I could never be featured on one of those reality-home-buying TV shows. I mean, aside from the fact that I can’t afford to buy a house of course. What I mean is that my standards are too flexible, and probably too low, to make for good television.
Julie, what are you looking for in a home?
Well, it should be spacious and have plenty of extra room…
But, I mean, not too much space. I don’t want to have to, like, buy more furniture or something. Plus I hate cleaning floors: sweeping, vacuuming, mopping. Hate, hate, hate it. Um, so I guess the less square footage, the better.
I’d also like at least two bathrooms…
Well, maybe one full one and a half one would be okay. As long as there are two rooms with a toilet and a sink, that should be fine. Okay, I mean, if the one doesn’t have a sink in the room I could make do. Is there a basement? I can put a bucket in the corner.
A good kitchen with all the main appliances is a must…
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t need a dishwasher. And I’ve got my own microwave, somewhere. That’s basically not even an appliance anyway. A good gas range, though. Okay, well, electric is fine. And I guess I don’t need all 4 burners to work. I usually only use two at a time, tops. And the fridge? I mean, as long as it keeps things below room temperature, that should be fine. I wouldn’t store a lot in it anyway. Well, I guess if push comes to shove, I’ve got a cooler. And bags of ice are cheap.
Three bedrooms, at least…
Okay, okay. That’s kind of laughable. What the hell would I put in that third bedroom? An office would be nice, but that’s what I’ve got a couch and a long laptop cord for. Speaking of couches, that’s where my friends will end up sleeping anyway so I certainly don’t need a “guest room.” So yeah. I guess I just need one bedroom. Orrrr at least a place for my bed. Maybe in the basement.
I just saw out a small group of friends who were kind enough, fun enough, awesome enough to come celebrate my birthday with me. Ever so simply, at my apartment, with beers and taquitos and sparkling conversation. I technically do not reach another age for another five hours or so, but I’m still recollecting, reminiscing, and remembering all of my Years Past.
I’ve known love. I’ve felt as if I were complete in the arms and in the company of another. I’ve given myself wholly to another, emotionally naked. I’ve entertained the idea of Forever, and it wasn’t a far-fetched possibility.
I’ve known heartbreak. I’ve been disappointed almost beyond repair. I’ve felt physical pain caused by emotional distress. I’ve cried until my eyes could not produce tears any longer. Also, I cried until I scared my cat.
I’ve known happiness. I’ve known intense satisfaction at a job well done, and the relief of a prayer answered. I’ve danced for joy both alone and in the company of others. I’ve fallen to my knees and praised God.
I’ve known despair. I’ve fallen into the grasp of depressions so deep the only way out I sought was down. I’ve been beyond hopeless, jaded and alone.
I’ve known anger. I’ve felt rage so hot and blinding it consumed me. I’ve wished death and dismemberment on those closest to me. I’ve wanted nothing more than to inflict physical violence on those who I felt wronged me.
I’ve known peace. I’ve been overwhelmed with calm, and the innate notion that everything will be okay, and to not worry, and that things will work themselves out.
I’ve lived a life worth living, felt feelings worth feeling, and told stories worth telling.
While New Years’ resolutions are nice and all, I think if your point is to take a year to better yourself it makes more sense to start with YOUR birthday. Unless you were born on January 1st, in which case I’m sorry that your friends are always too hungover to go out to brunch with you on your birthday.
That said, my birthday is tomorrow (please pm me for details on how to send cash and fabulous prizes). Ahem. ANYWAY, before my cup of coffee wore off this morning I was all like “I WILL MAKE IT A GOAL TO WRITE SOMETHING AND POST IT HERE EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR! YEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! THIS IS SO HAPPENING!”
And then I came to my senses. A year? Oy. How about a week? Nah, that’s slightly too easy. A month? Hmmm. I think I can handle that. Maybe.
Do I promise well-written and thoughtful prose every damn day of the month? Nope. No way.
