about gardening is truly therapeutic (possibly more so than writing?), and I felt my mood elevating as the potting soil temporarily stained my fingertips and accumulated under my nails.
My mom used to make me garden with her on Sunday afternoons when I was younger, and I could not have begrudged any activity more than I did those sunny Sundays spent pulling weeds. One Sunday when I found myself out in the back yard stooped over pulling weeds, I related some trouble that I had been having with a particularly obnoxious girl in my class. My mom offered me a tool very similar to the ever famous hitting a pillow with a tennis racquet routine—“Why don’t you imagine that the weeds are the heads of people you’re angry with, and you just pull them right out of the ground and toss them away.” Yes I know, rather morbid, and it sounds awful, but boy did it work.
My Sunday’s following this anger management breakthrough actually became days that I began to enjoy, and at times look forward to. I sometimes would even find myself out in the yard weeding a patch of garden simply because I needed to think about something. My mother gave me the gift of gardening as therapy and I still use it to this day.
John jokes every now and again when there’s a larger weed in the yard that needs to be pulled… Something like, “Damn I guess I’m going to have to get you good and mad soon, so that you’ll go rip that sucker outta the ground.” Will come rolling off of his tongue. He patently accepts my un-orthodox methods of coping with things, and sometimes will sit outside with me in the sun while I weed a flower patch, just so I have someone to keep me company while I think.
I found it rather insightful that John was so aware of my weeding for therapy tendencies… And when I asked him about his knowledge of my coping strategies he mentioned that around winter time when it gets cold, my strategies skip from being outward bound to deep cleaning a room in the house. He knows just how angry or upset I am by how many weeds are in the garden, and how clean the bathrooms or hall closets are. This being able to read me like a book stuff is kind of scary in a way, fortunately for me, he has yet to use it against me in any form, in fact, he rarely comments on the behavior when it’s happening.
On Friday John and I went out to breakfast and then hit up Wal-Mart, which made me remember exactly why it is that I didn’t want to go out in the first place. Wal-Mart has to be one of the most difficult places to walk into and out of with a smile on your face. There’s just too many people, too many crying babies, and the lines, my goodness, I don’t understand how there can be so many people checking out all at the same time.
We made our Wal-Mart excursion because I had said something about wanting to buy a planter and a couple of flowers to plant outside on our porch, so, John being the good sport that he is walked through the Hell Hole known as Wal-Mart with me. We managed to find the pot that I was looking for, but the flower selection was minimal… So, rather than John telling me that we’d go home and I could go out to this other nursery I had been eyeing for a long time, but had yet to work up the nerve to walk through the door—John looked over at me and said, “Let’s go to that nursery together, I like seeing you happy and I know that this is something that you love to do.”
I could have cried, I love plant shopping, and my past has been peppered with insults from my ex every time I wanted to step foot in a nursery. John not only walked through the doors with me, but enthusiastically helped me pick out some beautiful planters, and made a list of things that we eventually needed to come back for. I couldn’t believe my luck, I was actually walking around this gorgeous nursery with the man of my dreams and he was pointing out the same things that I was looking at saying, “We need to buy this, we’re going to get this today…”
That Friday was perfect… We got back to the house; I planted my lavender and succulents, and played with the puppies outside in the gorgeous sun. Something about gardening is truly therapeutic (possibly more so than writing?), and I felt my mood elevating as the potting soil temporarily stained my fingertips and accumulated under my nails.
My mom used to make me garden with her on Sunday afternoons when I was younger, and I could not have begrudged any activity more than I did those sunny Sundays spent pulling weeds. One Sunday when I found myself out in the back yard stooped over pulling weeds, I related some trouble that I had been having with a particularly obnoxious girl in my class. My mom offered me a tool very similar to the ever famous hitting a pillow with a tennis racquet routine—“Why don’t you imagine that the weeds are the heads of people you’re angry with, and you just pull them right out of the ground and toss them away.” Yes I know, rather morbid, and it sounds awful, but boy did it work.
My Sunday’s following this anger management breakthrough actually became days that I began to enjoy, and at times look forward to. I sometimes would even find myself out in the yard weeding a patch of garden simply because I needed to think about something. My mother gave me the gift of gardening as therapy and I still use it to this day.
John jokes every now and again when there’s a larger weed in the yard that needs to be pulled… Something like, “Damn I guess I’m going to have to get you good and mad soon, so that you’ll go rip that sucker outta the ground.” Will come rolling off of his tongue. He patently accepts my un-orthodox methods of coping with things, and sometimes will sit outside with me in the sun while I weed a flower patch, just so I have someone to keep me company while I think.
