just_cyd: (Default)
The first wave came at dusk, as I roused myself from my post-work nap long enough to climb the stairs to bed. The dark western sky hid the black clouds barreling towards us, and the first rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning were mistaken in my sleep-soaked brain for cars, traffic, neighbors, noise that would've registered properly had I been awake. All week I'd only been awake long enough to work, then it was back to the couch, to bed, to sleep, pain in various forms guiding me to relief.

Lengthy flashes of lightning lit up my bedroom around the light-blocking curtains, blinking out a Morse-coded warning:

_.. ._ _. __. . ._.
[D A N G E R]
_... . .__ ._ ._. .
[B E W A R E]
_._. ._.. .. __ ._ _ . _._. .... ._ _. __. . .. ... ._. . ._ ._..
[C L I M A T E C H A N G E I S R E A L]

The thunder that came before, during, and after rumbled like a bass drum, while also having me believe the sky was being ripped apart like bedsheets for bandages. While my brain sluggishly identified and filed away the auditory assault, the rain began, moderate at first - a spring shower - then in earnest. A deluge, a torrent, a fire hose pointed at my second floor patio door fending off unseen flames. I rolled over and settled back into dreams.

the second round came shortly after this first, bringing marble sized hail, insult to injury, a door flung open with "..and another thing!" before being slammed shut again. I yawned and adjusted the pillows, feeling for the cool spot, hoping it would bring sleep back to me.

By the time the third round found us, I'd moved back to the couch in search of rest, relief. Pain had settled in around me like an old threadbare robe, lashing me down to the roulette wheel of nausea caused by chasing pain with OTC cocktails. Somehow, through all of this, I never think to hit the liquor cabinet, and whatever little bit of my brain that keeps me away, I am forever thankful that it has the upper hand.

If we had tornado sirens, I didn't hear them; I think we lucked out this time. Early morning headlines showed that KY, and MO, felt the full wrath of the storm, and my southern cousin once again a narrow miss from danger.

No Update

May. 18th, 2025 09:29 pm
just_cyd: (Default)
The update to the update is that there is no update. There has been no change to the delivery status; the day after the show I filed a claim for the package.

I've had an initial response from the local post office, and tomorrow I'll reach out again. If the package still exists, just return it to me. I don't care if it has been marked "refused" or "undeliverable" or whatever - I just need closure on this.

Update

May. 7th, 2025 10:10 pm
just_cyd: (sad woman)
The update is that there is no update. My package could not be delivered on Monday, May 5th, but there's been no update since then.

The show is tomorrow.

Do I call the venue? Make a pest of myself? Are they going to refuse delivery based on not knowing about my plan to be kind to one of their performers? That the return address is unknown?

I never once thought of this possibility, that I could be rejected, directly or indirectly, by the venue. Getting that box back, marked in any way that it was not welcome, was never part of my plan. I don't know that my fragile psyche can handle this right now. ND can reject me, but he better do so directly, intentionally, so I know he means it. I don't do vague.
just_cyd: (Default)
The package is still in transit, but should land tomorrow. The recipient won't be at the destination until Thursday. That was Mistake #1 for sure. I worried it'd get there too late, but when I discovered it'd get there too early, I should've said "i'll be back on Saturday" for a better target date.

Travel time still won't affect the fact that the contents will be a full week old by the time he gets them. The cookies were under-baked and not fully cooled when I packed them up. I used butter, so they were still super gooey, and in the TX heat I'm sure things just got worse, not better. I won't be surprised if he transfers the bags from the box to the garbage, not willing to risk it.

my note to him was written on this postcard from the Mincing Mockingbird that reads "the risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math" which, in hindsight, might be too forward for someone only after friendship. I wrote out the ingredients on a separate sheet (an attitude is a terrible thing to waste), another indicator of my personality.

so that's three (or more!) major mistakes, all inside a box that perhaps should've never been sent at all. ND is on a month-long tour in the plains/TX, and that's a long time to be away from home. Yes, he's got a ton of friends around those parts from past tours and festivals and competitions, and his daughter lives in Memphis, and he plans to visit her for a bit. Was this really necessary?

in my mind, yes. "a little something from home" is what I believe I called the honey from Saxapahaw General Store. The cookies were from my kitchen SW OH. The tea was a no-brainer if not a repeat, but he's a singer and all singers I know live by Throat Coat tea. He mentioned before that my goodie bag of tea and honey came in handy in VA/MD/DC, so I will forever connect him with that stuff.

There was no hint of "miss you" or "see you soon" or "when will you be home" or any of that clingy stuff-that's not the point. But he doesn't know that committing Random Acts of Cookies used to be A Thing I'd Do, Frequently. Baking for anyone and everyone back when I was working in an office full of people, and had a ton of close online friends. COVID and time and distance killed a lot of that. I mentioned it to John, and said it was nothing that I wouldn't do for him or JDF should either of them be on a month-long tour out of state. I want him to know he's thought of, cared for, not alone in the world.

I used a Mary Englebreit return address label with my full name and home address on the box. so it's all out there now - my full name, my actual home address, the not-actually-Dayton city of residence. If I wasn't sincere, if I was playing games and trying to hide who or what I am, I'd have figured something else out for the return address.

