Disney Characters Never Age, and Other Observations From the Mind of Me

I had a rude awakening the other day while watching Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (the animated one).  It was at the very beginning, while the narrator was providing the exposition, and it came to the part about how the spell needed to be broken by Beast’s 21st year…and I said, “What the fuck?  I’m older than the Beast!?”

Then, of course, I let my mind wander to all the other Disney characters who are younger than me.  Aurora was 16; Arielle was 16; wasn’t Jasmine 16?  I’m betting most of them were several years younger than me by now.  This is not right!  I should not be older than Disney characters!

At least I am younger than Roger and Anita.  But we don’t know their ages, so I can always tell myself I am younger than them.

Speaking of all of the above, I got to hang out with Cort and Nicole the other night for Cort’s birthday.  We went back to Nicole’s house to sit in our chairs and just talk, just like old times, and then it really struck me that this was like old times, because it doesn’t happen anymore.  We discussed Milo for a while, and the conversation was so totally different than the hundreds of other conversations we have had about him in that room.  I noted how bizarre it felt for me, because it actually was almost as if I could feel my past self sitting in that same chair and saying such opposing things.  It was like the past, at that moment, was intersecting with the present; universes were nudging one another.  And I could see it.  Just like Scrooge looking at his past.  It felt like that–or at least, how I’d always imagined that to be.

And then we were discussing how different it is now, because Cortney and I are both engaged, and just how–weird that is!

“And you!” Cortney said, turning to look at me.  “You weren’t supposed to get married!  You’re Peter Pan!  But now you’re engaged–and you’re actually happy about it!”

I assured them that it is as much a shock to me as to them.  And it is–because I am Peter Pan–but I’m also in love.  That isn’t supposed to happen; it’s a paradox.  But even though I can’t explain it, I couldn’t be happier about it.  I’m so unbelievably in love.

Speaking of marriage, today I found where I want to be married, but they do not hold weddings, apparently.  They do, however, have wedding receptions.  At the museum downtown, they have this really amazing garden, and we were walking through it today and I was oohing and ahhing and asking if we could please have one or just live in one and not even worry about a house, and The Mormon said, “It might be a nice place to be married,” and after that I was positive I wanted to do just that.  But we asked the guy at the front counter, and he said no.  Now, however, I’m all excited and am going to be on the hunt for someplace to say the vows.

When I was doing all my bitching about the hospital, I left out one thing that I thought was really cool about it.  When we went in that night, this one guy (I don’t know what he is, so I’ll just say a guy in scrubs) actually recognized me.  My mom had made some comment about the last time, and Scrubs said, “I remember.  I was here nine hours that night.”  I mean, how cool is that?  How many patients must he see every day, and it had been three months, and yet he remembered me.  Of course, there were three people with me who were there both times as well, so they may have had something to do with that.  But I thought that was very cool.  And then a little while later a nurse came in, and she remembered me, too.  That’s just really good service, I think.

That said, I still consider the hospital stay one of the worst times of my entire life.  I know it was only a week, but it was completely horrifying.  I guess something good came out of it, though–I haven’t felt so depressed since the hospital.  I had been so miserable for the three months preceding the hospital, and when I got there, it completely broke me down into nothing.  So basically, when I got out again, it was like, anything’s got to be better than that.  Yeah, I’m still somewhat depressed, and yeah, I still have my moments, but I think I’m getting better.  At least, I know that I will probably be better around three months from now, and that’s way better than half a year.

We realized tonight that we will be able to see each other more often with the semester over.  And then, before next semester begins, we should be living together, so we will actually be able to see a lot of each other.  It will be so splendid.

I know this entry is really ADD.  I never have time to update anymore.  Just bear with.

The other night at work, it was 7:15 (we go on break at 7:30), and we had had a nonstop flow of customers since 4:30.  It happened to be ice cream night, and as I was on the non-ice cream side of the line, every single customer who wanted real food had to come to my side.  So I was busy and hot and tired.  And I said, “Sandra, make the customers go away!” in a whiny sort of voice.  Sandra smiled.  And I continued, “I could do it myself, but it would take me 15 minutes.”  Sandra laughed.  I just thought it was funny.

Ooh, and the other night I was talking to Michelle about snow, and trying to describe a snowfall at night.  I described the thousands of white pinpricks coming at you from entirely across your field of vision, and how it could almost feel like you’re rising up into them….  I told her it felt like the stars were all falling on you.  Then after a pause, I said, “Ooh.  That was almost poetic just then.”  “Yeah, I was going to say!” she said.

I think that’s it for tonight.  More tomorrow, perhaps.

