If You Belonged Here

Alice Predicts the Future

Life keeps getting better. I drink more than ever before. Not 100% sure if those two statements are directly reliant on one another and, in fact, it may just be a coincidence that they ended up next to each other. I don’t know that it matters one way or another, the point is; life is exciting and my default mood is, and has been for some time, happy.

Being a mother gets better as the kid gathers age. That statement is in regards to my parenting relationship not yours; yours might suck as your kid gets older and that’s irrelevant because this is about me. Sure, I miss all of his words being said out of order and generally mispronounced. I miss the soft, adorable fat rolls on his wrists and ankles and inner thighs and I really miss the days when he couldn’t write his name on everything that will soak up ink or for-the-love-of-god, sound out words. What I don’t miss: everything else about ages 0 – 4. Right now and for the past year or so, mothering is at an all time high and my parenting relationship keeps me in a constant state of awe and happiness. Those things are yet to be matched by the only other personal relationship I’ve held over the same 5 years since my son was born; that would be with my dog, Santos. Santos is the same asshole he always has been and it’s entirely possible he’s going to live for at least another 6-10 years so I’m not holding my breath on that one. I did have 12 of his teeth removed earlier in 2011, but the biggest change there is that his breath doesn’t smell bad. Not that I was smelling it all that frequently.

I suppose it’s worth mentioning that one of the main reasons I prefer older to younger when it comes to spawn is because I have to dig a lot less of my son’s shit, literally poop, out from under my fingernails. This doesn’t mean he wipes his own butt, necessarily, but it more means that if he wants to take an elephant sized dump and not wipe his butt, that’s a decision I feel I can apply the you make your bed, you lie in it logic to and let him do the worrying. Now, I’m a devoted fingernail painter but no amount of Lincoln Park After Dark covers up the smell of yesterdays diaper under your nails.

Then.

Romantic relationships? Oh, they’re all the same, except when they aren’t. I’ve only been in a few and I’m happier out of those than I was in them, especially that one. No, not that one, that one. That being said, I’m in one now (shocking) and it’s going better than that one and that one, so, I’m cautiously optimistic.

Next up.

I live in a pretty average (at best) apartment but it’s in a wonderful, tiny, community with wonderful, tiny schools. For now, the community and the schools hold more of the focus than the uneven floors and the lack of quarter rounds on the baseboards. Living here, in this apartment, feels transient even though it’s really not, until it is. I keep trying to commit to a paint color or a sofa table but so far, no dice. Anyhow, it’s my place and my space and the value that holds for me, particularly, is indispensable.

So.

2011 was a transitional year; moved back to Ohio, new job, new apartment, establishing for the first time a real difference between friends and acquaintances. Not to mention the shift from social drinker to avid drinker. I could go on, but these sum up the year and I don’t want to bore you.  

2012 will bring a significant addition to the kid’s life; kindergarten. That just is what it is, I’m somewhat indifferent on this subject, although, I’m sure I won’t be by the time November rolls around. Otherwise, 2012 is a big fat mystery with only a few predictions of what might remain constant. Well, actually, only one prediction; the drinking. I have no intention of altering that aspect of my life.

Cheers.

You Can't Buy a Gun When You're Crying

I just heard this song by Holly Golightly & the Brokeoffs, and while I happen to really like it, I'm not sure I completely agree with the premise. Why can't one purchase a gun while crying? Is it against a state law? Is it a faux pas?

Because I think I, technically, could buy a gun while crying.

Anyway, I really like this album, which has songs like Devil Do (as in, ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do) and Jesus Don't Love Me Anymore (it don't matter what you get me at the liquor store, Jesus don't love me anymore). This woman has a voice like my darling Patsy Cline but a sense of irony and humor like Quentin Tarantino.

It's not everyday listening music, but then again, it depends on the day.

"You could dump me in a river, clean my sin but you might as well dump me in a bucket of gin" and "the Lord don't like it but the Devil don't mind."

