Sunday, December 6, 2009

Who I am? Part One

So, I'm on a two hour train ride, reflecting upon this weekend.

I actually only have about a half hour left, so I've apparently done a lot of the reflection part already. But I'm just so happy, I can't stop smiling. I would have to say this weekend has been bittersweet. I've been happy and alive, as well as hunched over in pain and crying my eyes out. Angry too. Truly pissed. Typical train-wreck me.

Friday night, I went walking with Joe. We talked about his wife, and I tried talking him into going to Florida. Crazy things happen when emotions run high, and I love Joe like a grandfather. Don't want anything to happen to him. I don't want the stress of losing his wife to get to him, because you always hear about people who literally die when they lose their spouses. A part of them just dies.

Then I worry about his money. There is nothing he wouldn't spend on his family, that's for sure. I can't imagine the thousands he spent on his wife's funeral. Doesn't matter what it costs. Her plaque was beautiful. The spot they cleared, was beautiful. Everything was beautiful, and sweet. Just like the birthday party he threw for her last month; everything was perfect.

But word gets around that people are after his fortune. Rumor this, and fact that. I don't know what to believe, but I know that if he is paying a friend of his to run around and do things for him, then that person is not really his friend, and I will have a strong loathing of them. The things I do for Joe, I do because I care about him and not the money in his wallet. When I go over with a dinner, wash a few dishes, or just hang out and tell jokes, I'm not looking for a paycheck. I'm looking to keep a mourning old man from being miserable. I just hate that anyone would be looking at him with dollar signs in their eyes.

Anyway, I want to keep him busy, and happy. So we've been taking the dogs for walks in the park nearby our home. It's nice, but my dog is trying to steal Homemakerman's dog's title of world's dumbest animal. Just Thursday night, he ran into a bench. Granted, it was dark, he's ten, and possibly losing his eyesight, but he just ran smack into the bench. Ouch.

Not 5 minutes later, and he ran into Joe's flashlight. Yeah. A flashlight. He saw Joe, sitting on the bench, and ran right into him. The flashlight had been on and in Joe's lap, and my dog got it straight in his eye. Uh, really? Was he blinded by the light? Was he following the light? I don't know, but I know the light was bright, and I know he ran right into it.... So, yeah...

I caught a train Saturday morning, but not after almost dying 3 times.

First, I woke up to the worst pain I've ever experienced in my life. Pretty sure any woman can relate, to give you a hint. If you're squeamish about that sort of stuff, skip ahead a few paragraphs. Don't know how long I'll be; just skip ahead to the asterisks.

I've had pretty bad periods for a while now. Usually it's the first 2 days I'm in keel over pain. Saturday was the worst ever. I woke up with the worst pressure ever in my pelvis. So bad, that I felt like updating my facebook status to: "One day, many years from now, I will sit down my children and tell them to be thankful that on this day, so many years ago, I didn't claw out my uterus."

Really. It was that bad. I got up and wobbled to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, cringing, waiting for my brains to explode. I broke into a cold sweat, and felt dizzy. I tried standing and literally fell backwards. Thankfully, I caught my balance before landing back on the toilet. Dragged myself into the tub. Sat there. Crying. It was terrible.

Mom heard me after 10 minutes. Came in and asked me what was wrong. I told her I wanted a hysterectomy, and that I'd just adopt her grankids. She laughed and told me period cramps were far worse than giving birth. Still not sure I believe her.

I felt bad, but even worse knowing my mom was up coughing all night with a fever. Now I had to have her take care of me? She was great; Got me gingerale. breakfast. Meds. I stumbled down the stairs and fell into her bathtub. Ran it and took a 2 hour long bath. P.S. It's gross taking a bath with Aunt Flo. Too Graphic. Sorry. It just sucks to be a woman. Effing men have it so easy.

Still not sure if it was IBS, bowel movement, cyst, trapped gas, or just mother nature at it's finest. Pretty sure "all of the above" came into play.

After my body returned to a semi-normal state, I was able to get ready for my cousin's Christmas party. That was great, except for the fact I had to go to a funeral first. Burial, really. They finally had the plot ready for Joe's wife, so we went up there to lay her to rest.

Oh yeah, P.S. #2, I'm going to hell.

I firmly believe that at a funeral, and in a time such as this, that people are supposed to be grown ups. Respectful, loving, understanding, grownups. Yet, that Saturday, I snubbed. And I knew I was probably going to hell for it, but I did it anyway. I snubbed, and I was angry. Pissed. Just plain pissed. You aren't supposed to be pissed at a funeral.

So what do you do when you see the one person, in the entire world, that you actually do hate? Despise. Loathe. Words aren't strong enough to describe my disdain. Which doesn't mean I'm consumed by a burning ball of hate, but does mean the thought of them taking a sledge hammer to my family and smashing it to pieces makes me wonder why God punishes the good and lets evil prevail.

Them. There are two of them. Husband and wife. The thought of them sickens me, but they were good friends with Joe and his wife, so what was I to do? There they were at the funeral. The get together. The burial. I felt mutinous just breathing the same air as them, like somehow being within 5 yards of them was betraying my family. I hated myself for not putting my feelings aside, because I felt I was disrespecting Joe's wife, but I just couldn't do it.

I hated them too. When "the Mrs." saw my mother crying she went over and hugged her. I nearly died. I couldn't blame my mother for not making a scene at her best friend's burial, but I couldn't believe it. I was mortified. The only thing I enjoyed about it was that my mother, quite possibly has swine flu and hopefully infected her. I'm going to hell. Poor Joe's wife has probably rolled over in her grave.

If it is any consolation, Joe's wife never believed in apologies. She said what she meant, and that was it; apologies meant nothing. So as much as she wanted us to forgive and forget our hatred, I don't think she'd appreciate lies.

"She's going to be hurting tonight." My mom said to me when we left. "Did you see what she did?" I was thinking, hey did I miss her fall or something? She's such a klutz; she probably fell. But apparently, her husband had been giving her the death-stare when she went over to hug my mother. (Towards the end of our relationship, we started to wonder how much of her bruises came from her klutziness, and how many of them, potentially, came from the husband.)

Again, I'm going to hell. But I don't quite care, and neither should anyone in the universe. Any spitfire woman who sells her soul to the devil for a million dollar mansion and life of luxury deserves neither respect nor sympathy. I am a firm believer in "life is what you make it" and if you make your life a bed of nails, abuse your family, and screw your friends--you're stuck with that life, and you have to live it. Have fun!

I was so glad when they left, and hadn't approached me. That way, I didn't have to appear "rude" or "grudge bearing." But then, on their way out, she said, "Hi." Hi. Hi to me. I wasn't sure how to respond, and in the seconds it took my brain to register that she actually dare speak to me, I took a breath and kept on walking. I wanted her to be miserable, and alone, and know that I hated her guts. I'm going to hell.

On another note, minus the stress, fury, and damnation, the burial was lovely. The flowers still looked beautiful, and the spot was perfect. You could see long lake from atop that giant hill. The plot was surrounded by giant rocks, and overlooked nothing but woods. It was perfect.

The kids were there. Her sister's grankids. Long, horrible, story there, but I won't get into it now. I'll just say they are now, currently, living happily with their aunt. But I love them. I love kids. They just make me smile. Life is so simple, and happy for kids. Everything is funny, and new, and exciting. Here goes the story, anyway. These kids lost their father a year or two ago from a supposed heart-attack. An autopsy was never preformed, but we've always slightly suspected the wife had something to do with his death. She's a money-sucking heroin junkie. 3 kids. Life insurance policy. No food, no clothes. Nothing. Nothing but an MIA mother. Sold the dog. Sold their toys. But it's ok. She'll just say people "stole" their stuff. And the school is just across the street, so they can get there themselves while she gets her fix in. Makes me sick.

Oh, the drama of my life. I love these kids so much, though. I hate that they have a crappy mom, and deceased father, and now their great aunt has passed. Their life has been tragically robbed of joy and innocence. That makes me sicks too.

During the burial, I played with the kiddos. 2/3 of them, anyway. The third had a different father who won custody after the mother abdicated all three to her sister-in-law.

The youngest disappeared into the woods; made me nervous. Him and that army-pattered jacket. Hunting season. Yeah. So I went off and found him sitting on a ledge. Not a huge cliff, or anything, but a few feet at least.

"Watcha' Doin?" I hugged him.

"Thinkin. I want to go down there."

"Well, maybe this summer. When we go fishing, we'll go hiking too." I said. What do you say to a kid who lost two very special people in his life? I don't know. He pulled a piece of straw to his lips. I grabbed one too. We sword fought with them, and I tickled him with it. We giggled, and then we made bird nests. Brought them back to the funeral.

Joe's wife. I'll call her Sharona. Heh. Sharona. The kids didn't quite understand why everyone was standing around, so I told them we were paying our respects to Sharona. They were very sweet, but then wanted to take flowers from the baskets. "One each." I said, go ahead and pick. So they each picked perfect red roses from the bunch. But the elder sister whined: "But he's got two! No Fair!"

Well, the brother's second was found on a rock beside the parking spot. It had been plucked out for looking dead and crumbled. "Ok, you can have ONE more," I said, "Then you'll each have two." So she picked another, which, naturally, made her younger brother jealous.

"I want that one!" He told me, but I reminded him he only had two, and we needed to leave them pretty for Sharona.

We left for the train shortly after, and I didn't think we'd make it alive. On the way two BRILLIANT drivers decided to cut out in front of us without signaling. Had my mother not been a professional driver, we'd probably never have made it to the train. Literally. Two morons. They were barely inches in front of us when they came into our lane. Morons.

So. Yeah. There is part one of Who am I. Not sure how it got so off track, but I'll get to more of the self-reflecting part later.

Until next time <3

1 comment:

  1. Don't feel bad for that. She was the one taking advantage of the funeral because she knew you wouldn't do anything there and she could look all nicey nicey. She did the same thing to Tumblweed at Grammy's funeral.