I found it rather insightful that John was so aware of my weeding for therapy tendencies… And when I asked him about his knowledge of my coping strategies he mentioned that around winter time when it gets cold, my strategies skip from being outward bound to deep cleaning a room in the house. He knows just how angry or upset I am by how many weeds are in the garden, and how clean the bathrooms or hall closets are. This being able to read me like a book stuff is kind of scary in a way, fortunately for me, he has yet to use it against me in any form, in fact, he rarely comments on the behavior when it’s happening.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Therapy?
I’ve heard numerous times of the benefits of writing being highlighted as one of the quintessential forms of self-help therapy available to every literate individual of this day and age. I’ve even touted said benefits to friends and family members who are going through difficult times, saying such things as, “why don’t you write about it? It might make you feel better to put it all down on paper.” I’ve been reflecting on this method of handling stress and wondering if it’s actually something that I have incorporated into my own life… You see, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that I may not be practicing as I’m preaching..
I’ve come to realize that I tend to internalize, i.e. agonize over things for an extended amount of time, applying all of my coping methods and problem solving skills to a problem that I absolutely refuse to write down—when finally I’ll reach some sort of peace somewhere way down the road, and then, only then will I write about it. I mean, it took me two years to even write about my ex husband murdering my dog, talk about a delayed reaction. I suppose that I use this writing down of events as a sort of closure, or memorializing technique… I guess that I figure once they’re out on paper, then they are really there, and permanent, with all events, actions and feelings recorded.
So, with all this in mind, I have decided that I am a hypocrite. I give advice and believe that it’s good, “oh yeah, write about it it’ll make you feel better,” then, refuse to follow my own advice. I believe Alice in Wonderland realized the same thing part way through Lewis Carroll’s drug induced childhood fairy tale…
I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?
I found myself pondering this very situation on April 8th. John had bought me a Great Dane puppy as our anniversary present. We took the pup in to have his ears cropped and on this horrible day, the vet called us back and informed us that the puppy had died coming out of anesthesia. John and I were beside ourselves. I took Wednesday off from school, and we spent the day trying to deal with the range of emotions that comes from losing a family member.
I vowed to myself that I would blog about it, for I was having tremendous difficulty sorting out my emotions. They were running rampant; from extreme sadness, to anger, to disbelief, and back again in no particular order, and I told myself that writing about it might actually help me to deal with, or at least nail down one particular thing to feel at a time. Well, I stalled. I played my hypocritical card, and told myself that this was not worthy blog material, for I should be writing about one coherent idea, which is a load of rubbish—as I’m sure you can discern if you’ve read any of my past entries.
So I’m writing about it now… Actually, I guess that I’m writing about my lack of writing about it, maybe my advice isn’t so grand after all. Maybe I’m too vain to write about problems that I’m having in the here and now, because every time I try, I feel like they need to be polished out a little more, have their rough edges smoothed so they can fit into a neat little package. I’ve determined that I am not a raw material writer; I have to spend a good deal of time thinking about what I’m going to say before I actually say it.
John says that I’m introverted, and that I don’t talk much. He says that I manage to communicate how I’m feeling and what needs to be said with surprisingly few spoken words, so maybe that’s why I take so long to build my pearl around whatever grain of sand has gotten under my skin. Not that I’m a woman of few written words, I mean, obviously I tend to ramble on about various subjects when I’m writing—more so, maybe I’m a woman of tremendous effort to make my brain slow down for a moment so it’s not as chaotic as it normally is, and I can figure out exactly what it is I intend to write about. I find it kind of disheartening that it takes me anywhere between two weeks and two years to actually organize my thoughts enough to write about them, but I guess that I’m going to have to settle for being a retrospective writer.
With that said, I’m off to ponder my current situation, which I’m sure you will hear about sometime in the future (give me a month or so). I have no doubt that I can polish this pearl up and make it infinitely more palatable if I continue to not follow mine and countless therapists advice to write about it in the here and now… Festering is the word that comes to mind… I shall let this wound fester, and when it finally scars up a little more and my gaping, bloody cut is simply a shiny line with a story of long ago attached to it, I might have organized myself enough to tell you all about it.
