Today, Jon and I stayed home. We scheduled the day about a month ago (I was persistent). I call it our "mental health day." All we really do is watch movies and sometimes go to a matinee and eat food, but the jist of it, the real reason I insist on one every now and then, is to make it an "our" day. Just so we can be together for a day all alone at home without feeling we're "wasting" away our weekends, which is how I feel just about every day.
I came to Jon's office tonight to update my journal. I don't have a computer connection at home, so that's why I have no evening or weekend entries.
I crochet. It's a funny thing to do, but I thought last night how funny it is that Jon went to bed during the seventh inning of the third game of the world series, but I stayed up to watch the rest. Sitting on the couch, calling the ump a fuck face for calling a strike on an obvious ball, crocheting my cute red and white checkered afghan. Exquisite picture, isn't it? Dainty ol' me.
I like crocheting for two reasons: not only do I come out with something I created myself with my own hands, which always feels good (the closest to motherhood so far), but it's brainless. Absolutely the most brainless, yet productive, hobby I have. Writing, which some would consider a hobby but what I really think is a lifestyle, that takes brains. That takes concentration and sweat and a shitload of perserverance. But crocheting? No way. It takes fingers, hands, and a nice dose of "I don't care if I don't move from here for the next two hours." That's good old fashioned brainless fun.
When I was ten, my sisters and I were left with one of my mother's ex-boyfriends. His name was John and if I ever saw him again, I wouldn't hesitate if I have the money to get his ass nailed, literally. He was an asshole who beat little kids up and treated them like his own little marine corp; I hope he eats mud. We stayed in a trailer with no heat, no electricity and no running water. Yeah yeah, the quaint things existed, like the stream across the dirt road from which we lugged fourteen gallons of water and the kerosene lamps that "set the primitive mood." Little house on the goddamned prairie. But trust me. Though we had corn meal for breakfast and split pea soup for dinner and shivered in the night walking to the outhouse, I wasn't exactly inspired to write about it at the time. But that's not the point. This is kinda the point:
There was a cabin right next to the trailer. I mean, we walked to it--took two seconds cause it was only four feet away. In it lived a little old lady who was about 93. Her name was Nelda, if you can believe that. She had about 14 cats and three dogs. I was particularly attached to one cat named Batgirl. She was paralyzed in the hip. Black and white fur. A mustard-yellow collar with small studs on it. She was always awake beside me when I slept in the cabin and had to wake up to piss in the white pot beside the couch. She was a great cat. The only one I liked, in fact. I'm pretty sure I hated all the others, but really: how can you remember things accurately when so much has happened to you? But that's not the point either.
Nelda taught me how to sew. Specifically, she taught me how to hem jeans. She was very particular about it. Her cabin had electricity. She didn't have lights, but she had a TV. She would sew and crochet while watching 'Wheel of Fortune.' I can't even remember why in the world I needed to sew jeans, but I do remember wondering how in the world I was going to learn it so well that I wouldn't have to look while I was doing it. Nelda saw every single letter being turned while I sat sweating under a fume of kerosene. I thought it was awful, but was thankful I wasn't in the trailer freezing my ass off listening to John tell me how terrible I was.
He was a punk. Marines for 24 years, he never forgot to tell us. He finally left us with one family who hit my youngest sister lr with a ruler. They got fed up and left us with another family who left us with a couple. He went into the army about three weeks later and the wife, bless her, called social services.
At least I know how to hem pants.
Good things come out of shitty things, and I don't just say that to be inspirational or "get me on Oprah." It's true. Living in that trailer, we had no TV. I read a shitload of books. I sewed. I played around. I learned how to not be bored, cause if John ever saw that we were bored, he put us to work and it was shitty work, like cleaning out the chicken shed, shoveling manure. I remember reading Alice In Wonderland, particularly the section of the book where the print gets smaller and smaller cause, I think, someone's voice was getting quieter and quieter. I leaned forward so far. I think I got yelled at for it, too. I'm telling you: the man was a freak.
When I got back with my mother in Brockton, Ma., and went to the seventh grade, I read through all my classes. In fact, folks, I got all F's my first seventh grade semester. So I switched schools and got all A's instead. I read all the time in school, I brought the books home. And get this: one day, while reading a Sweet Valley High book on my bed (it was morning. I remember because I woke up and got ready before the alarm went off all because I wanted to read my book), the alarm went off, I looked up, reached to turn it off, and thought, "I wish something would happen to me." I was living with my mom, my sisters, my brother. One month later, I was in foster care.
Yeah. Way you go, C!
I chased the bus about five blocks that day cause I got so caught up in the book. When my sister and I moved to our foster home in Vermont, I took a real school bus to school instead of the public bus. This meant that instead of taking transfers, I just sat there. Though the school was only 7 minutes away, the bus ride took thirty minutes, sometimes longer. I loved it! I just read. All the time. Honors English class with Mr. Murphy, something like 15-20 books. Fantastic!
Some books I read for the same reason I crochet: they're brainless. No thinking involved. It'll take me two days to read a Stephen King or a Julie Garwood, Mary Higgins Clark or Patricia Cornwell (go Kay Scarpetta!), but when it comes to the books I really love, like Jeannette Winterson, ERNEST HEMINGWAY (the best), or Milan Kundera (whoa!), it takes a week, sometimes two. But those books, they sink in. I only confuse the others and can't remember what happened in which book and who wrote it. Hemingway, Kundera, Kobo Abe: I remember.
