3 posts tagged “ma famille”

I went to bed at midnight and I was up by four. I was in the gym by 4:30. Gyming always makes me sleepy, yet here I am, awake. It's almost Hanukkah. It's almost Christmas. Normally, I'm bouncing off the walls with excitement. I'm supposed to be throwing a party next week and I haven't even sent out the evite yet. Anyone that knows me knows that my invites go out three weeks early.

Most of my gifts have been bought. My tree is up, my wreath, my stocking, and my lights. Everything is as it should be, well, everything but me. My heart just isn't in it this year. This is why I wanted to go to Australia. I tell people I want to go because it's summer there and I want to wear a bikini and have two summers this year, but there real reason I wanted to go is because it's not Christmas there. I mean, it is, but it isn't. There would be beach and sunshine. I'm here because my mother needs me. Otherwise, I'd have left already.

My poor heart just hurts. I miss my nana. I keep doing stupid things. I was in the Valero and, without thinking, picked up a Snickers Bar for her. I went to buy new Santa hats and, without thinking, I bought six: Mom's, Dad's, Sister's, Brother's, Mine, and one for my nana. Or like the time I left from my mom's and I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and I ended up at the nursing home. It wasn't until I was about to open the door and get out that I realized where I was and what I did. I sat in my car and bawled. It's reflex, even after all these months that she's been gone, to go and see her after a visit with my mum.

That little lady holds such a large piece of my heart. I feel lost without her.

State of the Union: Bereft
Listening to: Nothing

“So, you know I was the one who taped your Malibu Barbie to that bottle rocket that time, right?”

“You remember that time I drew moustaches all over your New Kids on the Block posters?”

“You know I was the one that ran off with your Fairweather Johnson cd, right? All three times?”

“I was the one that put the frogs in your sleeping bag that time in Yosemite.”

“I was the one that pulled the strings on your halter top that day you flashed everyone at Element.”

“ You knew I was the one wearing the Jason mask the day we played that prank on you at McKinney Falls and you ended up fainting, right?”

“I was the one that really lost the hotel reservation stuff when we were in Germany, not you.”

It’s funny how, when people know they’re not long on the earth, they will start fessing up to everything bad they’ve ever done to you. He told me so many things, but these are the ones that stood out, probably because they were the ones that I was the most outraged about at the time. He told me that I was his perfect girl, well, provided I took three or four inches from my waistline and added them directly to my ass. That bastard. I’m still laughing about that.

It's been six months. Six loooong months. I’ve had time to not be morose anymore. Don’t get me wrong; I still miss him. I still lie on my back at night, staring at the ceiling as a running movie of us plays in my head, but it’s a good thing. I cry happy tears because I have happy memories. I think about him and Brandon a lot. They taught me so much about men and what they wanted. They shaped so much of who I am. They turned me into a dude with boobs, basically. They taught me to love sports, to drink beer, how to fish, that you aren’t supposed to speak until the game goes to commercial, how to shoot a rifle and skin the rabbit I just shot.

Gianni taught me how to not cry because it’s emotional blackmail and that a man won’t care much if you sleep with his best friend or burn up everything in his home, but will feel it down to his nutsack if you fuck up his car. He’s why I started cooking. He’s why I kick ass at Rock Band. He knew everything about me, all my secrets, all my flaws, all my faults, all the stupid things that I tried to keep hidden, and he still loved me anyway. I told him that I wouldn’t write some depressingly perfect blog entry when he died about how wonderful he was and gloss over the fact that he could act like an asshole at the drop of a dime.

We made a whole list of things that I needed to do before I die. He told me his fondest hopes and wishes that he had for me. He told me that I was the only girl that never let him down. He told me I was the best sister/wife he could ever ask for. He told me that he wanted me to keep one picture of him inside my home and not to replace the others because he didn’t want to become someone relegated to a photo album or put in a box in the back of my closet because I can’t bear to look at him, knowing what I had lost.

So, there’s one picture sitting proudly in my living room, the same picture that I have on my bulletin board at work that houses pictures of those I love. I will carry him with me in my heart every single day and, until I see him again, there’s one picture, taken on one perfect day, that I will carry with me everywhere I go.

State of the Union: Nostalgic
Listening to: My Old Friend by Tim McGraw

My dad has been here for a couple of weeks now. He never stays this long. Ever. He touches down, kevetches about how I live my life, the guys I date, the weight I maintain, he buys me lunch or dinner for a couple of days and then he leaves again. I can tolerate him because he's usually only here for a few days before he's off again, but he's been here for two whole weeks.

He was chomping at the bit to go. I was, as well, because I have to wear a dress everyday that he's here. (He doesn't like it when I wear pants) We deal best with each other when we see each other in small increments of time. He's very judgmental, extremely opinionated, and very outspoken. People say I'm like him, but I don't see it........I kid, I kid.

My father, who doesn't approve of anything that I do, that is mean for mean's sake, did something so nice and so thoughtful that I *know* he's been possessed by aliens. I'm moving in eight days. Everything was packed. Everything except Gianni's closet. I hadn't gone through his things. I couldn't even go in there because I would smell his cologne and start to cry. This happened a few times before I just gave up.

He knew that this was going to be hard for me, but that it was something that had to be done, so my father, mean, hard-hearted bastard that he is, stayed this whole time until I was ready to go through Gianni's things. He helped me fold and sort. He helped me pack and bag. He helped me box and crate. He held me when I cried and he listened to the stories that went with every item. He did it without complaint, without impatience. He pissed me off. Grrrr. Why did he have to be so nice? Why did he have to be so understanding. It's hard to stay angry when he acts like a human being.

Why can't people stay in the pigeon hole that you put them in?

State of the Union: Bereft
Listening to: Nothing