I’ve come to realize that I tend to internalize, i.e. agonize over things for an extended amount of time, applying all of my coping methods and problem solving skills to a problem that I absolutely refuse to write down—when finally I’ll reach some sort of peace somewhere way down the road, and then, only then will I write about it. I mean, it took me two years to even write about my ex husband murdering my dog, talk about a delayed reaction. I suppose that I use this writing down of events as a sort of closure, or memorializing technique… I guess that I figure once they’re out on paper, then they are really there, and permanent, with all events, actions and feelings recorded.
So, with all this in mind, I have decided that I am a hypocrite. I give advice and believe that it’s good, “oh yeah, write about it it’ll make you feel better,” then, refuse to follow my own advice. I believe Alice in Wonderland realized the same thing part way through Lewis Carroll’s drug induced childhood fairy tale…
I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?
I found myself pondering this very situation on April 8th. John had bought me a Great Dane puppy as our anniversary present. We took the pup in to have his ears cropped and on this horrible day, the vet called us back and informed us that the puppy had died coming out of anesthesia. John and I were beside ourselves. I took Wednesday off from school, and we spent the day trying to deal with the range of emotions that comes from losing a family member.
I vowed to myself that I would blog about it, for I was having tremendous difficulty sorting out my emotions. They were running rampant; from extreme sadness, to anger, to disbelief, and back again in no particular order, and I told myself that writing about it might actually help me to deal with, or at least nail down one particular thing to feel at a time. Well, I stalled. I played my hypocritical card, and told myself that this was not worthy blog material, for I should be writing about one coherent idea, which is a load of rubbish—as I’m sure you can discern if you’ve read any of my past entries.
So I’m writing about it now… Actually, I guess that I’m writing about my lack of writing about it, maybe my advice isn’t so grand after all. Maybe I’m too vain to write about problems that I’m having in the here and now, because every time I try, I feel like they need to be polished out a little more, have their rough edges smoothed so they can fit into a neat little package. I’ve determined that I am not a raw material writer; I have to spend a good deal of time thinking about what I’m going to say before I actually say it.
John says that I’m introverted, and that I don’t talk much. He says that I manage to communicate how I’m feeling and what needs to be said with surprisingly few spoken words, so maybe that’s why I take so long to build my pearl around whatever grain of sand has gotten under my skin. Not that I’m a woman of few written words, I mean, obviously I tend to ramble on about various subjects when I’m writing—more so, maybe I’m a woman of tremendous effort to make my brain slow down for a moment so it’s not as chaotic as it normally is, and I can figure out exactly what it is I intend to write about. I find it kind of disheartening that it takes me anywhere between two weeks and two years to actually organize my thoughts enough to write about them, but I guess that I’m going to have to settle for being a retrospective writer.
With that said, I’m off to ponder my current situation, which I’m sure you will hear about sometime in the future (give me a month or so). I have no doubt that I can polish this pearl up and make it infinitely more palatable if I continue to not follow mine and countless therapists advice to write about it in the here and now… Festering is the word that comes to mind… I shall let this wound fester, and when it finally scars up a little more and my gaping, bloody cut is simply a shiny line with a story of long ago attached to it, I might have organized myself enough to tell you all about it.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
John Was Right
I made it through another week, I’m sure that there was much doubt and speculation as to the likelihood of that not happening, but I have proven all of my critics wrong once again! Seriously though, this has been a tremendously difficult week, and I was unsure of whether or not Friday would ever come—once a spark of promise for the inevitable Friday showed up I began to fret about the upcoming week even more… So I guess you could say that I was a little more stressed than usual.
My DEAR friend Bob didn’t hesitate to point out the fact that I would most likely remain in a state of constant stress for the remainder of my life for it seems that that is simply how I function best. Isn’t that sweet? I could just feel the faith he had in my stress management capabilities emanating from his voice through my cell phone on that lovely drive back home from Tallahassee. It’s good to have so many people in my life who really do believe in me. ::cough::
I suppose I had a similar analysis coming my way though, I should give him some credit. He did come to this revelation in the midst of my worrying about the fact that I would not make it back to school on time for my 7:30 Calculus class. It was just not a possibility, so I spent a good portion of my drive biting my nails, fretting about missing my class and arguing with Bob about just how not stressed I was.
I think that Bob might be on to something though, because John is consistently telling me to mellow out and not stress so much about school, so it would seem that I am the common factor here and if there is to be a decision regarding stress and whether or not I cope with it well, I’m going to have to admit that the people around me are probably correct… But I will have the last laugh, because I will simply fail to mention that I wrote any such thing to John, and at least he won’t know that I came right out and admitted that he was right.