Immaturity and Rare Good News

The other day we got a brand new router that works beautifully; but now I am back to having to steal internet from my neighbors.  The reason for this is one more example of how bizarre my home life really is.

The desktop, you see, does not work, and has not worked properly in years.  The latest problem is that it needs a new ethernet card and thus will not go online.  This was not a problem with the new router, because I have a laptop, Psychobrat has a laptop, and my mom just got her own laptop.  My dad, however, does not have his own laptop, and so yesterday, when he was already pissed off for some reason we were unaware of, he chose that moment to attempt to go online on the desktop.  Then there was a huge scene about the failings of technology and how unfair it is that the rest of us can go online and he cannot.

My mom pointed out, “You could use my laptop.”  He retorted that that was not the point.

He then unhooked the router because, in his words, “Now nobody else can go online, either.”

He also pointed out how very like Psychobrat and me he and my mom sounded while arguing over the computer.  He said this in a mocking voice, attempting to piss off all of us.

I might also point out that my mom needs the internet in order to do at least one of her four jobs, if not all of them.

So yeah, I’m really disgusted by the level of immaturity that was exhibited yesterday.

In good news, I now have a second job as a scribe; I listen to stuff on headphones and I type it.  I’m pretty much working full time now, so I should have some good money by the end of summer, at which point I shall choose which job pays more and keep it.  I’m a little worried about this one because there is no fixed salary; I am paid strictly by how much work I get done in one shift.  So it’s like living off of tips, which will stress me out to a degree.  On the other hand, I can wear normal clothes, and it’s still right next to the school, so in a convenient location.  I got the impression, when I was being trained the other night, that the trainer was incredibly impressed with how I was doing; it turns out I was correct.  The Mormon told me today that my trainer had been “singing my praises” to David (the guy who told me about the job–I don’t know him, he just works with The Mormon).  Apparently I’m already doing as well as either people who work 40 hrs/wk, or people who have been there for 40 hrs already, or something.  Either way, I’m doing quite well.

The Mormon and I have quite possibly found a place to live.  His friend Ski (still don’t know how to spell his name) is planning to buy a townhouse (in a safe area) and rent us a room, starting in July.  So we don’t have to worry about living without a/c.  We had heretofore overlooked Ski as a potential roommate because he is a frat boy, and we were concerned about wild parties in our home.  But now that we’re really talking about it, we’re pretty certain Ski will respect us enough not to do that, or at least to warn us beforehand (since he will be the owner).  He’s one of Dean’s best friends, and he’s a really good guy whom I’ve hung out with several times.  He is also looking into townhomes that are practically five minutes from where I live now, so I won’t have to adjust to entirely new surroundings.  I can drive practically the same route to school and work and wherever else I go.

It looks like things might actually be looking up again.  I’m less concerned about the poison now, because it is now only a few months until I (hopefully) get off of it for good.  It isn’t half a year anymore.  Of course, by then it will have been half a year, which is incredibly depressing.

We have a new dog.  A female Pomeranian named Darby this time.  She seems sweet enough, I suppose, although I think she is only partially housebroken.  As she lives with us (and is already four years old), she will never be housebroken, but I’m moving out in a couple months and will not have to deal with this.  She’s a retired show dog whose full name is Wee Paws Duchess Darby.  Her vocal cords have been removed, which I find as appalling as her full name, and she’s fat.  An average Pomeranian is between 5-7 pounds; she weighs 10.  But she’s cute.  Extremely fluffy.  And well-behaved–thus far.

I do have some dreams, but I shall save them for another time.

An Emmy Dream and Job Ponderings

It’s funny when dreams coincide with real life accidentally.  Not last night, but the night before, I had this dream I was at UNF (I think–the campus looked different) when Emmy Rossum literally bumped right into me.  We stopped and looked at each other, and I was staring because I had never seen her face to face, and she was staring in shock, and she touched her own face and said, “Oh, my god….”

“I know!” Dream Me said.  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

After that she kept following me around campus because she was so fascinated, and I think I was teaching one class and she was teaching another…I’m not sure.  Something.

So yesterday at work, this guy I know, Brandon, came through my line.  After I gave him his plate, he hesitated, so I knew he was going to say something.

“I’ve just got a quick question,” he said.  “Have you ever seen the movie The Phantom of the Opera?”

I smiled in a way that must have been knowing, because he kind of laughed, and I said, “You think I look like her, right?”

He wanted to know if I can sing like her, too.  Unfortunately, I can’t.  That would rock, though.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a bit of an obsession with this girl.  I would really like to meet her.  I mean, wouldn’t you?  I’ve never seen somebody who looked that much like me.  Not even my family looks that much like me.  It’s freaky!

