I want to be “real boy,” like Pinocchio.
“Prove yourself to brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday, you will be a real boy…And always let your conscience be your guide.”
I am not all Disney-loving. I would rather go to the Fields Museum than Disney world, or tour Hemingway’s property than go to Disney World. I would probably flip off Mickey Mouse if I saw Mickey. I might even get physical with him.What’s up with those perv gloves, dude?
My parents took me when I was about eight and I had a magical time. I still have the mementos I bought. Several of them here in Illinois. I will also have those memories. Always. I didn’t step on one sidewalk crack the whole time. One night, Dad came into the hotel room shouting, “Reagan bombed Gaddafi! Reagan bombed Gaddafi!” I didn’t know what a Gaddafi was or where the fuck Libya was but Daddy was really happy! My hero, Ronald Reagan, had done something to the bad guys. He celebrated in the bar with a cigar and drink. I will never forget that moment.
Years later, I would sit at my school computer and not be able to finish the video that showed Gaddafi literally being torn apart by the people he terrorized for years. By then, I didn’t even consider him a…I didn’t consider him to be anything. By 2011, there were much badder guys (or at least more imminent threat to my person) than Gaddafi. By October my marriage was in trouble and I knew it. And I worked my ass off at a job I hated.
I digress.
I want to be a real. I don’t feel real.
I have all these appointments---eye, car, vet, DMV, doctors for G-Pa, email, calls, shopping to do. (I am going to take a box of tampons from Burning Bed today and “pay them back later.”) I also get my eyes dilated today. According to Google, my vision will be fucked up for at least four hours. Tomorrow, I have therapy and I am totally lying about taking G-Pa to the MD to get out of an 8.30 a.m. Office Staff Meeting. Whatever. Self-care. That’s what the women at BB are always telling me. Self-care is not getting up at 5.30, going to a silly meeting where a bunch of women will squall, and then being tired the rest of the day.
G-Pa forgot to take his meds last night, so I will need to remind him tonight. He is still disoriented. HOWEVER, there has been no more mention of my tattoo. Aunt Faerie said she wouldn’t let him “make me leave.” And I do tend to flip my hair over my left shoulder when I talk to him. This blocks most to the tattoo. What is the easiest way to get somebody to do something he isn’t already resistant to? Tell him he has too.
No Tattoo Ultimatum: Kate is modest about her tattoo in public with G-Pa. She doesn’t make an undue effort to cover it, especially if she is in the last stretch of a marathon of a UTI-dementia-inducing-infection with G-Pa, but she doesn’t go out of her way to show it off either.
Tattoo ultimatum: Kate is pissed and wants to show off her tattoo even more and stop all the other concessions she’s making (driving, scheduling, keeping bedroom door mostly shut, waiting at a stop sign for one-and-two-and-three, etc.)
Kate is getting over what happened with G-Pa. Kate got some sleep over the weekend.
Kate also feels detached.
I am playing this role. It’s not conscious—like I don’t have to---
ARE YOU SERIOUSLY FUCKING KIDDING ME?! YOU ARE GIVING ME AN ATTITUDE ABOUT BORROWING A BOX OF FUCKING TAMPONS THAT I PROMISE TO REPLACE!? YOU HAVE LIKE FUCKING 20 BOXES. I AM GETTING MY EYES DILATED AT 4 AND CAN’T DRIVE TO FUCKING WALMART TONIGHT. FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING PRECIOUS TAMPONS!
NOTE: IF YOU ORDER $35 OR MORE OF “ADD ON” ITEMS FROM AMAZON YOU GET FREE ONE DAY SHIPPING. SO I WILL NOW HAVE SIX BOXES OF FUCKING TAMPONS. TOMORROW. THAT SHOULD LAST ME A WHILE. UM—THE WHOLE—COVERING ON A MOMENT’S NOTICE. YOUR FUCKING WELCOME. M.—THANKS FOR SHARING—I DID FIND A GOOD SAMARITAN.
When I get my six boxes of tampons, I am going to pour all the tampons on the bed and roll in them like money! Make it rain tampons! Yes, I put replaced the four I “borrowed.”
A woman. Comely. Dressed casually in a khaki skirt, flowered top, and cardigan, just came into the lobby. She looked nicely put together. 40s or 50s. Reddish hair, fair skin, and freckles. After shaking out her umbrella, she calmly came up to me and said, “I need help. I am leaving an abusive marriage after 36 years. Can you help me?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “36 years is too long—”
She shook her head slightly. Fuck! I am victim blaming.
Um, um…
“You have come to the right place. We will help you. You will find help here.”
Then I had to go get a real Advocate because I am the only one covering the front desk during a faculty at which I am supposed to be. Guess it ain’t that important if no one is covering for me. I’m glad I am not busting my ass to be here at 8.30 tomorrow morning.
What did it take to make that woman leave? She said she is safe for tonight, but “it’s too much” for whoever is helping her.
Why is it too much for people to help a woman who is fleeing terror?
What finally made her walk out? What finally made her go to this other person’s house? What finally made her come here?
She looked so calm and ordinary walking in. I should have buzzed the intercom and asked if I could help her because we are not supposed to let “strangers” in. But she looked so, professional almost, so non-threatening, definitely not an abuse victim.
She said somebody showed her all these indicators of serious abuse and they fit her life.
“I realized that was me.”
The abuse had just become normal.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
Grateful For:
Health
Warm weather
Family
Faith
Freedom from Arthur and T.
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