Onto bigger and better things… I managed to finally put stalker boy in his rightful place… I’m not to exactly sure where that rightful place is, but at least it’s somewhere away from me. He now resides there, holding a grudge and I’m sure thinking that I am the bitchiest person in the world. Sigh, such is life when you’re young, and well, dumb.
It was bound to happen sooner or later; he just managed to bring the whole situation to a breaking point when he continually texted and IM’d me over the entire Spring Break. Now, this behavior would have been understandable, or at least explainable if he hadn’t gone about it in such a stalkeresque fashion. For clarification, (since I’m sure stalkeresque cannot be found in a dictionary), I will define it: The act in which one person, namely the stalker, continues to attempt to make contact with another, the stalkeree, with no regard to the lack of joint communication.
Basically, he continued to blow up my cell phone and computer, receiving no response from me, until I changed my number and finally IM’d him back asking simply: “Why do you keep writing to me?” I could practically see his fingers stuttering over the keyboard as he searched for an appropriate, yet cool response. Uh, uh, uh, “I just wanted to say hey and see how your break was going.” “Oh yeah, I also wanted to see if I could get some help with _____________ (subject).” Mind you, we were on Spring break, and the subject he was looking for help with had concluded with a test the day of our break, so, no new material had been covered. “OK, you need to stop writing me; I thought that my lack of response for the last month or so would make it clear that I didn’t have much to say to you… But apparently you need something a little more definitive. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
As if this wasn’t clear enough, he began making even more of a mockery of himself—typing still more IM’s to me asking what it was that he had done, and why I didn’t feel comfortable around him? And why I wouldn’t talk to him anymore, and oh my God Chicken Little the sky is falling!!!! No really though, it was a much needed blow to his ego, because once again, John was right, he wasn’t going to stop until I obliterated any semblance of an ego he may have been harboring. Damn I hate this John being right stuff.
I’m sure that you all, my faithful blog readers feel much better now, knowing that I am officially stalker-free, and my first day back in class with my ex-stalker went smoothly aside from him embarrassing himself in front of the class by scoffing at an answer I provided to a question, proclaiming, “Wow, I can see someone didn’t study over the break…” He was about to continue with this informal assassination of my skills until he was informed that I was indeed correct. It’s the little things in life that make me smile, and trust me, this provided ammo for quite a smile. The chapter in my life of being the stalkeree has officially ended, ah, the freedom.
My DEAR friend Bob didn’t hesitate to point out the fact that I would most likely remain in a state of constant stress for the remainder of my life for it seems that that is simply how I function best. Isn’t that sweet? I could just feel the faith he had in my stress management capabilities emanating from his voice through my cell phone on that lovely drive back home from Tallahassee. It’s good to have so many people in my life who really do believe in me. ::cough::
I suppose I had a similar analysis coming my way though, I should give him some credit. He did come to this revelation in the midst of my worrying about the fact that I would not make it back to school on time for my 7:30 Calculus class. It was just not a possibility, so I spent a good portion of my drive biting my nails, fretting about missing my class and arguing with Bob about just how not stressed I was.
I think that Bob might be on to something though, because John is consistently telling me to mellow out and not stress so much about school, so it would seem that I am the common factor here and if there is to be a decision regarding stress and whether or not I cope with it well, I’m going to have to admit that the people around me are probably correct… But I will have the last laugh, because I will simply fail to mention that I wrote any such thing to John, and at least he won’t know that I came right out and admitted that he was right.
Onto bigger and better things… I managed to finally put stalker boy in his rightful place… I’m not to exactly sure where that rightful place is, but at least it’s somewhere away from me. He now resides there, holding a grudge and I’m sure thinking that I am the bitchiest person in the world. Sigh, such is life when you’re young, and well, dumb.
It was bound to happen sooner or later; he just managed to bring the whole situation to a breaking point when he continually texted and IM’d me over the entire Spring Break. Now, this behavior would have been understandable, or at least explainable if he hadn’t gone about it in such a stalkeresque fashion. For clarification, (since I’m sure stalkeresque cannot be found in a dictionary), I will define it: The act in which one person, namely the stalker, continues to attempt to make contact with another, the stalkeree, with no regard to the lack of joint communication.