I’ve been starting to consider leaving my job.  It’s just starting to feel like that time.  If I’m there until August, it will have been three years.  It’s sad, because in a way the cafe is like home.  A lot of my friends work there, and I’m there at least twenty hours a week and more if I feel like stopping by just to hang out.  But I’ve got to do something that pays better.  I’ve got to.  Yeah, the convenience of eating free every night will be missed, as well as the opportunity to steal loaves of bread (and laugh mockingly at Jean Valjean) when The Mormon and I are on our own.  (I’m sorry, Jean Valjean, I didn’t mean it.  I heart you!)  But if I can go somewhere and make twice what I’m making now, then why the hell not?  And as I said, like when I was working at Watson, I can just feel that the time is approaching.  (Wow–now it feels almost strange to think that I was writing in this all the way back when I was working at Watson.)

Anyhow.  Just waiting on a call from my lovely fiance.

A Psychobrat Tale

Anyone for a Psychobrat story?

It happened when I was in the shower yesterday.  I had just gotten in and was in the process of shaving my legs, when, in the general direction of the front door, I heard some pounding and then a crash as it was thrown open.  Brother shouted, “Geez!” with genuine alarm in his voice.

My first thought was that one of Brother’s friends had broken in with a weapon.  Seriously, that’s what I thought.

Then I heard Psychobrat’s door thrown open, and a moment later, she was banging on the bathroom door and demanding, in screeching tones, that I get out of the shower immediately.  She had fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed, and dry her hair.

I kept shaving my legs and didn’t reply.

Psychobrat started kicking the door, attempting (I’m not assuming here–she really would have if pushed that far) to kick it down.  She also kept screaming about her emergency.

In a calm and rational tone, I said, “Shut the hell up.”

“NNNNOOOO!!!!!!!” she Exorcisted.  “I NEED TO GET IN THERE NOW!!!!!”

As she was still attempting to kick in the door, and I know that our house does, in fact, belong to this screechy 19-year-old, I sighed and did as she commanded.  I did it slowly, however, to cause her maximum irritation.

You might wonder why I put up with this.  There are a few reasons.  As Psychobrat must always be right and always have the last word, you cannot win with her.  Even if she deserves it, you can’t just punch her in the face and expect to not receive some form of retribution.  I would pay in dire ways.  And as I was in the shower, she had access to my bedroom, and thus everything that I own.  Everything, including the laptop on which I now complain.  Remember that scene in Little Women when Amy tears up Jo’s journal, and Jo loses all her valuable work?  Yeah, it’s exactly like that.  (In fact, I believe that exact thing happened to me quite a few years ago.  Or else I just always knew that it could happen to me, so I’m remembering it that way.)

There were numerous periods in the past, back when she (for reasons which never made much sense–something about her only owning one pair of jeans, which has never been true) did her laundry every single night, in which I would choose one day of the week (Saturday night–and I still do it the same way) to do my own laundry.  I would rearrange my entire Saturday schedule to avoid doing laundry at a time when she needed the washer, and yet somehow, as soon as my clothes were wet and soapy, it would suddenly be her time to use it, and I would be ordered to remove my clothes from the washer.  As I would never comply with this command, she would then remove them herself, drop them on the floor, and step all over them.  Fortunately, she no longer does laundry every single day, so I can actually do that with very little stress.

There have been many times when she would order me to get off the computer because she needed it, and when I would refuse (it didn’t matter if I was conversing with an old friend or writing an important essay), she would destroy something in my room or merely unplug the computer from the wall (which likely accounts for half of its problems today).

So no, it isn’t merely screaming that you have to put up with for not giving Psychobrat her way.  She’s destructive, and you pay for it.  Had she kicked in the door yesterday (and because she wasn’t getting her way, that is what it would have led to), that would have been my fault, for not instantly complying with the one who apparently had an emergency, when I didn’t have to be at work for another three hours.  Trust me–there’s no reason in this household.

Hence her nickname.

Anyway, so I stood there in my towel at the doorway, waiting for her to get out, and when I finally showered and got out myself, and got dressed, and headed back to the bathroom to put up my hair for work, I heard her through her bedroom door, talking to somebody on her cell phone.  (She said something about, “What kind of decent person would do something like that?” which I found a bit ironic.)

An hour later, she hadn’t left yet.  So yes, it could have all been avoided, but that doesn’t matter–the important thing is that the beast was satisfied, and peace could return to Canterville.

My dad asked me tonight how much it might cost for The Mormon and me to build an apartment at the back of our house.  I shall let the absurdity of that idea sink into your minds and not say another word about the matter.

