Monday, March 20, 2006

I'm a Mess

Here are the reasons I'm tempted to just go to bed right now and forget this day and try again tomorrow. 1. I've got this weird thing on my right arm. It's a little hard patch the size of my finger tip and on top of the hard patch are six really hard shiny round things. Sometimes they itch. They hurt when I poke at them. I cannot stop poking at them. 2. My lower legs itch. Really bad. Fortunately, it hurts so much to scratch them that I have not scratched them. There seem to be a few random hard shiny round things on them, too, but they don't map up to the itchy parts. 3. My face itches. Well, just my cheeks and my forehead. I think this may be the sunburn remnants, so I'm not too concerned, yet. 4. Work called and wanted me to deal with some mess. That ate up two hours. 5. I've done no dishes or laundry. Instead, I've played Roller Coaster Tycoon and sat by the dog and cried about how cute she is. There's no reason to cry about how cute she is, so clearly something internally is fucked up. Perhaps whatever alien insects are living subcutaniously in my arm have a soft spot for really cute dogs with big brown eyes who curl up on the couch and snore softly while you're trying to encourage 3,000 people to visit your amusement park. 6. The fucking door and, to that end, my completely ridiculous response to the Boy Scout's rational suggestion. Yes, America, I keep hoping someone will ride in on his white horse and rescue me from my shitty self. Yes, I know that's utterly stupid, but fuck it. I'm entitled to a shitty fantasy or two. 7. Me. God damn. I used to write about things that scared the shit out of me here, because it did me such good to name them and drag them out into the light of day and just get them out of me, because they sit in here, these things I fear, and they spoil on me in ways that are really bad for me. But I've been pretending lately that I'm all competent and together and smart and thoughtful and tough and strong and I am those things, don't get me wrong, but because I really want you to think of me that way, I've been writing only about those things. Part of it has to do with losing my anonymity--not that most of you didn't already know who I was. I keep telling myself that, that you knew who I was anyway. But it still shook me. Knowing that you have a name to put with these words made me want to put my best self forward to you, instead of my most honest. Before, I felt like I could say things to you because I could draw a clear line between how I presented myself in real life and how I presented myself here. I'm still angry that someone else got to choose to conflate those two things and not me. And clearly, it a move intended to scare me and knock me off my game and I'm pissed that it worked. And I'm pissed that it's taking me so long to get back into the groove of really enjoying writing here, because being able to write here is important to me. How can I know what I think if I don't sit down and think it? So, here's the thing. I'm jealous of people who have people they can count on, who can just call out "hey, I need help with the door" and someone comes to help. And I'm tired of feeling like I'm only barely competent when it comes to the ordinary things that people do--like home repair and car repair and doing the laundry and cleaning the bathroom--and I'm afraid that I'll always be the only one I can count on to do those things anyway. And the worst part is that I also know that there are at least three people I could call right now and say "Hey, I need help with the door," and any one of them would come and help me. So what the fuck is my problem? Why can't I ask for help when I need it and accept it graciously when offered? Why must I live my life like a delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks? Heh, delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks... Fuck it. That's pretty damn funny.

13 Comments:

Blogger W said...

I could draw a clear line between how I presented myself in real life and how I presented myself here
That's exactly how I feel about my blog. That's why I've not given the address to any of my family or friends who don't know about blogs.

3/20/2006 05:12:00 PM  
Anonymous Professor said...

I've told you the story about reading the Origin of Species while standing at a junkyard waiting for a ride after selling my car for scrap metal because I had no idea what else to do with it because I am so far from living in the real world, right?

You've already been able to get the door working better a few times - it probably is beyond repair and needs to be replaced at this point.

You've fixed lots of things for me.

And, even when the Butcher succeeds, if he ever gets around to trying, he often does strange and stupid things along the way too - I can again describe for you the strange way he went about dealing with all the water in the kitchen while fixing the broken pipe.

3/20/2006 06:31:00 PM  
Anonymous the Professor said...

Oh yeah, I'd say take a bunch of benedryl - it might be good for the itching and it will probably knock you out, so you can be worry free for 8-10 hours. It doesn't give you nightmares like NyQuil, I hope.

3/20/2006 06:33:00 PM  
Anonymous Amanda said...