But something – even if it’s just a sentence – each day for the next 30 days? Yes. I will do this.
I posted a fb status last night that I blatantly ripped from something I saw on Pinterest. Meta, right?
Are you familiar with that FUCK YEAH, I DID THIS! feeling? I’m sure we all experience it from time-to-time (perhaps with different internal narration, though I highly recommend my wording). Anyway, isn’t that feeling the GREATEST? I’m not even talking about outrageous exploits here – one need not have just scaled K2 to have their FUCK YEAH! moment. I mean, it usually seems to come with tackling the everyday tasks – albeit with motherfucking GUSTO and PURPOSE.
I try very hard to remind myself how good a FUCK YEAH moment feels when I find myself hesitating – over anything, really. Performing a work-related task. Running an errand I’ve put off shamefully long. Following through with a random idea that pops into my head. Because time spent hesitating and overthinking is time that eventually could be spent a) doing the whatever-that-needs-doing and b) [more importantly] relishing the fact that you just DID SOMETHING. It’s no contest, really.
I recall times in the past where I wished I would have spoken up/acted sooner/ignored the haters and it’s a terrible feeling in retrospect, knowing that the ball was in my court the whole damn time and I just stood with it and let the clock run out. On the flip side, though, I recall times when I just said “screw it, let’s do this” and – metaphorical balls-to-the-wall – just. fucking. did it. That’s a great feeling, ya know?
Don’t get me wrong: it doesn’t always go well (thinking and hesitating aren’t always bad*) But I prefer to queue up the times when I felt AWESOME after checking the overthinking part of my brain at the door. Because I think that Life needs more FUCK YEAH! moments. In fact, I think it’s entirely possibly to live from moment-to-moment in this way.
…though shouting out FUCK YEAH I DID THIS! each time might end with a trip to HR.
* ie deciding to drop everything, quit school and move to another state. Not to sound like a hypocrite, because I did just that and it worked, but I could have used a liiiittle more planning.
I’m on the fringes, half-listening. I wasn’t part of the original conversation but – goddamn am I nosy! – I’ve nodded-and-laughed my way halfway into it.
It begins casually enough. “Oh, do you watch XYZ?” they ask. Eagerly.
Is this a show that is currently popular? Of course I don’t. Aloud, I answer with a sheepish “Naaaaaw…”
The response is emphatic. I’m told I totally should! I’d love it! It’s soooooo good! Then I’d know what everyone is talking about on Monday/Thursday/Wednesday/Every morning!
And I think yeah! I’ve got the cable television! I’ve got the internets!LET’S DO THIS!
And I go home and queue it up and get myself all situated. This is gonna be great! Truly, there’s nothing like the feeling of beginning a new Something – that feeling of excitement and anticipation is nice.* And how fun will it be to actually participate in the conversation the next time?!
So I’m a-watchin’ and a-hopin’ and a-anticipatin’ and… I got nothin’. No immediate love, I’m not hooked, I’m not even that interested. A zillion different factors combine in such a way that I am left feeling disappointed. Because this! THIS was gonna be the time! The time that I finally got the hype!
The first time around, that is.
Because here’s the thing: just because I didn’t “get it” the first time around doesn’t mean I never will. I mean, sometimes I’ll try to pick it back up again later and it still won’t stick. But more often than not, that second chance is all I need. Days, months, sometimes years later: I’m flipping through the channels, catch a glimpse of something Interesting, and I’ll be damned! This is XYZ!
[Unfortunately, I’m still working on a way to nonchalantly insert myself back in archived conversation. I imagine it’d be something like this: Julie: Hey, guys! Remember when you were talking about how they killed off Bob? That was SO surprising! I didn’t see that coming, either!!! Coworkers: Um, except that you did. Because you heard us talking about it. Six months ago.]
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check out this LOST show. The people I worked with in 2007 thought it was pretty boss.
*even if it is a television show, which perhaps makes my life infinity-times more shallow.