Yesterday I was thinking about some of this stuff, and I started to feel sick to my stomach.  I’ve put up with this and much, much more for my entire life, usually quietly, because there’s really nothing I can do, which is why I keep all of my stress inside, which is probably why my brain started exploding randomly over Christmas break.  And now that I know that my family is literally giving me serious health issues, I am incensed.  They can take what they want away from me–sanity, quiet, freedom, what the hell ever–but now that they’ve fucked up my health…I can’t express how disgusted and infuriated I am.  The only thing left to do is get out, which we will do as quickly as possible.  The time has certainly come.

On a lighter note, here’s something I learned from last week’s crossword.  To “lave” means to bathe.  I had never heard the term before and had to look it up in the dictionary, but as soon as I saw it, it made complete sense.  “Lavish”–to lavish someone with praise, for example, means to bathe them in praise.  “Lavatory” (or “lav,” for short)–the British term for washroom.  It all comes from the same root word, “lav,” which I believe Oxford said was old French.

On a further suspicion, I looked up “laundry” and discovered that it comes from the same root.  I was so excited, and damn it, I really need to learn Latin!  I would thrive in that language.

I’ve obviously been reading a lot lately, with little else to do (although I have some things I intend to write and ought to get those underway).  I read some graphic novels:  Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke, for one.  I was surprised by the fact that this book actually made me almost sympathetic towards Joker.  I was really nervous at the end as he attempting to tell the killing joke, because he seemed to be stuttering, and I thought he might mess it up, and that would have been devastating for him, and I would have felt bad for the freaking Joker.  I was also amused by Batman’s reaction to it, and I was amused by the joke itself.  I laughed.

I read Arkham Asylum, by Grant Morrison, and it was this book that made me stop and consider for the first time ever how seriously creepy the Batman villains are.

Mark Millar’s Red Sun, in which Superman lands in Russia and is raised by Stalin as a Communist, was really insightful.  I love those Elseworld stories, when well-known characters are placed in totally different situations to see what they do.  They really make you think.  I was slightly annoyed by the ending, because there were two things that could have happened on that last page, and I would have done the other thing–but it was very good nonetheless.

And lastly I read Alan Moore’s Watchmen, which made me aware for the first time of just how much goes into writing comics; I couldn’t do it.  I mean, you’ve got to make sure that every panel matches up with the words, that it all balances out evenly.  In panels with multiple characters and lines of dialogue, you’ve got to ensure that the expressions on these characters’ faces match up with all of the dialogue.  And Alan Moore has the strongest grasp on parallelism–it’s incredible.

Now I’m reading C. S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy, and I’m really into it.  It’s very descriptive and lovely, and it seems to me that every thought Ransom has is something I had thought, and he wonders and observes the same things I feel I would wonder and observe were I in his situation.

I also just got through reading Animal Farm to Brother, because I knew he would enjoy it, and he really did.  He was satisfyingly creeped out by it, and when it was over I gave him a brief explanation of what it meant and was based on, and related it to V for Vendetta, which I know he has watched.  I also informed him of the existence of 1984, to hopefully instill an interest.  I do what I can.  He’s a smart kid; I just hope he realizes it one day.

Jedi’s Graduation and Apartment Shopping

There’s a guy at work whom I call Jedi.  I know I’ve mentioned him in the past–he has a Padawan braid.

Anyway, the other night he came in and the braid was gone.  I gasped.  “Jedi, did you cut your hair?”  (I’ve never asked his real name.  He seems amused enough by his nickname.)

He nodded, wearing the same sheepish smile he always does when I call him by his nickname.

I smiled so wide and said, in a voice like a mother commending her first-grader on an S+ report card, “So now you really are a Jedi!”

The Mormon and I went apartment-shopping today.  It seems no matter what we do, if we want something in an area where we will not be killed, we’re going to have to get a roommate.  I’m a little not pleased about that because it’ll be the first time we’re living together, but I know Cortney and Patrick did the same thing, and they managed okay.  Their wedding’s still on.  Besides, it’s got to be better than remaining in my house.  I’ll be living with The Mormon.  I won’t have to lie in my bed alone anymore, missing him and knowing that I won’t see him for another six days.  It doesn’t really sound like a lot, but some nights, like this one–it is.

Back in My Body and Feeling Good

I actually feel good today.

I can drive again, for starters.  I shall drive myself to work in just a little bit.  I have an appointment with my gynecologist for next week, in which I will be told what I already know (that there is not a form of birth control that will work with the medication I am on) and will then call the doctor, who has offered to work with me on things and will put me on a different medication that will not screw up my birth control.  And so then I will have that back.