My actual, honest, prediction is that he'll say absolutely nothing about it. not to me, not to friends or band mates or colleagues. He'll take the tea and add it to his stash, because there's nothing about that tea that says "SOME FREAK FAN MAILED THIS TO ME!" but he'll quietly put everything else in the garbage, and move on with his life and hope I, too, never speak of it.

and the various scenarios in my head are no better. the brainweasels have decided that he'll probably freak a little, and either cease-and-desist me into next year, or get Andrew or FJ to order me to stand down. (If it goes that way, I hope it's FJ - I think I'd take it better coming from him, and he'd be able to get the point across without destroying me directly.) the little fuckers ran wild the other night, convincing me that Andrew would take his phone and call me via messenger while ND is on stage and grill me over the whole thing, saying the things ND can't/won't say.

I can't decide what would be worse, being told to bugger off or just have the whole thing ignored.
his tour schedule is public (out of necessity) so I can solve for X any time I need to. The waiting this week is going to be the worst.

I guess I'll find out Thursday. or Friday. or never?

-mood-

May. 3rd, 2025 01:12 pm
just_cyd: (Default)
in a MOOD today. it's cold and raining. about 90 minutes until I need to leave for nibling pre-prom shenanigans and to help SIL.

*!*!*!*!
SIL surgery went fine, until about 10 days later when she spikes a fever of 102. get a text from her asking if i'm working, as I'd just got off and was driving to the grocery. would have ignored it, but knowing she was post-op worried me. So I called her while still driving. she "didn't feel good" and could I come over? (brother and youngest were on their way to youngest's PT). re-routed, and by the time I got there, her doc confirmed what was already my plan - drag her to the ER. no wait, but even less wait because post-op fever. 330pm. They threw out the prelim diagnosis of sepsis, which fast-tracked everything: ALL the tests/blood work/imaging - blood cultures, x-ray, CT, more blood work, you name it. by 8:30 or so we were told she was being admitted. 9:30 were told she'd be stuck sleeping in the ER due to lack of a room. 10:45 she was being moved to a room, and 11:30 I finally headed home, and brother stayed with her overnight. more bringing brother food and picking up nephew to bring him over, and all told, she was this round at least as long as she was for her surgery - 4 days. you KNOW you're sick when they keep you. Not officially sepsis, but damn close.

*~*~*~*
SIL is home, but brother & youngest are out of town for sportsball, and oldest has Prom today. I'm heading over to drive her to wherever group pics are being done, and to hang out and help with heavy/any lifting while she's there along. (she's on serious post-op lifting restrictions for the next six months). but it's cold and raining, so I don't know what/where things will happen.

~*~*~*~*
stepmom texted me last night to ask if I was in town next weekend, and would drive up with her to niece's college graduation. *low growl*
first off: you're post-op, and you've known about this graduation. could you have asked earlier???? why wait until it's last minute and you're desperate because either no one else can/will do it, or you haven't bothered to ask anyone else? I made my plans WEEKS ago.
second: where the fuck are your own kids? can't J3 or E pop down from Cleveland? what about A's mom? I know A's dad is not allowed to drive, or has he managed to circumvent that in his new home state? why doesn't he fly into DAY and you two head up together? or has that bridge been burned?
third: your text was intelligible. you're a retired English teacher. how embarrassing.
fourth: I'm actually surprised there has been no pre-emptive attack from my dad guilting me into compliance.
Fifth: why can't she want to spend time with me for ME? why am I always the go-to for Things That Need Doing?

*~*~*~*~*~
committed a Random Act of Cookies. probably a mistake in about six different ways, but we'll find out next week - Thursday at the earliest, never at the latest.
just_cyd: (Default)
brain is filling up again, not sure where/how to flip the switch to get things to rattle loose. so, typing it is.

*~*~*~*~
finally dragged the stage skirt in from the car. confirmed my redneck measurements were accurate, and finished length needs to be 16". terrified to make the first cut. The only other thing i've decided is that they need a lidded plastic box for all that black fuzzy fabric. a crumbling cardboard box is just not acceptable.

*~*~*~*~*
nastygram via text from the condo association. two quarters behind (again). that's $288 x 2 + whatever arbitrary fees they're tacking on ($25/qtr?) which makes for a whole lot of money I don't have and would rather spend elsewhere. maybe I'll toss 'em $50 when my paycheck hits on Wednesday? WHY IS THIS SO HARD? spending money is easy, it's paying bills that I can't seem to do well.

*~*~*~*~*
got a wild hair on Sunday that I should start looking for part-time accommodations in NC. like, say, for those WFH weeks when I have events on both weekends. like June 1-8. i'm losing two work days as travel days, but if I had a place to stay that cost less than a hotel, I wouldn't have to burn two vacation days and could work instead.

no clue what a reasonable rate would be. I know I'd need a room to sleep and work in, damn good internet access, access to kitchen/bathroom.

today this morphed into house-sitting gigs, but that seems a bit far-fetched that someone would hire me over a local.

I feel like the end of the year is my target to be outta here.

*~*~*~*~*
I feel ripe for paring down my books. Yes, really. I just need to find a place to take them. the next used book sale at Page 158 isn't for a few months, and I need them to go now. maybe I'll unload them at the market?