See, but 'call your landlord' is not a rational suggestion. This is a suggestion that comes from a person who has never had a horrible lowdown no good landlord. It *IS* easier to fix it yourself (or get a handy friend to fix it for you) than it is to get your landlord (or in my case your landlord's functionally retarded maintainance person) to fix it for you.

Chris has screwdrivers and stuff. You can get him to fix your door. He loves that crap.

3/20/2006 06:35:00 PM  
Blogger Margo, darling said...

I must have missed something, because, for what it's worth, I have no idea who you are. I don't even have any idea where you are, only that there are highway bridges and hobos near by.

Again, I don't know the back story here--and I'm not going to look for it--but I think most blog readers hop in and out of posts, mostly looking for the comfort of a voice they love and a narrative they enjoy. Most of us don't want to know who you are; we just want you to feel safe and know that your voice is heard by people who wish you the very best.

3/20/2006 07:49:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I don't know who you are and don't care who you are - your writing entertains me on almost a daily basis and gives me validation that I am not the only one who is doing the best I can do while bumbling through life.

3/20/2006 07:58:00 PM  
Blogger Exador said...

See, but 'call your landlord' is not a rational suggestion.

I've had bad landlords.

It's the only suggestion. If your landlord is unwilling to make the repairs, you could play hardball and withold rent payments. (I don't see B doing that.) What B COULD do, is look for another place. Maybe you wouldn't be able to find one that fits your budget that is better. But you could try.

3/20/2006 08:46:00 PM  
Blogger newscoma said...

I'm with Margo Darling. Ms. T.C. Pants also known as Aunt B, I don't know your real identity either. Your sort of like Batman to me or Spiderman, a masked (wo)man.
Life is sucky sometimes. Mine, in the last month, has been a pile of steeping shit. I never know if I'm coming or going. I understand fear ang feeling depowered.
Just write. Write until your fingers ache. Write for yourself, write for my entertainment (okay, I'm selfish), Write because you want to.
It's a wonderful thing to get such a good vibe sitting in my pajamas, beer in hand, reading about the tiny pants that cat's wear.
Incidentally, you were missed last week. And even if I did know you, I would have missed you as well.

3/21/2006 06:45:00 AM  
Blogger Aunt B said...

In what was probably an utterly foreseeable turn of events, the Butcher just ripped the door off when he got home. I don't know if this makes fixing it more complicated or less.

Either way, it's pretty dang funny.

Anyway, Exador, as shitty as this place is, it has irreplaceable good qualities: 1. No prohibitions against Mrs. Wigglebottom. 2. Within walking distance of work. 3. For the area, cheap rent. 4. Charming neighbors. 5. Killer hobos.

Who can give all that up?

As for the rest of y'all, thanks for the kind words.

3/21/2006 07:14:00 AM  
Blogger Exador said...

I was going to ask what wave of feminism was the "I'm waiting for a big strong man to come and rescue me" wave, but I thought that would be kicking you when you're down.

Now that you're feeling better, OOF! Here's your kick to the gut, sissy girl.

3/21/2006 07:52:00 AM  
Blogger Aunt B said...

I believe that, technically, I said I was "hoping" for a big strong man to rescue me, not that I was "waiting." I'm not sure that's a feminist loophole, but I'm taking it nevertheless.

I like to be spoiled. I want you to spoil me because I'm sweet as hell and charmingly incompetent and it delights you to delight me. I don't want you to spoil me just because you think it's your biological destiny to do things for women because we can't do them for ourselves.

I think that's the branch of feminism that hopes you'll come over, fix my door, then need a back rub, then a foot rub, then some tender kisses, and then, the next thing you know, we're scandalizing the neighbors. I'm not sure the technical name for that branch of feminism, but that's the one I belong to.

You can see, in that case, why I don't care to call the landlord.

3/21/2006 09:01:00 AM  
Blogger newscoma said...

The Butcher isn't a feminist, is he? He's the artist, so it would be more than okay for him to send up a smoke signal for assistance. Could he call your landlord?

3/21/2006 11:47:00 AM  
Blogger Aunt B said...

After the flood and the plumber that never came, the Butcher's not too keen on the landlord either.

3/21/2006 11:57:00 AM  

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