I also have the hope that I will only have to be on this stuff for another few months, and then everything can just go back to normal.  There’s no guarantee that that will be the case, but right now there’s the hope, and that’s good enough.  I can put up with it for a few months if I know I’ll be off of it again before I start back to school.

And now I can worry about finding a place to live with The Mormon and getting out of my house.  I have plans again.  I’m going to stick with the English degree, and I want to be in editing/proofreading (books, not newspapers).  I feel that I would actually enjoy that, and it’s something I can do with an English degree.

Also, as back-up, I may get a realtor’s license so I can do property management.  I know that sounds like it’s completely out of left field, but it’s something I know a little bit about, and I think I could do it comfortably.  It pays well and isn’t too competitive, and it pays regularly because it’s rentals instead of sales.  I learned a bit from working at the property management company for a year, as well as from the research paper I did about the job.  And I really think I could do it.  But I’ll start out with the editing and see how far that takes me, then get my license when I’m in the country where I intend to live and work.

But as for journalism, I’m done.  It isn’t for me.  I’m not even going to take that class for which I’ve done all the homework and could obviously ace in a heartbeat.  It just isn’t for me.  I prefer real writing and being able to speak my own mind.

It’s weird, but I feel like I’ve been away for the last two months and another person has been living my life for me.  It’s as though I’ve just come back from a really long trip and am reclaiming my throne from my substitute.  I woke up as myself this morning and intend to stay that way.  Things are good again.

It may change when my medication changes.  I don’t know what a new medication will do to me.  And if I find out at the end of a few months that I’m going to have seizures no matter what and have to be on medication forever, it’ll definitely change.  But for the time being, I feel like I can be me and just live my life for myself.  That’s a good feeling.

Life Changes

One of the things I wrote a while back but couldn’t bring myself to post.  Making up for lost time again.

I’ve come to two very weighty realizations this past week:  I don’t think I want to be a reporter, and I’m not certain whether I still believe in God.  Both have lent a hand in completely devastating me.

Just a few minutes ago I completed all homework for that difficult and competitive journalism class that I was going to be taking in the fall.  All of it.  For the entire semester.  I feel adequate, and the rest of my education I feel now lies in experience.  But I’ve been coming to realize that writing news is not writing.  It isn’t just writing every day and getting paid for it.  It isn’t writing at all.  It’s formulaic.  It’s choosing the most concise way to say everything and then saying it, taking great care to leave out all opinion.  In fact, if I were to become a reporter of any amount of prestige, I’d have to forego having my own opinions outside of work as well.

I know that I could do it.  But the other problem is, I have anxiety.  I always have.  I stress about everything, which is probably the reason I’ve started having seizures.  And reporting is a really stressful job.  It’s a whole career centered on depending on other people and meeting crazy deadlines.  I thought I wanted a job that would be different every day, one where I’d never know what to expect, but as it is I stress every day before going into the cafe for a couple of hours, and that’s always the same.

The bottom line is, after all this time, I think I’m headed in the wrong direction.  After an entire lifetime of wanting to, I don’t think I am going to be Lois Lane, after all.

So that was one contributing factor to my nervous breakdown the other day.

The night before the nervous breakdown (I’ll get to that story in a moment), I’d been sitting here…I don’t remember what I was doing or how it even occurred to me, but I realized that God suddenly seemed too good to be true.  Like exactly the sort of thing someone would make up to convince people who needed to believe in something.

I’ve believed in God for as long as I can remember.  Strongly.  And I’ve questioned myself from time to time, just to ensure that I really believed what I thought I believed.  I tried to look at it from the other perspective–that God perhaps wasn’t real.  But that never made sense to me.  I just couldn’t not believe in God.

And then the other night I realized that something that had always seemed perfectly logical maybe didn’t anymore.  I’m not sure yet.  But thinking about it further, I realized that if I didn’t believe in God, I couldn’t believe in anything at all supernatural or uncertain.  No aliens.  No ghosts.  Nothing.  I was sitting in my room on the phone with The Mormon, trying to describe this to him, how I basically believed anything until it was proven not to be, and I said, “I was like…like…” and I didn’t know how to finish that sentence, until, scanning my walls, my eyes came to rest on a picture from The X-Files, and I said, “I was like Mulder.”  (I have, on my bedroom door, the “I WANT TO BELIEVE” poster from Mulder’s office.)  Until this point, I’d been crying for about the past two hours (it was my not being able to drive that set me off to begin with).  I was saying how there were these things that I had always known, that had been certain to me for years, and suddenly I didn’t know anymore.  And The Mormon, trying to make me feel better, told me not to worry and began listing all the things we would figure out–my health, my career, my faith–but that’s about as far as I heard before it struck me that this was pretty much my entire life.  I started sobbing and said, “That’s my entire life!  I don’t know anything anymore!”  I promptly began hyperventilating, and I knew he was speaking to me, but I couldn’t hear him over the sounds of my breathing, and then my entire body went numb, and even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I knew what he was probably telling me (take deep breaths, calm down, etc.) so I managed to get my breathing under control, and then I guess my body temperature dropped, because for about three minutes all I could do was shake, and then still I knew he was talking, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my teeth.  And finally I told myself not to care, just not to think about it, and I calmed down.