Ditto for other crafty things. I know i'd feel lighter if I could be rid of stuff, but I also know that I can't dig too deep or I'll get emotionally attached. but I also know some of those boxes are just hodge-podge crap and need to be looked through lest I lose something irreplaceable.

*~*~*~*~*~
hyper-fixated on ND again. still? he's darting off hither and yon, and it's KILLING ME that I can't follow him around like the lovesick puppy that I am. I mentioned TX, and he agreed that it's far more vast than is possible to comprehend, so NOT chasing him around the south was a good call. but...but...

*~*~*~*
I need help. I don't know how to ask for help. maybe it's because I feel like I've used up any goodwill anyone has had towards me? or those who could/would/might/maybe help are too busy with their own lives and don't have time for my nonsense?
just_cyd: (Happy pills)
"Hold on until April 13" I kept telling myself. "Missing that show would be devastating, you've been looking forward to it for so long" I remind myself. "you can fall apart after that" ....

Then Manic Mona goes and buys tickets for shows in May and the first week of June. And Manic Mona wants to do ALL THE THINGS and write all the stories and ...

and then my SIL needs surgery. serious surgery. and the youngest needs to be places (PT, baseball). and someone needs to look out for my brother, too (would a better big sister insist he NOT get the large fries, but a smaller one? or something NOT deep fried for dinner?)

So I guess my breakdown will have to wait until sometime after Porchfest?

growth

Apr. 13th, 2025 09:11 pm
just_cyd: (Default)
Something I have to work on constantly while cramming in all this live music is managing expectations. Going to see someone multiple times in a short span will almost certainly result in getting the same (or similar) show. Sure, the audience vibe can affect things with the artist, building them up into a frenzy or knocking them sideways, and time slots can vary. Usually what I get is the same set list, and with the exception of possible location-specific banter or stories, it can be a letdown.

On the flip side, when an artist is debuting new stuff, there's a different sort of letdown that comes from some of the old favorites being dropped from the roster in favor of the shiny new stuff.

Today was a bit of both. First, I realized that the Ordinary Elephant album that I'm most familiar with is NOT, in fact, their newest one, so most of what they played from the nearly 1 year old "new" album was new to me, not the stuff I hear most frequently. Then, when Wes Collins took the stage, he played 4 songs not on any of his albums - two of which were brand new - which meant that four of my favorites had to be dropped from the set list. I'm sure at some point some of those will come back around, when time allows it, or the crowd is more aligned with one set of songs over another.

It might sound like I'm complaining; I'm not. nearly three hours of awesome music is a lot to digest after a similar experience the night before. My brain is working through the jumble to make sense of everything, and file it all away for proper storage. There's a lot of other background noise cluttering things up, too.

Catching a band during a run of really good shows is good fortune - everyone was happy and energetic and laughing and dare I say entertaining and I feel so fortunate to have been part of it.
just_cyd: (Default)
I found some things, but I have no one to brag to. What would I say? "Hey! I used online public records to find out things that are, well, public record"??

Knowing where someone lives -specifically, or in general- isn't stalking. Driving by their house repeatedly at all hours of the day or night would be. Especially if it's dead-end street, or way off the beaten path. Or in a gated community. dreaming up ways to justify showing up on their doorstep would also cross into that territory. That's not something I want to do.

I've done the drive-by thing, back in the teen years. By and large I can get what I need with Google Maps now, an aerial overview and street-level view. Walk the neighborhood and get a feel for them based on that. And I can do it from my couch!

I can do the same sort of searching for my dead friends, too. Some cemeteries have zoom-in grave identification, and if not, Find A Grave can be pretty useful.

I think it's more about knowing. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is comfort. Unknown things can make me a little twitchy.

I nerd out over maps, and the power they give me both before and after a trip is staggering. I really need to try to build in more time on my trips, to explore in 3D what I've been pouring over in 2D.
just_cyd: (sad woman)
11,544 hours
481 days
68 weeks and 5 days
131.78% of a common year (365 days)

until I outlive my mother.

But who's counting?

I am.
just_cyd: (Default)

  • gifted D a $55 bottle of local bourbon for his birthday (tomorrow)

  • walked down the Atlantic City boardwalk alone, well after dark, from Showboat to Bally's Park Place, a few days after Labor Day.

  • responded with "I'm fine, thanks" when I was very much NOT fine. Every damn time.

  • "Add to cart"

  • overlooked more red flags than a color guard competition

  • gifted D a bottle of bourbon (and a book - the book worked out, actually)

  • gifted ND that same book, with THE WORST POSSIBLE STORY marked for him to read.

  • went searching for, and found, a frame for that photo

  • peer pressure. every freaking time

  • opened the wine. poured the wine. drank the wine.

  • refused to admit the truth about Olive

  • student loans

  • Philadelphia, NYC, DC

  • thought for sure THIS TIME would be different

  • moved in with him after six weeks of dating

  • skipped meds

  • "subscribe"

  • "I can change him!"

  • "surely there's someone out there for me?"
just_cyd: (Default)
It's probably a sign of how off-kilter I am that, now that the initial crisis has settled into the distant past, I am once again planning on making a trip to see a show knowing full well I won't have a place to sleep other than my car.

