My weekend parallels my religion in quiet and awful ways. Saturday, Holy Saturday, I got the call from my dad, the one I've been halfway expecting for about the last ten years. The one that says he's moved out, and my parents are split again. This wasn't a surprise, precisely; he moved out for a few weeks back when I was in middle school, and of course no one ever discussed it with me directly, but I think the only reason he moved back in was because my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly thereafter, and needed help after her surgery. They've been more or less at odds since that time, so I've always had the possibility of another, more permanent split at the back of my mind. But I don't like it any more today than I did twelve years ago.
Today, on Easter Sunday, I got another phone call. I picked up and the automated voice on the other end said the call originated from a state correctional institution, and I started to shake, because of course I knew who it was. I hadn't spoken to the Hubster's twin sister, K, in almost seven years; not since before she was locked up. She was arrested back in '95, just after we'd graduated high school, and sentenced to 25 years. I had no contact with her for the first five or so of those, but more recently we've exchanged letters and such. I suppose we're on friendly terms, now. We were never particularly close, so that's more of a step than it might seem. It's hard to invent a friendship with someone whose expected release date is in 2011. But we spoke today, casually, cheerily, about my job as a speech therapist and hers in the boiler room; about the Hubster's Atari game and her work with a local "Scared Straight" program. It's been almost seven years; I didn't recognize her voice.
I thought I was done for the night, but I was blog-surfing and spotted another TWoP reference to Nicodemus, and am I the only one who doesn't think Pete is all that? I mean, come on, people. What exactly are you seeing that I'm not? Because while I agree that Sam Jones III is cute as pie, I desperately wish he would break down and take an acting class. Or at least get a diction coach. He rushes like crazy, slurs his lines...that awful little psuedo-stutter when he's explaining Clark's return to the plant in Jitters--that's just embarassing. Frankly, I find him wooden at best. So what's the deal here?
House-buying panic has dimmed to manageable levels for the time being. I still have moments of stark terror at the sheer amount of money on the line here--because no matter how much people talk about equity and the buyer's market and low interest rates, all I hear is a hundred thousand plus dollars worth of debt--but the pendulum has mostly swung back toward excitement. By all appearances, we're getting a fabulous deal. I mean, not only is the house (gah!) affordable, in great condition, and exactly what we were looking for even if we didn't know it, but it's maybe half a mile from where we live now. Moving is going to be so much easier. Plus I love our current neighborhood, which is hilly and winding and cactus-studded, and far enough away from the center of town to still get dark at night. We're next in line to surrender to urban sprawl, to be sure, but when they start drawing up plans for another Walmart out here it will be time for me to get the hell out anyway.
So, the house: three bedroom, two bath, smallish kitchen, large, airy living room. Garage. Best yard ever. Not overmuch space, which is good, because I don't need the sort of crap we'd buy to fill up extra rooms. The selling points were the comfortable, open feel to the living area and master bedroom, the master bath built to accomodate two people, the large closets, and the yard. The yard is gorgeous. The house sits on about a third of an acre, which is a lot for this day and age, and the current owners must have had a great interest in xeriscaping. (Ahh, Kat. What a wonderful word). The front yard is small, with shrubby native trees and a huge sprawling rosemary plant; the only concession to traditional gardening is a tiny patch of what I think are pansies. The backyard is enormous--rectangular, discreetly fenced, and multi-leveled. There's a small patio and grassy area on the same level as the house, and the rest of the yard is set higher, sloping above a natural wall of roughly five feet. The backyard is half wild, with trees and patches of tall grass. There's a small vegetable garden area, as well as a treehouse and playscape. It's all beautiful, and looks to be very low maintenance, which is key.
The current owners have accepted our offer, and we've been pre-approved for the loan. There don't appear to be any major hold-ups, so we've gotten to the nit-picky stage where we ask the current owners to give us a minor allowance for various small cosmetic repairs, and they feign surprise at the idea that we might wish to paint over the large anarchy symbol on their teenaged son's wall. I'm hoping this stage goes smoothly, because I'd really like to talk with them about how to keep up the yard; it may be low maintenance, but I'm the original brown thumb, baby.
So that's the house. We're set to close April 29th, but won't actually move in until the end of May, due to various parties' leases and public school schedules. By then I hope to be significantly calmer, as well as versed in the ways of native Texas plants.
***
I'm on kind of a short leash the evening. The Hubster has already gone to bed, and Mr. Sinatra, fearing abandonment, has been killing himself to get through the closed door to the computer room. Normally I would just let him in, but he's in his late night, wound up state, where he wants to walk on the keyboard and play in the wastebasket and sharpen his claws on my chair, and I cannot handle that right now. Plus, he's already in my bad graces for the day. My friend LG gave me cascarones for Easter (colored eggshells that have been hollowed out and then stuffed with confetti--I think it's a Mexican thing), and the cat thought they were a fucking Gift From Above. I had to vacuum up the confetti and eggshell particles he'd strewn all over the house, and I'm sure he had a grand old time, but I did not.