I don’t know what to do.  I’m so lost.  I feel like I have no identity.

I don’t know about the God thing.  It’s been a few days, and maybe that was just a result of the poison making me ultra-pessimistic.  What I first thought that night was that God is just too good to be true.  That’s pessimism pure and simple, I realized later.  Like, because of how I’m feeling right now, it just wouldn’t be possible for there to be anything out there that is better than this world.  But now when I think about it, and try to get a feel for what actually is going through my head–do I believe in God or don’t I–I can’t.  My mind goes blank.  I just can’t focus.  It’s like as I try to search my mind, my mind just disappears.  It isn’t available for me to search.

As for the career thing…well, obviously I need to find something else.  And that’s a problem.  I have no idea what my options even are.  The Mormon asked me what I like to do, and I didn’t even know.  I’m not going to teach; I just feel that I wouldn’t be very good at it.  Grading grammar errors, for one thing, would drive me up a wall.

So that leaves me with what?

I have to have a career.  I won’t be a housewife, and Dean’s going to have a career, and I cannot allow him to overshadow me in that.  I would feel small for the rest of my life.  Obviously, I need to find something.  I have to become educated in some field.  But what?

I knew what I was doing before–I had my goal and was working towards it–but now I don’t have a goal.  I have no fucking goal.  What do I do now?  What am I working for?  Why bother to get up in the morning?  Who am I?  I’m dead.  I’m just gone.

Name Discrepancies and Traditional Food Pyramid-ism (With Exercise)

Have you ever gotten somebody’s name wrong…for three years?

Sunday night I had this really good customer–seriously, one of the best–come through my line, and I said, “See you later, Joe.”  (I try to use their names as often as possible so I can keep them fresh in my mind.)

He paused.  “Hey…you know my name is Ryan, right?” he said.

I laughed.  “Yeah.  Right.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Uh-huh.”  I was still laughing.

“Nope.  I’m serious.  Ryan ____ ____.”  (I don’t want to use his full name, obviously, for his own privacy.)

Now I was unsure.  “It is?” I said.  I looked carefully at him.  “You’re kidding me, right?”

He showed me his student ID.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”  I said.  “Really, how awful!  I’ve been calling you Joe for three years!”

He was smiling.  “I only started noticing that this year.  But there were always a lot of people around, so I didn’t want to say anything.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.  “Well…Ryan…have a good evening.”

He’s very polite and friendly, and he’s one of my oldest customers, which makes him one of the best.

The next night when he came in, he was already grinning, and he said, “Hi Ginny.”

“Hi Ryan,” I said, and then, “I have decided that your nickname is Joe.  It’s just too weird to call you by your real name.”

“I can live with that,” he said.

Even funnier, when I told Michelle the story, it turned out that we had been confused about his nickname, too.  We dubbed some guy “Crazy Blue Eyes” (that’s what Adrianna and I called him, because we thought we were talking about someone else) and Michelle called him simply “Blue Eyes,” because she was talking about Joe.  So finally we realized why Michelle seemed to think Crazy Blue Eyes was so hot.

Here’s an odd story.  I was drifting off to sleep yesterday whilst reading the assignment for one of the classes I dropped (I am now up to March 28th in completed assignments and shall finish the rest in the next two weeks).  At one point I actually did fall asleep, and after a moment I heard a voice right in my ears (I think it was my voice) say, “Ginny, what’s going on?  What are you doing?”  And I jerked awake.  This has only happened once before that I know of.

Sandra told me tonight that she has lost six pounds over the last month (since she started eating the way I do).  Sandra’s in her 40s/50s, somewhere around in there.  She’s even completely kicked her caffeine addiction.  I was so proud.  It’s all because I told her I never drink soft drinks.  I had suggested she cut those out and see what happened, but then she became curious about what else I do, and I told her no coffee (but simply because I don’t like it), no fried food, mostly vegetables and fruits (but seafood is okay), no red meat (but other meats are okay in moderation, and I make allowances for anything that’s in soup).  The only cereal I’ll eat is Weetabix.  I stay away from desserts almost entirely, unless I have such a bad sugar craving a little something can’t be avoided.  I permit ginger snaps when I have a stomachache.  Every night we look over the food on the lines and decide on basically the same foods that we’re going to eat.  We always go for the vegetables with no butter.  And we avoid stuffing ourselves, but starving is not okay.  We always eat a whole meal.