The first time it happened, it was a surprise. A crisis of my own making. I had a new-to-me hotel booked, and arriving to town early, decided to get that much-overdue oil change pre-show, rather than waiting until morning, hoping I could fit it in between hotel checkout and breakfast with John. I knew money was tight, but with cash in hand for gas, I was not counting pennies. So upon checkin, when the required $100 deposit would not go through (despite having pre-paid for the room), I panicked. I was $5 and change short. I cursed every step I'd made prior to that moment, and panicked. Called my credit union, who assured me if I went to XYZ location I could make a deposit at the ATM, and all would be well. Three Credit Union ATMs later, none of which would take a deposit from me. I had a mini meltdown in a parking lot, noticed the time ticking away on a Friday night in RDU, and ran with Plan B. Found a McDonald's, threw my concert clothing into a bag and changed in the bathroom, cleaning up as much as one can when there aren't paper towels, treated myself to a milkshake for dinner, and headed to Wake Forest for the Attaway/Dixon/Holsapple show.

As a full-on wreck needing distraction, I talked to people and helped out Mike by working the door and in general kept myself busy so as not to think about having to sleep in my car on this cold night. I stayed late to help clean up, and to talk to Don, and to ultimately put off the inevitable. There's a rest stop on I-40/I-85 at the Alamance County Line that's about an hour away from Wake Forest. I saw it and I thought that maybe I should stop there. I was too far over to exit, and figured I'd be fine, just another couple hours to the state line. I was not, in fact, fine. Deer were all over the sides of the highway, and as I'm not used to driving this stretch at night, I was disoriented by lack of visible landmarks and on high-alert for the deer. I stopped in Pilot Mountain to get gas, and was tired to the point of delirium. Clearly the night clerk at the gas station had seen mine kind before, helpfully prompting me through my transaction and reminding me to get my gas as I stumbled to my car. Fortunately, the state line is only 20 miles or so from there.

I pulled into the VA Welcome about 1:30am to find the place quite populated. Potty breaks and parking lot naps all around. I parked on the side against the building, sort of under a light, but a few cars away from others, as had already been established. I ran my heat on high for a minute while I figured out how to make this work, then shut off the car, put the keys on my wrist, laid the seat back, and tried to rest. I lasted about an hour with only my flannel and tee-shirt, before groping around in the back seat for the shacket that was both heavy and long, and used it to cover up. My pullover hoodie was my pillow. I bit later, I was cold enough I needed to run the car for a few minutes for the heat, as some of the others were doing, too. I think it was in the 40s. About 5:30 I had to pee, and felt rested enough that I thought I could try to soldier on. I didn't actually sleep, being on high-alert from the light and noise and paranoia. But I was able to rest, and felt far more able to drive than I had a few hours earlier. I think

I'd had to cancel my breakfast plans with John, and I told him why; figured someone needed to know what I was doing. Dan also ended up getting snippets of the tale, his disapproval obvious through messenger. As promised, I texted John each time I stopped with updates on where I was and how I was doing. I think I was home by 1pm, out cold by 3pm, and slept for the next 20 hours straight.

The following weekend was the highly anticipated Darren Jessee show, and it ended up that there was NO WAY I could afford a hotel for that show. So, I drove down the day of, knowing that I'd be sleeping in my car. I packed sweats to change into for comfort, a clean Tshirt, and the usual road food/drinks, and away I went. This time I made sure to stop at that first rest stop after the show, and the earlier stop along with some Benadryl meant that I actually slept for a few hours. I set an alarm for good measure, and about the time I needed to hobble over to use the facilities, it was going off. I also had to deal with a massive amount of upper respiratory and eye crud, so while I felt a bit more rested than the week prior, I was still miserable. Again, there were many others doing the same thing, and once I remembered to tuck my purse out of view, I felt as safe I could be. I think that drive home was more rainy/windy/foggy, and took a bit longer, but again I crashed out hard once I got home.

All that to say that my situation has not changed one penny, and here I am planning to drive out west a similar distance for a show that I doubt I have the money to attend, knowing that I'll be sleeping in my car somewhere along the way. I've got the days requested off work, at least, and I think I can scrape together the gas money. it's the draw of live music, and this musician in particular, that has me committing crazy the likes of which could be seen from space. I'm sure the DSM-5 would have all sorts of fun things to say about this.
just_cyd: (Default)
I don't recall ever truly wanting it. Not really. It's just what was expected of me, an AFAB child born and raised Methodist in the 1970s midwest: get married and have babies. Careers were schoolteacher or nurse, if I dared to want a career, otherwise i'd be relegated to Temp Worker like my mom. but first and foremost I was supposed to be wife and mother.