Basically, he continued to blow up my cell phone and computer, receiving no response from me, until I changed my number and finally IM’d him back asking simply: “Why do you keep writing to me?” I could practically see his fingers stuttering over the keyboard as he searched for an appropriate, yet cool response. Uh, uh, uh, “I just wanted to say hey and see how your break was going.” “Oh yeah, I also wanted to see if I could get some help with _____________ (subject).” Mind you, we were on Spring break, and the subject he was looking for help with had concluded with a test the day of our break, so, no new material had been covered. “OK, you need to stop writing me; I thought that my lack of response for the last month or so would make it clear that I didn’t have much to say to you… But apparently you need something a little more definitive. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
As if this wasn’t clear enough, he began making even more of a mockery of himself—typing still more IM’s to me asking what it was that he had done, and why I didn’t feel comfortable around him? And why I wouldn’t talk to him anymore, and oh my God Chicken Little the sky is falling!!!! No really though, it was a much needed blow to his ego, because once again, John was right, he wasn’t going to stop until I obliterated any semblance of an ego he may have been harboring. Damn I hate this John being right stuff.
I’m sure that you all, my faithful blog readers feel much better now, knowing that I am officially stalker-free, and my first day back in class with my ex-stalker went smoothly aside from him embarrassing himself in front of the class by scoffing at an answer I provided to a question, proclaiming, “Wow, I can see someone didn’t study over the break…” He was about to continue with this informal assassination of my skills until he was informed that I was indeed correct. It’s the little things in life that make me smile, and trust me, this provided ammo for quite a smile. The chapter in my life of being the stalkeree has officially ended, ah, the freedom.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Spotless
This past week went by in a whirlwind. It always seems to, whenever Lindy is in the house—although, unlike any other whirlwind I have ever encountered, she manages to clean everything in her wake rather than destroy it. I don’t know of anyone else that is actually capable of keeping a washing machine going damn near 24 hours a day for 8 days straight. She made me chuckle, when by the third day, she was walking through the house looking slightly perturbed. I asked her what was the matter, and her response was that she couldn’t find anything else to wash.
Such occurrences are the norm when Lindy graces a household. The dishwasher is always running, although I don’t really know how necessary such appliances are when she is at the helm of such duties, because all dishes are cleaned and sanitized thoroughly before even being placed in the dishwasher for their high pressure, high heat sanitization. She cleans in preparation to clean; it really is something else, something the likes of which I’ve never seen.
She bought us a Roomba (one of those robot vacuum cleaners), for Christmas, and I was so stoked—it really is one of my favorite things in our entire house. I figured that with the Roomba going, at least Lindy wouldn’t feel so obligated to vacuum the floors compulsively as well, but I was mistaken. She set the Roomba off on its little mission one morning, and I was thrilled to hear its quiet hum instead of the big vacuum’s growl… Within five minutes, both the vacuum and the Roomba were running, and I emerged from my room to check out what the commotion was all about. Lindy was actually following behind the Roomba with the big vacuum “Just in case it misses something!”
I was rather entertained, although it is painful to watch someone in the throes of their compulsions, for it seems almost as if she cleans not because she wants to but because something inside her tells her that she has to. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading more into it then there really is, but I can’t quite wrap my brain around what would make someone exclaim, “I love laundry!” and really mean it.
Aside from Lindy’s strenuous cleaning schedule, she managed to spend ungodly amounts of money on us, (once again, something that she insists on doing), and spoiled us rotten for the 8 days she graced our presence. I began to dread going inside any store with her, because she would inevitably walk out with at least a $250.00 receipt to add to her checkbook, a big smile plastered across her face, and the words, “I’m just getting you some of the things you need,” flowing from her mouth. I was unaware that all the things we needed could be found and piled into multiple shopping carts, but wonder woman Lindy proved me wrong time and time again.
My cleaning closet has never been so full. If we were forced to stay inside for the next five years straight, I think that I would have enough Clorox spray, Bleach, Toilet Bowl cleaner, and Multi-surface cleaners to disinfect my house on a daily basis with ease. My pantry is bursting at its hinges with treats and goodies, and my refrigerator is practically being held shut through the grace of some unknown force, for it is housing more fruit than the average produce stand, (the end result of me saying that I was craving a piece of fruit).
I count my blessings, I really do… I could have had a horrible mother in law, and I don’t know how I ended up with a Lindy. My dad and I were chatting about such things as I was driving home from the Tallahassee Airport after I dropped Lindy off for her flight home. He will never rub my nose in the fact that I almost threw this kind of opportunity away by marrying a monster like my ex, but he will tell me that I am incredibly lucky to have found such a good man, with such a loving family.