These lyrics are speaking directly my inner (aspiring) alcholic. And, lo, do I have alcoholism envy lately. Again. Or still. It's hard to tell. Is it as quiet and peaceful as I think it is when one is staring into an open bottle of beer? I like to think that if I just put my mind to it, I could gaze into a glass of whiskey by candlelight for hours, foresaking all laundry and other worldly obligations. The trouble is, I wouldn't want to drink it. 

And that's where I fail as an aspiring alcholic. 

I've been thinking a lot about vice lately. Mostly the vices I don't have, which is most of them. Like smoking. I really hate the smell of cigarette smoke, have never smoked--not even a puff--but I was watching the ladies light up in Mad Men and it looked so pretty. Sexy pretty, not cute pretty. And then there's the relaxed look the people get, when just after they've lit that cigarette with shaking hands and blinked back the tears, they inhale, hold the smoke in their lungs, and then exhale. All the tension just seems to drain out of them.

I wonder if I missed out on something--besides lung cancer and nicotine fingers and premature aging and smelling like an ashtray--by not smoking.

I also refrain from adultery. Not even a facebook flirtation. It's good for the marriage but so boring. I was talking to a friend the other day about weight and dieting and motivation and I realized that people who cheat on their spouses are probably, as a group, thinner and more fit than those that don't. I have not a scrap of data to back this up, but I bet it's true. Getting nekkid is motivating. I haven't been nekkid in about a decade. Naked, sure. But nekkid? No. Not even a little bit.

Sigh.

I was listening to that John Cougar Mellencamp song, Jack & Diane, at the grocery store and was struck by the lyric "life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone." I'm not thrilled to be alive. I'm enjoying it, don't get me wrong. But I'm not thrilled. It's been some time since I've had butterflies in my stomach or that rollercoaster feeling of excitement. Of course, I don't get heartbroken or blindsided anymore either.

But still, the thrill is gone.

For example, we have a tradition called the Mojo Dance Party. The Dol hosts it. I love it because it is wicked fun. Only not wicked in the devilish sense, but wicked in the very sense. When Mr. Poppins asks me, the following morning, how the party was, I say it was great. When he asks what happened, I say "we danced and ate appetizers and drank some alcohol. We had fun." I don't have much more to say beyond that because we are all so damn responsible, even when intoxicated. Nobody throws up. Nobody cries. Nobody hooks up and starts making out. Nobody loses a friend and starts freaking out demanding "where's Jennifer? You have to help me find Jennifer!" And nobody gets into one of those awkward under-dressed and over-served girl arguments that end in streaky mascara and sobs.

I look forward to the Mojo Dance Party but I don't have that heightened sense of "anything might happen" that I used to get before, say, a high school dance. Why? Because the only thing that is going to happen is dancing and, possibly, a little impromtu sing-a-long with Meatloaf.

Do you love me forever? Right, now I'm praying for the end of time.

Not really. I'm enjoying myself. I like my life. There are no surprises. Fantastic. Everyone knows I hate surprises anyway. But they sure do make for interesting stories.

I don't think I'd ever buy a gun while I was crying but I couldn't even tell you if that was an ethical choice or not. It might just be that it's not going to come up.

 

Polly Refuses to Participate

The thing about drama, really unnecessary drama, is that the people who perpetuate it are never at fault. The fault always belongs to the opposite party. The party that is making the dramatic person be dramatic.

Or so the story goes.

My tolerance for drama is low. Yet I have managed to inspire it in a few people over the years. Usually just once. Because that's my meltdown limit. Not meltdown as in tantrum, but meltdown as in melt away like a ninja. One minute I'm there, the next I'm gone and the person who was perpetuating the drama is dead. At least to me.

I will always consider an accusation, an assertion, or really any claim--reasonable or otherwise--that I am acting without integrity, logic, or kindness. I will consider it but I will not automatically be cowed by it. I weigh the evidence. I have blind spots, especially when it comes to other people's emotions. I do not always remember to take feelings into account, not even my own feelings.

For example, my personal philosophy is that I refuse to feel guilt over thoughts and feelings. I feel what I feel. It's a body sensation, like a cramp or a tickle or an itch, that passes over me without permission. But regardless of my feelings, I hold myself accountable for my actions. Voluntary actions. Well, sometimes involuntary ones like sneezes, too. But mostly voluntary.