Eventful weekend. Friday at work was long and draggy--I kept checking my watch in disbelief throughout the day. Which is not to say it was a boring or unpleasant day. In fact, there were numerous highlights, including my receiving a cell phone call from buddy LG at precisely the moment when three of my coworkers staged an impromptu reenactment of Cameron Diaz's dance scene from the Charlie's Angels movie. LG's politely asking, "Are you busy?" to the background accompaniment of, "I like big BUTTS and I cannot LIE..." Me: "Do I sound busy?"
Friday evening we went to dinner with C and S, and then to see Resident Evil, which I must stress was not my first choice movie. Actually, I ended up walking out of the theater after about an hour, because I just wasn't having any fun. Predictability, gore, and no humor whatsoever do not a winning combination make. I feel like it would be giving the movie too much credit to say I was creeped out--it was completely formulaic, right down to the body count, so it's not like I didn't know which characters were going to bite it--but I did have to wake the Hubster up in the middle of that night to make sure he wasn't a zombie. I don't know. I'm a weenie in general where horror movies are concerned, but I think zombies are a bit too much for me.
Saturday...I was so glad for Saturday morning. My pulled anterior tib muscle has finally healed enough to run on, and I've been chomping at the bit to get back out. There's an informal trail running group headed by the same woman who did the marathon training group, and she'd talked it up as a very relaxing, low-stress alternative to street running. What with the pulled muscle and all, I'd really wanted to check it out, as trail running is supposed to be significantly easier on the joints. So I dragged myself out to the park by 7:30am, cursing my lack of sleep, and the run was...wonderful. Wonderful. We ran through the city greenbelt, scrambling over rocks and through dry creekbeds, and the air was damp, the sky grey and heavy. I've never been so glad to be moving in my life. I give up, I confess, I pack it in: I'm a runner.
Saturday evening I went to a revival. No, really, I did. Story of my life; I had no idea it was a revival when I showed up. The event was billed as a "drama," and I'd found out about it through ER, the little boy I mentioned in the previous entry. He'd been going on about the "drama show" for a couple of weeks, telling me about various relatives who had parts in the play, as well as plot points ("They shoot guns, Sara, but it's not real"). Since ER doesn't, you know, talk much, we'd ended up having variations on this conversation several times, and when he showed up one day with a flyer for the play, I said yeah sure, I'd go. He was thrilled.
Fast forward to last night. The drama is hosted by a middle school on the east side of town. The crowd is almost entirely Hispanic. Even with my dark hair, I am still immediately recognizable as una guerra, a white girl. I feel mildly out of place, although not uncomfortable. I'm met just inside the door by ER's mom, who apologizes profusely as she tells me that ER is "sick from his stomach" and had to go home. I'm disappointed, but decide to stay anyway. I sit with her and get the rundown on how her family is related to various cast members. My first clue that I may be in for more than I expected comes when I read the program insert on "Pastor Vince," who wrote and directed the drama. Seems he received Christ into his life as a street kid twenty years ago, and has been reaching out to young people through theater ever since. Well, okay, fine. That's admirable. Then Pastor Vince takes the stage.
Okay, let's be straight here. I'm white, Catholic, middle class, sheltered, somewhat reserved. I am completely unprepared for this man, with his sweat and his fervor and his habit of adding "Amen" to the end of every sentence. But I clamp down hard on my prejudices--"Who am I to judge, who am I, who am I,"--and try not to be cynical. Clearly his methods have met some success, as testimonies from various ex-addict, ex-gangbanger cast members attest. The play itself is involving. The actors, while clearly amateur, strike me as quite talented. The storyline deals with families ripped apart by drugs, violence, and lack of faith, and while it may not be universal, bits and pieces are painfully real. The only obvious weak spots are the sound (dear God, it's loud), and Pastor Vince, who basically plays himself. He's not a particularly good actor. I wonder if I am the only one embarassed by this. I follow the play with some interest until the final act, when a particular exchange between the mother and the daughter, a recent rape victim, leaves me horrified. Don't feel like detailing it here; let's just say that Pastor Vince doesn't really seem to grasp that devaluing our young women to save our young men is a Bad Thing. The play ends. Pastor Vince comes out on stage to thank us for our attendance and urge devotion to God. He keeps talking. He asks us to stand. More talking--raise your hand if you wish to accept Jesus into your heart tonight. People gather in front of the stage to be saved. Those of us remaining in the crowd are asked to pray for them. I do, although possibly not in the manner he intends. I am acutely glad the Hubster did not accompany me, as he would be passing out from mortification about now. More talking, and then mercifully, the end. I hug ER's mom and leave, trying not to look shell-shocked.
I don't mean to mock this guy. I don't begrudge him his passion for his faith. But the differences between us are so vast, I'm not sure they can be spanned. My faith is so heavily founded on the quiet spaces, and there seemed to be no place for quiet in this man. I don't know. Some people need the passion and the noise, I'm sure, but I can't be like that. If God's going to speak through me, He'll do it in my voice.