It's sort of a shock that I didn't end up pregnant, the wildly ADD but also highly unobservant and oblivious child that I was. No, that's not quite right. Oh, I was (and still am) wildly ADD, and can be oblivious to things that others can spot from space, but it's not true that I didn't end up pregnant. I did - twice - in my early 20s. it's just that neither of them stuck. The first one was a true accident, a broken condom somewhere in the midst of that crazy wild night, him freaking out, but diving right back into the fray with what must've been an industrial size box of condoms, until it was time for me to sneak out and rush home lest either set of parents catch us. I was 20, he was 24, but we both lived at home. The second time was not an accident, but also not consensual. We'd just started dating, he dropped by my place on our days off, and despite my protests got what he came for. Sometimes it's easier to just shut up and take than to try to fight off someone who takes pleasure in being able to physically overpower you. I was 23, he was 34.

Both instances ended pretty much the same way: a few weeks of worry, then a few more of denial (hey, 7-8 months between cycles was normal at this point, so why worry?). Around week 7, the sickness would hit, that malaise I'd never encountered before (until I did the second time), followed quickly by the violent cramping and passing chunks the likes of which I'd never encountered (again, until the second time). I bled heavier and my abdomen seized harder than I thought possible, knocking me to the floor and making driving a scary prospect. I knew heavy bleeding and cramps, and this was well beyond that. Both times, I endured it alone, never telling a soul.

One thing I did want, or at least enjoyed, was babysitting, and the cash that came with it. by age 12 I was working the circuit of moms at our church, and was one of the more in-demand sitters. about $2/hr was the going rate, I believe, and I was pulling in some nice coin. ADD-me spent it as fast as I made it, because the cursory "you need to save money" didn't even register to my ADD-brain, and there was never any talk of planning for the future, or college (which never came up, until it did, my senior year, when it was suddenly An Issue), or any sort of financial information that might have benefitted me as I slid into my teen years. if there had been any sort of talk on the subject, it would have been a lecture in a language I could not comprehend. Imagine my surprise when my younger brother had the cash to buy a car at 15, long before I did.

I was a good babysitter because I enjoyed playing with the kids and their toys, I wasn't mean, and I loved babies. It was easy! Play with the kids, maybe watch a movie, feed them dinner without having to cook it (if they hadn't already been fed), then tuck everyone into bed and cruise the cable TV and maybe give a baby a bottle. Head home with cash in pocket, easy peasy. By high school, I figured I'd marry my boyfriend and we'd have half a dozen kids. Except we weren't exactly a great couple, and he wanted to go to college. And he did. There were a couple other guys, but never for very long. College snuck up on me and all of a sudden it was mandatory that I attend something I had no means to pay for, nor any preparation for. I honestly think the first conversation about college came up when my dad said that I was required to go, get a degree, and then I could do what I wanted to do. the only prior attempt to address the topic was when I declared a few years earlier that I wanted to attend Antioch in Yellow Springs, and was told in no certain terms that I would NOT be attending that "Damn Hippie School" by my mother.

Heading into my third year of floundering at community college, working multiple part time jobs, and registering for classes only to drop them the week classes started and lie about it to my parents, something needed to give. What I really needed was help, so much help. Mental, physical, financial - I was a wreck in every possible way. Instead, it was suggested that maybe I look into getting outta Dodge. I'd wanted to be a nanny right out of high school, but mom wouldn't allow it. One day, in early 1993, mom spread out newspapers on the kitchen counter to re-pot some plants, and there it was, like a beacon in the dark of my life: an ad for a nanny placement agency. We laughed at the coincidence, put the ad aside, and after the plants were done, I gave them a call.

I was matched with five families, interviewed with two or three, and the M family in New Jersey offered me a job. Three kids, two boys and a girl, 3, 6, and 8, with the middle child having Cerebral Palsy. We negotiated my start to fall mid-June so I could finish up the semester at school, then we packed me up and drove me to a suburb of Philadelphia. I still don't know how I pulled that off. Hot Mess doesn't even begin to describe me. but the kids loved me, the parents loved me, and I was as involved as I could be and did everything I could to be the best pseudo-parent there was. Reality hit about 3 months in when the parents left the country and I got sick. OK, they drove to Toronto for five days, but still, technically out of the country. And it hit me that I could not leave the house without dragging all three children with me. Like, NOT AT ALL. We lived behind a shopping center that had a drug store and a grocery store that we could walk to. Just need to pop out for tissues or something? well, kids, get your shoes on, because you're all coming with. That was a huge eye opener. Life altering, even. The youngest had just turned 4, so all three were potty trained and could dress and feed themselves, although I still needed to supervise bath time and cook the food (or at least supervise selections), so no diapers or bottles or round-the-clock hands-on care, but ... Yeah. I also only knew one of the neighbors, the childless couple next door. I hadn't yet really got into the circle of parents at pickup yet, so I had no one I could call on had I been truly sick (like when I got the flu that winter, and had another parent fetch the kids from school).

because through this, at the ripe old age of 21, I'm getting that noise that I need to provide my parents with grandchildren. Pretty sure it was just dad making that noise, but still. The nanny thing lasted 14 months, then I moved down to the shore and in with a cousin while I tried to figure out my place in the world on minimum wage, and seeing her muddle through single-parenthood, it was clearer than ever that even if desperately wanted a baby, I could not do it on my own. Childcare would eat up any paycheck I had, and as I had yet to meet a man worthy of partnering with (including that 11-years-older gem), everywhere I turned I was told my life would be over if I didn't get married and start having babies. So when my apartment that required 3/4 of my paycheck to afford it became too much, I moved myself in with that 11-years-older asshole and figured I'd make it work somehow. The tl;dr there is that I did not, in fact, make it work in the end, but escaped with my parents help while he was at work. Yes, the very same parents who took every opportunity available to remind me of my duty to provide them with grandchildren and how I'd be an old maid like my aunt if I didn't get busy, get married, and get pregnant, not only changed their tune a bit, they drove back to coastal NJ from Ohio on 12 hours notice to collect me.