I also hold other people accountable for theirs. Regardless of how they feel. Regardless of whether or not they think the way they feel is somehow my fault. Because, even assuming their feelings are my fault, their actions are not. I expect integrity from others as well as myself.

Not every person seems to be capable of integrity. And yet, still I expect it. Because really, I refuse to live my life surrounded by any other kind of people.

So when I cut off all ties with my cousin, Queen An, let's call her, I really cut off all ties. It's over. I don't care if she gets medicated, lobotomized, or sees the light. It's over. Because the best predictor of what people will do is what they have already done. And she's done plenty. With all the people who haven't proved they lack reason, accountability--integrity--who live in my zipcode, let alone on the planet, I see no reason to throw good after bad with a known trouble maker.

On the other hand, when I have a disagreement or misunderstanding with someone who I know to have integrity, I will go to any length to reconcile, to learn from the situation, to strengthen the relationship. It's not that I'm not willing to work at being a good friend. It's that I'm not a masochist.

I have been told that I am selfish. Usually by people who want something from me that I am not willing to give, as opposed to people I am asking something of. I don't really get it. It's a blind spot for me. How can I be selfish just for refusing to give what's mine? I'm not taking anything from anyone and I'm not hoarding. I'm not being greedy, per se. I'm just refusing to try to fill someone else's emotional void. And usually that someone else has what I consider to be an very weak, if not non-existent, claim on me.

If the antonym of selfish is selfless, then I guess it's possible I am selfish. I prefer to think of it as self-respecting. Because in all things moderation, right. I like to think that there's a middle ground. A place of balance. Where neither party in a relationship has to completely subjugate their needs to the other person. Especially when "relationship" is a loose euphemism for passing acquaintance. 

In this case, I'm not speaking of Queen An. I'm speaking of a biological half-sibling I have never met from a biological parent who I have almost no memory of, whose name isn't even listed on my birth certificate. I can't bring myself to feel responsible for this biological half-sibling's warm fuzzy vision of what we should be to each other. I can't bring myself to fall into the role of "big sister of her dreams." I can't begin to explain to her that I feel no responsibility to have a relationship with our biological father and that by not doing so, I'm not purposefully punishing him, just making a practical choice.

I don't feel I owe her anything. I don't feel I owe him anything. I don't think shared DNA mandates intimacy. I choose to build relationships with emotionally stable, reliable people who demonstrate personal integrity. I choose not to build relationships with people who have a history of instabiliy, unreliability, and a lack of integrity. It's that simple. I don't care how much the other person feels like I owe them.

I am loyal, commited, and willing to sacrifice. I will invest time, effort, and emotion into relationships that are worthwhile. I will give without keeping points. Help without question. Love with my whole tiny heart. But I will not be an emotional masochist.

I value mutual respect, dignity, and reciprocity. Not perfect reciprocity, but the shared intention of reciprocity. I am very intentional in my relationships.

Perhaps it is a matter of understanding motives, but I have never met an INTJ whom I considered selfish. Nor one whom I considered selfless. All of the INTJs I know, male and female, act with integrity. They are reliable, considerate, and loyal. When I found myself in personal crisis, just after I had driven across the country and signed a lease with a lying, cheating, burden of a man, it was two INTJs who flew out almost immediately to be by my side. Because they knew that I needed them. I really needed them. I had done everything that I could for myself but I was still a wreck, so they came.

I didn't have to ask. They just came.

Diosa was one of those INTJs, and in a rare, possibly unprecedented and unrepeated, burst of overt temper, she actually slapped that lying, cheating, burden of a man across the face. She slapped him. INTJs don't usually go in for that sort of thing, but there comes a point. At that point, we are the friend most likely to bring a shovel and well-thought-out plan for disposing of the body.

Not really. But maybe really. You never know.

I don't have games in my relationships. I think reason and drama are at odds. I want people to make sense--at least most of the time--and when they don't, I want them to go away. Or to at least not try to follow me when I go away. 

Maybe that would be asking to much of some. But I'm not asking. I don't need anyone's permission.