I feel like a five-year-old. Ate a few too many cookie fragments during one of my therapy sessions today, and I now have a real live stomach ache. Bleh. It was a good time, though--my 12:30 kid, ER, has been asking for weeks if he could bring his older brother S to speech therapy with him, and since I knew S was on spring break this week I said yes. ER is a bit of an odd duck; a rather moody little boy whose language performance can be highly variable depending on his energy level and state of mind. It's taken me a long time to get a handle on him--all outside reports (mom, social worker, bus drivers) indicate that he loves to come see me, but until very recently, he never seemed to actually enjoy anything we did in therapy. So I thought, you know, bring S along, maybe get a better picture of ER's typical language skills, plus I like S, and what the hell.
What the hell indeed. They were wild together. Sweet, and surprisingly attentive and cooperative for wound-up little boys, but with the energy and stamina of Marines on shore leave. But we made slice-and-bake cookies and played around a little and all was well, except for the part where I ate far too many cookie remnants after they left. Now I'm regretting that choice. Oog.
I don't have to see the season finale of Smallville to know it's going to make me cry.
Post-"Zero" thoughts later, maybe. I have so many entries I want to write, so many sketchy paragraphs skittering around in my head, but tonight I am distracted. Rocky III is on in the background, too loud. My hands smell of garlic from dinner. The room is too bright, and overheated. Some other time, I guess.
For future reference:
*Krycek, Lex, and fear.
*Stuff on my bulletin board.
*The battleship Lexington, and why it makes GG and I whoop with laughter.
*Am I making exceptions for GG because I like him?
*The trials and tribulations of professional certification.
*Changing self-perception.
You know how a whole bunch of people, myself included, have been going on about misogyny in slash fandom? I'm finding the discussion interesting, but I regret to inform you all that I've undergone a radical shift in perspective, and I will no longer be stressing over the grey-shaded portrayals of women in guy-on-guy erotica. You know why? Because Monday night I attended a live World Wrestling Federation event, courtesy of my friend LG. She's a freak. The contrast between women in slash and women in WWF is somewhat akin to the contrast between "I can't afford really good cable" and "I can't afford food." At one point I was in a crowd of 50 thousand something people chanting, "Slut! Slut! Slut!"
My facility organized--get this--an honest-to-God Formal Gala, which took place last night. It seems to have been a success, but I'm not all that interested in recapping it, except to wonder why the hell buying suitable undergarments for this sort of fancy event is always such a hassle. Because of course I didn't have stockings or a slip that would work with my dress, and since I had to brave the Target women's underwear section anyway, I decided to bite the bullet and buy some new bras. All of mine are ancient and threadbare, and many are starting to lose the little underwire bits, and I just needed to restock.
I hate underwear shopping. Hate it. It's not that I object to the flamboyant colors or patterns--God know, if I could buy Smallville underoos I would--but is there some cosmic reason why I can never find a basic white or black bra in my size? Seriously. White, underwire, won't make weird patterns through my tee-shirts. Am I asking so much?
***
Anna, I only wish Mr. Sinatra had that much shame. Apparently, the time he lived in the wild was during whatever crucial stage when housecat moral centers are supposed to develop, because he has no concept that "no," "stop," "get down," or horrified shrieking indicate he might be doing something wrong.
It's cold here, or as cold as it gets in central Texas--in the low 40's during midday, the 20's at night. Windchill's dropping the temperature another ten to fifteen degrees in the open areas. I have a tendency to romanticize the cold--dS, Fraser, childhood in Florida, honeymoon in Alaska--I'm not blind to my own psychological workings here. But I worry, on days like these, that if I actually lived somewhere that got cold and stayed cold, that if the romance and the nostalgia and the sheen of the exotic were stripped away by day-to-day experience, that I wouldn't be able to hack it. That I'd hit my first snow-storm, or iced-over bridge, or frozen car engine, and cave immediately. That feeling scares me deeply, not only because it represents my fear that my limits might be closer than I'd like to admit, but because it's so familiar. I'm a charter member of the school of what Beth calls "Move Far Away and It Will Get Better!" My whole life so far is filled with moments of intense...yearning; times when I felt so trapped in my own skin, in my own head, that I simply could not accept my own circumstances. Being seven years old, locking myself in the bathroom to pace and cry inconsolably because I'd just truly realized that Nancy Drew wasn't real, and I wasn't going to meet her someday. As an eighth grader, staring at the Coral Reefers on the back of a Jimmy Buffett album and willing myself into the sweet island sunlight. Listening to "Northwest Passage" and thinking of Fraser and the north. I read a post once that said the important thing to remember about Fraser is not whether he came from the Yukon or the Northwest Territories, from Yellowknife or Inuvik, but that the north made him. What will they say about me? "North-central Florida made her"? Great, just great.
And Lex believes we make our own destinies, and I'm with him to a point, but today it's cold out, and I'm feeling bounded in so many ways. Maybe Florida made me because I couldn't hack anywhere else, you know?