You see, all the while I'm being hounded about marriage and babies, back home, my younger brother and his girlfriend were apparently picking up the slack. Christmas 1995, as they drove home from a surprise visit to me, my brother announced that his barely 18 yr old girlfriend was pregnant. Who's laughing now, eh? I don't think it ever occurred to them that my younger brother would be the one to give them grandchildren, at least not before I would! He'd dated a girl the summer I moved east who had a baby, and lived with them all for a while, so mom had the grandma bug from the months baby C lived there. Now, heading into summer of 1996, mom was suddenly too young to be a grandma at 49. she was having none of it! oh, sure, she went nuts getting yard sale clothing and toys for the baby boy and made sure the nursery in their apartment was all set to go, but she was NOT going to be called "grandma"! But then, mid-July 1996, D was born, and at the age of 49, mom became grandma, and at two weeks before his 23rd birthday, my brother became a father. We arrived home from my frantic escape from NJ at dusk the day of D's birth, having stopped several times a long the drive to check in on them. We appealed to the hospital, and they allowed us to stop in that night to meet the new baby. Baby D opened his eyes and turned his head when he heard grandma's voice as we entered the room, and that's all it took to convince her that being Grandma was going to be fine.

The flurry of excitement of me moving home and the new baby took all pressure off me to spawn, at least for a while. Babies become toddlers, and grandparents get greedy, and when the still-single daughter isn't' showing any signs of dating anyone, what are parents to do? The correct answer is MIND THEIR OWN DAMN BUSINESS along with MAYBE NOTICE THE STRUGGLES AND HELP HER GET THE HELP SHE NEEDS but no, they were back on the baby bullshit. my brother eventually married his son's mother, briefly, and then they split, and I regret not doing more to ensure D had a more stable life during those years before his dad got custody. The truth is, I was barely holding my own head above water, so I couldn't see how I could possibly scrape together the wherewithal to give D what he needed.

Then mom got sick, and died. At some point after that, I briefly thought that if I can't find someone to marry, maybe I could just adopt on my own? I must've been having a REALLY good day that day. I started to look into it, and realized the expense and scrutiny I'd have to go through, plus moving to a place with two bedrooms, and then one mild inconvenience later I had abandoned the whole thing without ever having done more than think "what if?" I did some babysitting in there, too, but it was more out of financial necessity than anything else. I much preferred the couple whose son went to bed early, and paid handsomely the later they stayed out and the more than drank. This was shortly before I was diagnosed with Sjogren's, when I was having all manner of physical health issues on top of the still-there-and-never-addressed-and-growing mental health issues. I eventually got a diagnosis, and was surprised to learn that congenital cardiac defects can occur in babies born to women with Sjogren's. Hrm, that's not cool. Oh, and pregnancy can exacerbate symptoms like nobody's business. Strike 2. Instead, I opted to improve my quality of life by buying a condo; first floor bathroom has been life-altering, as was losing my job not long after closing.

in the last 22 years, I have managed to get a job and stick it out (21 years officially this month!), acquire a handful more chronic illnesses, and not one but two cancer scares that resulted in a hysterectomy at 38 years, 7 months and 4 days. but who's counting?

in that same time, my brother remarried and two more kids, all boys; Dad married J2's mom less than a year after mom died; and D got married and they have three kids, also all boys. All told I have eight niblings (nieces and nephews) and three great-nephews. my brother and all three stepbrothers are married and have kids, leaving me, the sole daughter and middle child, unmarried and childless.

I'm lucky to finally be at an age where strangers can't just badger me about not having spawned. at 38, I could have potentially had time left, but now, I'm well into the years where it's no longer wise to speculate. I hope it's the same for dating. The current object of my obsession is about 8 years older than me, and while the physical health has been addressed (but not improved), the mental and financial ends are still a hot mess, and I don't wish that on anyone. I guess these things have a way of working themselves out after all?
just_cyd: (Default)
picked up my chromebook tonight to write about something else, but now that my fingers are on the keys, they want to talk about something else:

My dad is a creep.

No, really, like, if he wasn't my 80 yr old father, and if I didn't have 50+ years of this, I'd be taking possibly-legal steps to keep him the fuck away from me and mine.

Last week, my brother, SIL and kids were in FL. Nephew A had baseball spring training with his HS team in FL, and the rest of the fam flew down to spend spring break in FL, watch his games, and have a little breather. Nephew N busted up his knee for the 2nd time in as many years, and as of their departure, they didn't know the prognosis (surgery? PT? amputation?*).

Not sure how it came to pass, but dad is on SnapChat. I think he and brother snap each other regularly (dad's tried to snap me; I play dumb and ignore it), probably brother's way of keeping dad informed now that he's essentially housebound. Their first night there, they went out to dinner and brother must've snapped dad. how do I know? because dad sent a screen shot of the snap to the family chat, along with a screen shot of their EXACT LOCATION (using "find my" app?). super freaking creepy, dude.

I learned long ago, the VERY hard way, not to send anything to dad that I didn't want the entire planet to know, after he forwarded an extremely emotionally- and medically-detailed email to everyone in his address book "because they are concerned."

Well, a couple more times during the week it was clear that dad was tracking their/brother's location. When they flew home, there was a rather accusatory text from dad when he couldn't pinpoint their precise location BECAUSE THEY WERE IN THE AIR and brother had to explain that's what happens in Airplane Mode.

This morning, an earlier-than-welcome text from dad says "Childrens. [Name]?" brother snapped dad while at Children's hospital with N for PT. Dad then commented that he saw they were at N's school. all I could think is "WHY ARE YOU STALKING YOUR SON AND GRANDSON???"

so I texted brother & SIL separately and asked if/why dad was stalking them. brother brushed it off. SIL did not, and texted me privately later thanking me for speaking up, because brother didn't understand how creepy and upsetting it was. I guess dad got mad that Nephew A wouldn't share location stuff with dad/Grandpa, and dad doesn't understand why, and seems to think he's entitled to that.

No. Just NO. HELL TO THE NO.

"I just wanna ..."
"I was only ..."
quickly morphs into
"I was just kidding"
"can't you take a joke?"
"what's the big deal?"
"why are you being so touchy/sensitive/whatever?"

can you see where this is going?

This is what I was raised with. This is the how he treated my mother. this is how he treated any woman in his orbit. and when we react, shut him down, he's suddenly the victim, the poor little baby of the family who was just trying to be nice.

like the time he let himself into my house to drop off a knife block that he decided that I wanted/needed. while I was home sick. asleep on the couch. Didn't call first, because why should he - I wasn't supposed to be there! why apologize to ME, who he scared the bejezus out of, because HE was just trying to do something nice for me. within a week of that, my deadbolts were changed, and he DID NOT get that new key. If he wanted access to my house after that and I wasn't home, he had to request it in advance.

How are we (me, SIL, women in general) supposed to live calm, quiet lives when we're constantly under attack with these little micro-aggressions? some of these aren't so little, and the never stop. A single incident, an innocent slip, ok, fine. we went flying past that line oh so many years ago.

*deep breath*

There's more. so much more. because it never ends.

______
*I'm not making light of the need for amputation. I've had chronic hip/back pain since I was a teen. chronic other pain even longer. as a joke, I always suggest "amputation" to keep some humor in what is usually not funny, or just old ("lose weight and exercise!")
just_cyd: (Default)
Hope is the sun still breaking through cracks in the purple darkness at 8:10pm the last week of March.

Kindness is the PA giving you fluconazole with the doxycycline, because antibiotics can work too well, and why add insult to injury?

Relief comes from that small bottle of foul-tasting yellow liquid, that's somehow easier to choke down than the barely-touched bottle of port that you gave in to, but didn't really want

Strength is not so much saying "no" when you really meant to, but saying "enough" and putting the cup down, wasted wine be damned.

Resilience is knowing that open bottle of port can sit there and not bother you one whit.

Maturity is knowing what could have come next, and all the ways it could have possibly ended, and knowing that the best ending of all would be not beginning, changing the subject, climbing the stairs to your own bed, alone.
just_cyd: (Default)
Wednesday I gave up, took half a day PTO, and went to urgent care. it was the swollen tonsils that finally did me in, not being able to swallow without pain. my job is talking, and it was misery. Eyes still slightly goopy, still coughing up crud, maybe running a fever (none of my thermometers will register anything remotely normal on me).

Got into the Crumbl-adjacent urgent care quickly, and the checked me over. I was wildly uncooperative for the strep test (reflexes! I swear!), and agreed that "sinus infection" sounds like a solid diagnosis. got a shot of steroids to help with various inflammation, and three Rx for treatment: antibiotics, fluconozole because antibiotics, and cough syrup that knocks me on my ass.

Picked up soup and dumplings from the Asian place and a giant Diet Dr Pepper on my way home, and then crashed out. I felt too gross to want to stop in Crumbl; they didn't have my Pink Cookie this week, and the other offerings didn't appeal to me. roused myself long enough to get my drugs before the place closed, ingest some of everything, and crawl into bed. Ended up calling off Thursday, too, and spent it in a cough-syrup-induced coma, which was badly needed. not drinking enough, but WOW did uninterrupted sleep feel good.

All of this has dug up all manner of issues regarding illness and going to the doctor and the need for therapy to work this all out. I could type it all out, but I'm not really up for that just this moment. I think it's something I'll have to work out in bits, sit with it and separate what's my own formed opinion and what was forced on me.

feeling much better with drugs on board, and hoping to keep this trajectory so I'm delicately phlegm-free come mid-april.
just_cyd: (Default)
Jeffrey Dean Foster and The Arrows with Florence Dore, Gas Hill Drinking Room, Winston-Salem, NC, Saturday, February 15

While I love making the most of my trips south, hotel hopping is not my favorite part. Alas, it is sometimes required to make the most of my trip, or in this case, when a second show presents itself and it makes sense to book the closer-to-home second-night show with a closer-to-home hotel. Which is how I found myself staying at a different Hanes Mall hotel off Silas Creek Parkway near the hospital in Winston-Salem (aka The Ben Folds Five song). It was a dreary drive in, and I had to kill time before hotel check-in, so, among other things, I drove to the venue to assess the parking situation, but not before I had a message from Foster himself, asking if I would kindly be is Mistress of Merch that night. His partner, J, was back stateside but still very sick, and wouldn't make the show that night. I agreed without hesitation, since it's a low-stakes gig that involves parking my butt in the back of the venue (on a stool!) and chatting up anyone who happened by. We've known each other 11 months at this point, but have grown close chatting after shows and between visits, and it pleases me to no end that he thinks enough of me to ask me to handle his merch and money.

Buried in my perpetually-half-packed suitcase I unearthed the JDF Angel Skull t-shirt, and decided to go for it, figuring the only more ridiculous thing I could wear would be the lowest-cut top and pushy-uppest bra in the arsenal. I was shaking off my earlier mood, and was full-on extrovert by the time I sauntered through the doors just minutes after they opened.

"Can you let Jeffrey know his Merch Bitch is here?" I beamed upon entering, and had at least three different people cracking up at this. When Jeffrey popped out from behind the scenes (actually the upper level of the Ramkat proper), I repeated my statement, to his distress, and let him know I was his bitch for the night. Pushing it? yeah, probably. I later told his partner J of this exchange and she thought it was hilarious. Always be on good terms with the other half.

I took some really bad photos and even worse video (still uploading). The crowd wasn't huge, but they were ALL IN, which is fantastic ... until you're trying to push merch on people who've known the band for decades. Florence was a treat, and talking with her husband, Will Rigby, turns out he's the drummer for The dBs, and had played in Dayton back in the late 70s "at some place in a parking garage?" Yup, I know the place: Gilly's. It's closed now, but was the OTHER musical institution in Dayton for years and years (the first being Canal Street Tavern, of course).

Florence has a book out, called The Ink in the Grooves: Conversations on Literature and Rock & Roll that sounds freaking amazing. oh, and she's a professor at UNC Chapel Hill.

Clearly, this is not a concert review. I was mentally bouncing all over the place, enjoying the music but not capable of retaining anything remotely pertinent to writing a review. I think we were all a little out of sorts, just three weeks into the new regime and reign of terror. "Fuck that guy," indeed.

Bonus: Gas Hill has an Art-o-Mat!

sigh. maybe i'll revisit this one? maybe I won't. it was a rough weekend. not as bad as that triple-header a couple weeks prior, but clearly, these are troubled times and I need to do something about it.
just_cyd: (Default)
Generally speaking, if Mike Allen or John Gillespie tell me I should really see a band, I listen to them. When two of the three people you've seen once before, and the obvious - none of us is getting any younger - smacks you in the face, you do what you can to be there to witness this alignment of literal stars.

This constellation of greatness took place at the Wake Forest Listening Room in front of a sold out crowd made up of mostly life-long fans.

The show opened with Don Dixon walking onto stage, picking up his guitar, and wowing us with vocal and acoustic guitar prowess. I apologize now, as the phrase "and the crowd went wild" will be wildly overused throughout the rest of this review, because, frankly, the assembled fanboys and fangirls did just that.

After Dixon's first song, he invited Murray Attaway to the stage, and sat down to allow Murray the stage. At last, Peter Holsapple came on stage and rounded out the trio of greatness, and the crowd went wild.

For the next ninety minutes, we went forward and backwards in time while the three greats took turns singing from their vast catalog of well-known tunes and upcoming releases. Both Attaway and Holsapple have new music coming out, and were sure to plug their merch. The three traded quips and clips and misheard lyrics ("Kittens with nine lives"? I thought you were saying "kittens with no eyes"!!), and in general caught up with one another. Attaway and Holsapple hadn't seen each other in many years, while both had been working with Dixon on their new albums. The affection and admiration the three have for one another was apparent, and the room was aglow with it.

As the clock inched towards 10pm, Dixon confirmed they had time for one last song, then while the other two stayed seated and prepared to play, he got up and futzed around with his guitar, trying to get it out of the way and dig behind the amps for something. As Murray and Peter began singing the opening lines "Love, love, love, love ..." Don appeared with a trombone in hand, and, say it with me folks, THE CROWD WENT WILD!!!! Before the end of the first verse, the assembled fans were on their feet and had joined in, and it was a 1960s love-fest right there in downtown Wake Forest. I was torn between tears of gratitude, and wondering if or when Don would take out a piece of stage equipment with the trombone's slide tube (he didn't).

Typical WFLR shows clear out pretty quickly, but not this show. Peter and Murray made their way to the merch table, while Don stayed "back stage". I hung out to talk to Don, passing on a greeting from his friend Jeffrey Dean Foster who I'd talked with that morning on the drive in. I then went to chat with Peter, who thanked me profusely for my gift of baked goods.

And just like that, as the crowd dispersed, I made my way into the night, thanking my lucky stars for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

-----
Trip #3, Concert #5

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