My father is not the most outspoken of people, and to most he seems somewhat quiet and standoffish. John admired him from the start and knew upon first meeting him that he was extremely intelligent. It seemed that there was a mutual respect from the get go of John and my relationship between him and my father, for there was never any of those uncomfortable moments usually associated with a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
If such moments had actually existed at one point or another, they are long past now. On our last trip out to California, not so long ago, our families were all able to go out to dinner together. The end of the night brought with it one of my most cherished memories—my father had given me my hug goodnight, and was saying goodnight to everyone else. Standing a little distance away from the crowd, he looked John in the eye, shook his hand, and said “You are the best thing that has ever happened to my daughter.” His words carried clearly across the night air to my ears, and at that point in time, under the Southern California stars, I finally felt that I had begun to make good decisions in my life. I can see the relief on the faces of those that loved me and thought for so long that my life would be filled with the torturous ramifications of bad decisions past. The departure I have made from my purgatory has released those I hold near to my heart, for they are no longer holding their breath and hoping that I will survive, instead they are simply rejoicing in my happiness.
Such occurrences are the norm when Lindy graces a household. The dishwasher is always running, although I don’t really know how necessary such appliances are when she is at the helm of such duties, because all dishes are cleaned and sanitized thoroughly before even being placed in the dishwasher for their high pressure, high heat sanitization. She cleans in preparation to clean; it really is something else, something the likes of which I’ve never seen.
She bought us a Roomba (one of those robot vacuum cleaners), for Christmas, and I was so stoked—it really is one of my favorite things in our entire house. I figured that with the Roomba going, at least Lindy wouldn’t feel so obligated to vacuum the floors compulsively as well, but I was mistaken. She set the Roomba off on its little mission one morning, and I was thrilled to hear its quiet hum instead of the big vacuum’s growl… Within five minutes, both the vacuum and the Roomba were running, and I emerged from my room to check out what the commotion was all about. Lindy was actually following behind the Roomba with the big vacuum “Just in case it misses something!”
I was rather entertained, although it is painful to watch someone in the throes of their compulsions, for it seems almost as if she cleans not because she wants to but because something inside her tells her that she has to. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading more into it then there really is, but I can’t quite wrap my brain around what would make someone exclaim, “I love laundry!” and really mean it.
Aside from Lindy’s strenuous cleaning schedule, she managed to spend ungodly amounts of money on us, (once again, something that she insists on doing), and spoiled us rotten for the 8 days she graced our presence. I began to dread going inside any store with her, because she would inevitably walk out with at least a $250.00 receipt to add to her checkbook, a big smile plastered across her face, and the words, “I’m just getting you some of the things you need,” flowing from her mouth. I was unaware that all the things we needed could be found and piled into multiple shopping carts, but wonder woman Lindy proved me wrong time and time again.
My cleaning closet has never been so full. If we were forced to stay inside for the next five years straight, I think that I would have enough Clorox spray, Bleach, Toilet Bowl cleaner, and Multi-surface cleaners to disinfect my house on a daily basis with ease. My pantry is bursting at its hinges with treats and goodies, and my refrigerator is practically being held shut through the grace of some unknown force, for it is housing more fruit than the average produce stand, (the end result of me saying that I was craving a piece of fruit).
I count my blessings, I really do… I could have had a horrible mother in law, and I don’t know how I ended up with a Lindy. My dad and I were chatting about such things as I was driving home from the Tallahassee Airport after I dropped Lindy off for her flight home. He will never rub my nose in the fact that I almost threw this kind of opportunity away by marrying a monster like my ex, but he will tell me that I am incredibly lucky to have found such a good man, with such a loving family.
My father is not the most outspoken of people, and to most he seems somewhat quiet and standoffish. John admired him from the start and knew upon first meeting him that he was extremely intelligent. It seemed that there was a mutual respect from the get go of John and my relationship between him and my father, for there was never any of those uncomfortable moments usually associated with a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
If such moments had actually existed at one point or another, they are long past now. On our last trip out to California, not so long ago, our families were all able to go out to dinner together. The end of the night brought with it one of my most cherished memories—my father had given me my hug goodnight, and was saying goodnight to everyone else. Standing a little distance away from the crowd, he looked John in the eye, shook his hand, and said “You are the best thing that has ever happened to my daughter.” His words carried clearly across the night air to my ears, and at that point in time, under the Southern California stars, I finally felt that I had begun to make good decisions in my life. I can see the relief on the faces of those that loved me and thought for so long that my life would be filled with the torturous ramifications of bad decisions past. The departure I have made from my purgatory has released those I hold near to my heart, for they are no longer holding their breath and hoping that I will survive, instead they are simply rejoicing in my happiness.
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