Sandra told me that at first, for the first couple weeks, she had caffeine headaches because she wasn’t drinking any, but now she can even watch people drink coffee and doesn’t care.  I told her I’m really proud of her.

“See, you don’t have to go on some crazy diet,” I said.  “Just cut out the stuff that isn’t good for you.”  And Sandra now fully agrees with me.

It’s why I always tell people, when asked, that I am a Traditional Food-Pyramidist.

I also fully endorse plenty of exercise, which I do every morning without fail.  It really does make you feel good, and it works, too.  And exercising in the mornings wakes me up every day.

So…that’s my long-term health/diet plan.

Poison Possession and Crossword Puzzles

While crying, in many cases, is brought about by sad circumstances, it feels good to get it out, and even better to do so in the arms of someone you know isn’t going to give up on you and really doesn’t mind.  I cried last night, and right now I am remembering it somewhat pleasurably, because I got to release all of that tension, and once again, Dean demonstrated to me how much he cares.  It’s good to cry into the arms of a person who, whatever he is feeling, is being strong for you in that moment.  There’s something so intimate about that when that person is your fiance.

I confessed to him last night that there were some moments during the Keppra that it crossed my mind to try and push him away.  This for multiple reasons, none of which fully make sense anymore.  I was sobbing through these words, literally into his arm, so I couldn’t see his face.  But he stroked my hair and whispered that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Don’t ever let me do that,” I whispered back.  “Whatever the poison tells me, that’s the last thing I ever want to do.”

I felt the need to cover myself in case the poison ever makes me attempt something that stupid.  It’s frightening the kind of thoughts it can put in your head.  You all know how much I care about him.  He’s the best thing in my life.  It just scares me to think about it.  It’s like how sometimes you get those intrusive, perhaps violent thoughts–people with OCD worry about them a lot, but I’m assuming it’s fairly normal (hoping, anyway, because I wouldn’t like to think that that’s just me).  Except with this, you know where it’s coming from, and it’s almost like there’s somebody else telling you what to do and forcing you to do it.  Like you’re not even there.  Right now that isn’t happening, at least not to that extreme, but I definitely experienced that in the first couple of weeks.  Of course, I was also on 2000 mg/day of poison, so…yeah.  How the hell did I get on this topic again?

Michelle told me at work the other night that it had occurred to her I am one of her best friends.  I was so touched.

“I feel like we need to hug now,” I said.  And we did.

It’s true, though–perhaps because we see each other day, we’re both able to tell the other just about anything.  Work would suck if we couldn’t.  What would we talk about?  And to whom?

That same day, we were working on the crossword from the school paper.  I do this every Sunday in the hour before we have to do anything.  When I finish with all the words I can get on my own, I ask others for help.  We narrowed it down to two spaces.  Our clues, and the letters we had, were as follows:

ST_R:  “slammer or clink”
_NS:  “November winners”  (These two intersected each other.)
LU_E:  “pipe sealant”
ES_OP:  “bar legally”  (These two also intersected.)

I said (with a sheepish smile, because I really had no clue) that _NS was probably “INS”, because if you win, then you’re in.  Michelle thought that was ridiculous but if we couldn’t think of anything else, we would have to put it in.  This made the other word “STIR,” which Michelle thought might work because sometimes when you’re cooking, and you’re stirring something in a bowl, the spoon clinks against the side.  I made fun of her for several minutes about the broadness of that clue, and she was amused as well.

We finally just put the ‘I’ in there, which I disagree with (I don’t like filling them in until I know for sure), and turned to the others.

Everyone who looked at it thought of “LUBE,” which didn’t really work.  It also made the other word, which we assumed to be Latin, “ESBOP,” which also didn’t seem to work, but which Michelle and I found very funny and repeated often throughout the night.  And finally we just put the ‘B’ in there.

But I was dissatisfied, so I came home and looked them up.  I was basically right on target with “INS.”  It means someone who holds office or political power.  But “STIR” (at least a definition that made sense) didn’t show up in Webster Online.  I looked up the others.  “ESTOP” is a Latin word meaning to bar.  I didn’t really care about the pipe sealant, but that did make it “LUTE.”

But “STIR” I couldn’t find.  I was talking to The Mormon online, and I gave him all the clues, and he didn’t know anymore than I did.