For almost as long as I can remember, my mom has joked that I do everything “the Julie way.” What she means is that I somehow find the most difficult, roundabout, bass-ackwards way of doing just about anything. But I get it done, damn it. And in the end, isn’t that what matters? Oh, sure, it would have been easier to not have put that bookshelf together upside down the first time, but I eventually got it right. And I appreciate that fucking bookshelf all the more, because it took me twice as long to build it.
Sometimes I let the following thought slide across my brain: What are you doing with your life? Is this it? Is this really the place you figured you’d end up? And I worry, and sometimes hang my head, because it’s so easy to think that I failed myself. But that’s also bullshit. I just took the long way ’round. Never in a million years did I think I’d be here – physically, emotionally, whateverally. And yet: here I fucking am.
The summer after third grade, I didn’t sleep. While I’m sure that’s an exaggeration to some extent, our minds remember what they will, and I remember it thus: laying in bed night after night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the radio playing quietly in the background. This one new song was getting so much airplay, and I latched onto it, hard. That’s me in the corner / That’s me in the spotlight… By the first few nights, I’d memorized the words, and sang along silently in my head. Night after night.*
This is one of my first memories I have about sleeping (or the lack thereof, I guess). And since then (maybe before? Again, the timeline is fuzzy), I’ve had a love-hate relationship with sleep.
Mostly, I love it. When I am tired, my will to fall asleep surpasses any primal instinct felt by man or beast. I have, in my lifetime, fallen asleep, face-first into a bowl of cereal, twice. I’ve fallen asleep, sitting up, while ostensibly participating in a group conversation countless times. I’ve fallen asleep, laying down, while having intimate conversations with one other person…continuing to speak – mostly nonsense – until the other person realized I was no longer aware of what I was doing. Once, after what I assume my partner thought was a long, comfortable pause, I broke the silence by blurting out “I don’t mind that you brought croutons.”
Hearing my own voice woke me up that time, but not before I rolled over and kissed a pillow, thinking I was kissing him.
I also love naps, but more specifically, that I am good at them. I have few measurable skills, and this is one. If I find myself fading in the middle of the day, if I can lay down for 12 to 18 minutes, I’ll be recharged enough to make it through until bedtime. This is, for once, not an exaggeration. I can set my alarm by it. Actually, I don’t need to. I can lay down for a nap at 2:30, knowing that I will be awake in time to leave for work at 3:00. If it sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am.
Most nights, I have no trouble falling asleep. My head hits the pillow and minutes later I’m out.
…until I’m not.
If ever I fall asleep at night, and wake in the morning, having not woken up once in the middle of the night, something is wrong. It’s how I know that I am sick, either naturally or by my own doing (see: whiskey) (see also: alprazolam, as described below). I do not know if sleeping for several hours straight, without waking, is what is supposed to happen. All I know is that it doesn’t happen for me.
On a good night, one where I awake feeling rested and okay, I’ll wake up probably three or four times, look at the clock (this is something I remember doing as a kid, too – always needing to know what time it was for some reason), roll back over, and fall asleep. Thanks to my compulsive clock-checking, I know that it probably only takes ten minutes max until I’m out again. That’s my normal. Again, maybe that’s everyone’s normal. I don’t know.
Sometimes, though, I get on a bad streak. I’m able to fall asleep just fine. But I’m up about every 45 minutes to an hour, looking at the clock, cussing softly to myself, and trying to go back to sleep. Only instead of the 10 minutes max, I roll over to see that 15, 20, 30 minutes has passed and still: nothin’. I know that they say you’re supposed to physically get UP when this happens, to do something instead of just lay there, to make yourself more tired. And I do, sometimes. Sometimes I’ll even try to go sleep somewhere else: the couch, a chair, even the floor from time-to-time (that’s real smart, Julie. You can’t fall asleep in your nice comfy bed so let’s go lay on the fucking ground. Nice.). But the cycle persists. Sleep for 45. Awake for 30. Repeat until I give up.
Unfortunately, I’m currently powering through one of these bad turns. I know that one night, my circadian rhythm will finally un-fuck-itself-up and I’ll be sleeping for a few hours at a time again, but it hasn’t happened yet. And yes, I know they make things to help you sleep like a normal person, but I am hesitant.
I’m not adverse to taking an Advil PM from time-to-time. But if I take more than one, I wake up feeling terrible. Also, the few times I was offered a Xanax legally obtained a medication prescribed for me, I also felt shitty upon waking.
Odd sleep-rhythms aside, there’s also times I don’t wake up at all.
Has that ever happened to you? Something in your brain has stirred, and you are sure that you’re awake. You are sure that you are no longer sleeping, but you are still laying in your bed, flat on your back. Wait, are you asleep? You will your eyes to open. You cannot make your eyes open. You cannot make your body move. You know you are asleep. You know you are asleep. Why can’t you move? WHY CAN’T YOU FUCKING MOVE? OH MY GOD YOU CANNOT FUCKING MOVE. You can’t open your eyes, because it feels like they have rolled back into your head. You can’t move, like you are covered in a 500-pound lead x-ray apron.
Then you see what has stirred your brain.
There is a man standing over your bed. He is standing right there. You cannot see his face. And you cannot move. And he is RIGHT THERE IN YOUR FUCKING BEDROOM. And you try to scream, but of course you can’t. And you try to jump up and run and hide, but of course you can’t. Maybe he won’t see you, seeing as you can’t fucking move and all, and maybe he will go away. And maybe you hear your name, CLEAR AS FUCKING DAY. It is whispered into your ear. You KNOW someone is whispering your name in your ear. But you can’t respond. You cannot move.
That’s why I also hate sleeping.
This all sounds much more fucked up in print than it feels in my head. Forgive me. I’m mostly just really tired.
So tired…
But:
* “Losing my Religion” was released in February 1991, which puts it a bit before summer. While I’m sure it was still getting a lot of play by May/June, maybe the insomnia started earlier? For some reason “summer” sticks with me.
I asked WordPress to hassle me if I didn’t post something once a week. I thought it would build accountability, or some shit, but I was wrong. It only drives me more nuts. Lay off, WordPress. Give me a break. It’s been a busy week, okay? Geeeeeeeez.
…Busy, huh? Like when you were laying on your couch watching Flight of the Conchords the other day? Yeah, you looked pretty busy then.
A…I wasn’t laying down because B…I was eating lunch. That totally doesn’t count. I decided to —
Or when you spent, like, ten solid minutes at your bedroom window watching your neighbors try to fit a mattress into a U-Haul? That was nice, Julie. Way to be a good neighbor.
Wha—? What was I supposed to do? Come down and be like “Oh, hey, I’ve been watching you move out all morning. Do you need any help? I don’t think —
You realize that the time you’ve spent typing this imaginary argument could have been better spent by —
*closes laptop*
But, wait! There’s more:
I snapped this when I was out a few days ago. Do you see what made me cringe?* I almost had a fit. This is right up there with the sign at my local grocery store that hangs above the “CAN FOOD” aisle. Seriously? the FUCK? The food isn’t being fed to the fucking can. The food has been put into a fucking can. Thus, it has been canned. It is CANNED FOOD.
Okay, sometimes I get upset. Apologies.
*If you don’t, I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not. Because once your brain recognizes mistakes like this, you can’t un-see it…. and you will be driven to madness, where you spend your days arguing with yourself. In print.
Bits and pieces, because I can’t gather my brain enough to compose a decent post.
* * * * *
For years my drink o’ choice was – this is a Judgment Free Zone, right? – Dr. Pepper and vodka. Why? Beats the shit out of me, other than Julie drank vodka and people expect you to, like, mix it with something when you drink it? I tried the cran route – gag – and clear soda? Blech. I’m not a soda drinker, with the exception of *drumroll, please* Dr. Pepper, so… a Drink Was Born.