I'm going to take an abrupt turn here: Jon has Netscape on his laptop, which is what I was going to use in his office. My pages look like shit! You can't even see half the menus. Can somebody out there view my source code and tell me what I can do to make my page browsable for both browser users? That would suck if people can't even navigate their way around here!
Also, my sister jpr started a new [ journal ].
Hold up. Let me tell you something.
Some people hear about me and my sister. Our 'life.' I'm making a disclaimer. My sisters, brother and I have been through a lot of shit. It makes people drop their jaws. Don't drop your jaw. You only make life harder when you ask us to explain how we 'adjusted' so well, how we 'overcame' such 'strife.' Don't ask us because there's only one answer: we're family. We're human. Anybody can get over that shit. Nobody was shot. Nobody was killed. We made it through because we live. I wonder sometimes what the big deal is. Can't some people just accept that we know how to live? That we have something in us that says, "Whatever! Life goes on." It doesn't mean we don't care. But it does mean we don't want to answer to somebody. What do you want to hear? "Oh, my teachers and foster parents were just really supportive." Bullshit! The only time foster parents ever stood behind us and said "good job" was long after we did what we needed doing. Then, they put our awards on the wall to show their friends and act as if it's all because they're such good foster parents. Uh-huh. Real swell.(Excepting Phil and Ellen who are simply logical, intelligent, damn great people; they knew not to label us--they just accepted us and supported us as if we were their own. Not only that: they actually helped us). All this has really done, 'this' being our 'life story,' is made me and my sister the closest family you'll ever see. No matter what happens, we have each other and that's all we need. (I'm hearing Bon Jovi somewhere; geesh.)
Some people feel it necessary to say to us, "I hope you realize how successful you are" or "how strong you are" or "we believe in you." Ask me if I give a shit if some person who doesn't even know me believes in me. Hell no! I don't know you! What do I care?
I'm not speaking to you as readers. I'm speaking to people I have met face to face who feel that they not only have the right to be proud of me, but who assume that because they believe in me, they turn my life around. Anybody who knows us now but abandoned us then: you don't have the right. By assuming you do, you are attempting to justify your actions. What are you thinking? You think that because we turned out okay, you don't have to blame yourself for anything? Screw you! I had to get through that shit, didn't I? I did. Remember that. Me.
My sisters and I: we have a houseload of parents. We can't even count how many brothers and sisters we have. But of them all, only the ones we have now who are proud of us, but don't make us feel uncomfortable about it, only they can lift us up when we're down. Not you because it's artificial. You can support us now because you don't have to do anything. Your part, which you neglected, is over, so now you come out of the woodwork. Talk about weak.
For some reason, there are only certain people who I feel can be proud of us. Have you ever had someone you've either just met, never seen, or hardly know (especially family) say "I'm proud of you," or "we're proud of you," and you just kinda look at them and say, "Why? Cause I did your job for you?" Maybe I'm bitter. But with so many familial options around, I guess I can be picky about my final selections, huh? I know, I know: sarcasm will get me nowhere. And if I get any feedback saying "are you referring to me?" I'm going to assume you already know that. I'm not going to make you feel better. It's not my job. Own up to it yourself.
Anyway, back to my sister's journal and why I told you about it in the first place: cause she's my sister, and since we read each other's, it'd be interesting, I think, to see our different takes. Sometimes, I think jpr is far more down to earth than me and sees things the way they are. Sometimes I think she should calm down a bit, but I can't help loving her for getting pissed off (really, it just tends to make me laugh, but I can only do that after she's calmed down a bit).
Let me tell you one more thing about me and my sister:
I think I had only one fight with her. I can't remember why, but it was after we moved in with Phil and Ellen. I think, in fact, that we had the fight only because we knew we had a real, honest-to-goodness family and it was okay to be mad at each other because now--then--we had other family to turn to and wouldn't be all alone. I wanted to test myself. To see if I could really fight with her. It may have been because I was a slob and she was sick of picking up the bedroom after me (we shared). So, I considered it in my head. Seriously, for about three seconds before I said it. As it flew from my lips--"Bitch!"--I was already spluttering apologies. I felt terrible! It was the most awful feeling I ever had and I was hugging her and crying and she was just stunned. She might tell you I apologized so fast cause I knew she could kick my ass (which she sure as hell couldn't! --just kidding, jpr. just kidding. please don't hurt me!). Either way, lesson learned. We may have a family, but none quite so close as we are to each other.
Okay then. I think I'm going to go now. Jon is picking up a "friend" of his from the airport who neglected to make living arrangements one day before he got here. I get the feeling he was waiting for Jon to offer, which he did. The guy's reply was "That'll be fine," (talk about dick head). Then Jon found out he's staying here for FIVE DAMNED NIGHTS!!! I think the guy's a prick. He ain't eatin' my goddamned food. I cook only for me and Jon. Man! Good thing I had a mental health day, huh? Cut short though. Jon had to go to the airport, and now we're watching Thursday night TV with a little shit.
Sigh.
You know, usually I don't have such a filthy mouth, but Jon and I watched four episodes of 'The Sopranos' tonight, so, you know how it is. :-) Man, that show rocks!
beam me up, scotty
back up : : index : : moving on
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the online journal of c.m. roberts: