Who gave me “Mermaid Ave”? It’s awesome.
Songs of the hour: California
Stars by Wilco, Red Elvises’ My
Love is Killing Me
It’s been such a busy few weeks I’m not sure
where to begin.Well, I’ve moved. Brian and I, in unfathomable wisdom, took it
upon ourselves to move a 3 BR house by ourselves during a southern summer. I
could write at length about a weird class of white spiders and how they spawn (and
the baby ones die and just wait suspended in their webs for someone like me to
come along and slip into a fugue staring at the sheer enormity of their
numbers, everywhere, in every imaginable furniture crevice, corner, or handhold
while their parents continue spinning and writhing on spindly legs) and other
such events that storage units generate, but I’ll spare you. I managed to get
through it somehow.
The house is in Cary, in an as awesome location as one could get in Car, given the nature of Cary. Joss than a mile from a park, Joss’ school,
a movie theatre, and I-40, it’s nearly perfect—you know, except for the Cary part. It’s great
neighborhood and though I feel like a huge hypocrite for making fun of Cary for
my entire life and then subsequently moving there, not having to worry about
Joss being set on fire by neighbor kids helps me sleep pretty well at night.
I’ll post pics when I get my camera out my glove compartment in my car in my
dad’s driveway—but until then we’ll have to settle for the street view from
google. It has more trees/spiderbreedinggrounds than I would like, but again,
managing.
The day after I moved out, my new Chinese step-sister told my dad
that she was selling her interest in the restaurant she works at/part-owns, and
was moving in with him for a few weeks before moving to NJ where her husband
works/lives. And then she did. She moved in with my dad. I think the plan is
that her mother, my father’s new wife, is leaving China in November and will be
moving in with Anna (step-sister) in NJ. What this requires, though, for INS
regulations, is that she has to live with my dad, which puts him moving to NJ
too. If you flip back a dozen blog posts or so, you’ll see the frustration and
anguish of my putting off graduate school because I didn’t want to leave my
father all alone and him refusing to move, saying “I’m 68 years old and there’s
still a lot I want to do, and it don’t involve moving.” Everything’s still up
in the air, but I hate that he may be pressured into moving to Jersey of all places. Maybe also, I might be a little
peeved if Anna gets him to move when I couldn’t—but that’s petty sister
business, and I shouldn’t indulge in it. Okay, the surrealness of the situation
just won out—what the fuck?! My dad
is married and has an entirely new
demanding family to deal with. I’m speechless, really. So, we’ll leave it at
that, and I’ll keep you posted.
As a side note, my brother is dating someone. I
really, really hope she comes from a small family. I can’t even begin to
express the enormity of that hope.
A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a
coworker about how much I hate the weekly dept. meetings and avoid them
whenever I have a remotely plausible excuse, because going to them runs the
risk of impromptu public speaking moments. She has similar anxiety issues, and talking
about how ridiculous we are, I thought about the extended laundry list of
little horrors my social anxiety spells have had on my life: an extra semester
of college from dropping classes w/ oral reports on the syllabus; dodging phone
calls of people I love dearly; leaving parties 30 minutes after arriving;
sneaking out of Sara’s wedding reception (she’ll never let me live it down);
untold amounts of money lost to various errors I’ve been too timid to confront
customer service people about; procrastinating to mootness parent teacher
meetings; and really, living in a cave in general as much as humanly possible.
I’m tired of it. So a couple weeks ago I signed up for a social anxiety study.
They’re experimenting with a medication already used for other disorders (like
bipolar) to see how it works with anxiety. What I’ve learned, is that I really
HATE being medicated, but I’m not sure if I hate it more than being a total
hermit. I am so frackin’ tired in the mornings I’m not sure how I even get out
of bed. By afternoon, I’m okay, but I’m drinking coffee again… which I had
mostly given up because it makes me more anxious. What the hell. Anyway, I’m
going to see the study through, but the side effects are really
annoying—grogginess, difficulty concentrating, and a weird… I don’t know what
to call it, suppression, maybe? I don’t get as excited about things I like. On
the other hand, I’m not freaking out either. Talking to the docs running the
study in that weird psychiatry environment, I feel as uncomfortable and queasy
mentally as I would pre-meds, but my body/heart rate is completely relaxed at
the same time. It’s a weird dissonance, I guess. I don’t like it, whatever it
is, and I can’t wait until it’s over.
I hung out with Amanda this weekend, and
she brings up memories that make me wonder how the hell I ever got this way. I
wasn’t always this way, right? We looked back at our teenage selves and tracked
the things we learned, both the hard way and from each other. She reminded me
how lucky we were to have met the people we did, when we did, and I see clearly
how lucky I am to still have you all. Eh, I’ll save the gushing gratitude for
another time. But damn, the universe dealt me goodness when I was young, more
than making up for the bad that slipped through the cracks. Love you guys.
Joss
has been experimenting with sarcasm lately, and I have to say, it’s damn
annoying. The flippant tone and non-answers make me crazy. It’s only fair,
though, given how I crowned myself Queen of Sarcasm for a few years and inflicted
it on everyone else—karmically I deserve it. I used to think I was clever, I
guess. But I’ve given the nature of sarcasm a lot of thought and, at the ripe
old age of 31, I see its latent implications in a different light. I guess I
must have thought it created an air of wisdom and street-wiseness
(streetwisdom?), like I knew better than to believe in anything because the
universe is fixed, against us, and dark, and there’s no point believing in
anything (if you know Carmen, you know exactly what I mean). But really, how
sad is that? Sarcasm is so easy, you
know? To just dismiss. To naysay. To find fault, flaws. Because believing is hard. Hope is hard. Faith is
hard. I’m not much for the latter, but I respect the hell out of people who put
faith in something. It’s tough—it takes a unique courage and strength to be
truly faithful. Sarcastic attitudes are just a shield against
disappointment. I realize that sarcasm can cover a range of attitudes and
dispositions, and that answering a roommate’s question from the kitchen “are
you still here?” with “no, I just left” isn’t exactly a subtle statement of
hopelessness and pessimism, but I trust you know what I mean.
Well damn, I’ve
written a treatise on nothing. Third one this year, most likely. I’ll try not
to wait so long next time, less time=shorter posts. I do have an ounce of
compassion for you, dear reader.
Quick notes. Amanda, stumbled on this and thought of the God/Faith discussion
we had—thought you’d like it. And everyone, if you haven’t already, meet the cutest thing of the millennium and send Ms. Sara
J. Allen happy restful vibes, because she and Mr. Allen are going to need them. 
Love.