We’d go to this little shitty bar with little shitty tables and a little shitty jukebox and little DELICIOUS plates of nachos and the one girl bartender whose name I can no longer recall would see me and do a guy-nod in my direction as she reached for the vodka and I’d do a guy-nod back at her and that was that.
But then I moved, away from that little shitty bar in that shitty little town and I hadn’t had a vodka-Dr.-Pepper since… until recently when I happened to have both those ingredients. “What the hell?” I figured, and mixed one up.
Not the same without the nachos.
* * * * *
I have friends coming in town soon. I texted my brother to ask for good restaurant suggestions and his reply was “Have you started deep cleaning yet?”
Thanks for ruining my excitement, Brother.
Will BFFF and her Husbando give a flying fuck if the rug in front of my kitchen sink has been freshly laundered? No, no they will not. But IS said rug freshly laundered? You bet your sweet ass it is. In fact, I might just serve breakfast off of it one morning.
Also, in “preparation” I completed a Wal-Mart run reminiscent of previous party hosting panic-induced trips. I swear to you I did need a new air mattress. But throw pillows for the couch? What the hell kind of crazy came over me? I’m out of control.
* * * * *
He took me to a Caribbean restaurant in some fucking hipster “neighborhood” that in all actuality is just three blocks of one street and also FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT VENTURE MORE THAN ONE QUARTER BLOCK NORTH OR SOUTH OF THIS ROAD OR YOU WILL BE BEATEN AND MURDERED AND THEN BEATEN AGAIN POSTMORTEM.
He was babbling on about fried plantains and I was trying not to anxiety-sweat through my dress. I wasn’t hungry – do people get hungry on blind dates? – but I politely ate whatever shit was placed in front of me. Nibbling all dainty-like, not because I wanted to appear to be a lady but because I didn’t want a reversal all over the tropical birds painted on the table.
What did I order? I do not know, and it does not matter, because he ordered the fish and the fish arrived WHOLE and then he took his fork and poked at an eyeball and held it up and popped it in his mouth and I died. I fucking died and we never went out again.
(for the record, it wasn’t just because of the fish eyeball. He was also a douche. I assume the two aren’t related, but who knows?).
I don’t know how or why I noticed the spot on my abdomen, but I do remember thinking that it wasn’t there when I went to bed the night before. As I got dressed, I noticed another peculiarity: a strange blister on my hand, between two fingers.
The weird blister warranted attention from my mother. She took one glance and knew immediately:
chicken pox.
The memory is still pretty clear. I was 8 years old. It was July, or August. August, I think. The summer before third grade. The ‘pox was going around the neighborhood; the family across the street was spreading it amongst their four offspring and my Mom had (wisely) sent me over there to play with them every. single. day, and every. single. day when I came over Mrs. T sat me down and took my temperature – marveling that I was not yet running a fever, even after days upon days of exposure.
Until that morning.
I don’t remember feeling particularly ill; I simply noticed a weirdness on my body that was not there previously. Actually, I felt great, because that day my Dad and I had tickets to a Cardinals game.
In case you’re wondering, this is the point of this story.
I remember standing in my parents’ bedroom – I distinctly remember facing their four-drawer dresser as my Mom and Dad conferenced: Should she go? Should she stay home? She feels fine. They’re not all over yet.
In the end, it was decided that I – we – would go.
I was under strict orders not to show anyone at the game the Weird Thing on my hand, and to hide any other new Weird Things I noticed on my person. I think I was told at that point that I finally had chicken pox, but I sure don’t remember feeling any different.
Well after we returned home from the game, the whole thing turned into a super-shitty time. Fever and itching and chicken pox down my fucking throat. I laid in bed, absolutely miserable, while my mom sat in a chair and told me ridiculous made-up stories.
But before that, all of that, I got to go to a baseball game.
Priorities.
EDIT: It just dawned on me: do children even get chicken pox any more? Or will I reminisce to my children about chicken pox the way my parents talk about measles and mumps?
the sloppy copy 