Finally I just typed in “slammer,” “clink,” and “stir” into Google and discovered it to be another term for prison.

This seems unrelated, but it isn’t, I assure you.  We hired a new dishwasher at work last week, but he was arrested when he came in on his first day–something to do with a license?  Nobody knows for sure.  So yesterday, when I went in with the answers to the crossword, Michelle asked Brandon if he was the only dishwasher there, and I replied, before he could, “Well, we hired another one, but he’s in the stir.”  We laughed, and later I made another pointless comment that included this term, at which she did not laugh, but looked at me and said, “You’re just really happy with your new word, aren’t you?”

I grinned.  “Yeah, I am.”

At dinner I told The Mormon, “Oh, by the way–‘stir’ is prison!”

He was unsurprised.

“I know,” he said.

“You knew!?  Well goddamnit, why didn’t you say something?  I was looking all over for that damn thing!”

He was amused by my distress.

Pleasantness, For Once

The other day I saw a dog leaning out a car window.  The dog somehow resembled a Gremlin to me, so I called The Mormon later to tell him about it.  The first thing I said in my description, as I was trying to explain the ears that were sticking straight out Gremlin-style, was, “It had ears sticking straight out on the sides of its head.”

I stopped then, realizing what I had just said.  The Mormon had realized it, too, and he said in tones of faux-amazement, “Two ears?  On the sides of its head?  Did it also have two eyes on the front of its head?”

I laughed so hard at that that I squeaked.  He laughed, too, and did a great impression of what L’Owen would say if he told him about it while I was in the room.  He’d get all excited and his voice would raise in volume and pitch, and he’d say, “REALLY, GINNY!?” and would be grinning very widely….  You’d really have to know L’Owen.

He told me the other day that L’Owen has been asking about me a lot, wondering how I’m doing, which is really nice of him.  I told The Mormon that, at one time, this would have earned an entire entry in this blog.  In fact, we were discussing my entry about the first day in our class, when I was writing about my observations of the class, and this one guy got an entire paragraph (I thought he might be a zombie) while The Mormon only had one line at the end (he was writing a novel).  Kind of funny how things work out, huh?

Something else I realized recently:  I was trying to find the entry in which I had finally come to the conclusion that I could live without being with Milo.  I knew it had happened very shortly before my meeting The Mormon, and I found it.  I had realized that I honestly did not need to be with him (finally, after like five years) and that I would gladly be with him if he decided that he wanted that, but if he didnt, I would be okay.  This took place at the start of the same month that ended with my meeting The Mormon.  Just in time….  Perhaps destiny really does exist.

We also discussed the first class I had with L’Owen, about two years before the fateful one.  The Mormon’s best friend Kevin was in this class with me.  I remember him very well; I had already known who he was from all the plays, and he certainly made his presence known in that class, as did I.  Kevin is brilliant, and The Mormon was telling me that L’Owen had finally just accepted that he couldn’t teach Kevin anything; Kevin knew more about film than he did.

I’d said something about how I remember walking out to my car with Kevin a few times after class.  And a little later in the conversation, The Mormon said, “…and he probably had a little bit of a crush on you, too.”

“What?  No, he didn’t!” I said.

“If you remember walking out to your car with him–and more than once–then yeah, he probably did.”

I wasn’t so sure I believed this, but after thinking about it for just a second, I said, “That’s the same thing you did!”

The Mormon smiled in what can only be described as a sheepish fashion, and said, “We nerd guys have rather discreet, and often pointless, methods of trying to get girls.”

“Aw…I love nerd guys!”  I grinned.

He grinned, too.  “And we love you, too,” he said.

Last night I went to Dave & Buster’s for Lisa’s birthday party, and when I walked in and she was introducing me to the people I didn’t know, she got to this guy named Brandon, and we immediately recognized each other–he’s been coming through my line since I started working at the cafe.  I never knew his name before.  And I said, “You’re friends with my friend!?”  It was such a strange experience.

Later, The Mormon and I were in the arcade section, when this girl walked by me–it was so crowded she actually brushed by me–and I thought vaguely that she looked familiar, when suddenly something clicked, and I called, “CRYSTAL!”

I was worried that perhaps that was not her name–my poison makes me a little crazy–or that it wasn’t even her, anyway–but it was!  She turned, and we looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly she realized who I was, and we hugged, and it was very exciting.  I randomly dreamed about this girl a couple months ago, and ever since then I have had the note in my planner, “Find Crystal.”  And then she walked right into me.  This girl was basically my best friend for all of 10th grade, until she switched schools.  So I’d like to get to know her again.  We exchanged numbers and I shall call her this week.

I’m done for tonight.