Do I always have to be the grown-up?
Turkey with a side of ghostly death
Here on Sunday afternoon it's hard to believe that the last week is over. I'd been looking forward to my parents' weeklong visit for months, and now it's already over. It's a common sentiment, I know, but worth noting all the same.
Random thought: it sucks that the last time I see my mom, every time I see my mom, she's crying at an airport.
Not-so-random thought: I hate LAX during the holidays.
Excluding my wedding, this is the first time in I Don't Know How Many Years that I've spent a holiday with not only my parents, but with all of my dad's siblings at the same time. It's much louder than I remembered. My aunts are pretty funny ladies, and watching them (lovingly) belittle my father is a sight to behold. Add to that an excessive amount of drinking among many of the participants and I often ended up with a headache each morning despite the fact that I was once of the few non-drinkers. THIS ATTEMPTING TO GET PREGNANT THING BETTER BE WORTH IT.
With my parents and my aunts and uncles all being at least 52+, there was often a lot of just sitting around and talking and playing cards in the evenings. Lots of conversation. And lots of me snickering in my head because I can recall the some of the same specific conversations happening last year when we were all together for my wedding. Must suck to get old and lose the memories! The one that was the most enjoyable for me to rehear was the one where pretty much everyone talked about how they believe in ghosts and to recount their ghostly encounters. My parents insist that they have a ghost in their house--specifically, the ghost of a woman from the 19th century who most likely came from the graveyard that is down the street from their house. And the location that their house is on apparently used to be a horse barn so they think that she died in the barn and has been haunting the house ever since it was built, and she really likes my sister's old bedroom. My mom likes to make things up like how my sister used to wake up and swear that she felt someone choking her, and I'm all Mom. Please. That never happened. I would have heard about it at the time. And oh yeah, the ghost likes to open cabinet doors and then close them and turn lights on. Please. Ghost. Be a little more original. Of course the ghost talk led to all of them talking about how they all new the exact moment their parents died before they had even been told. Which was totally depressing. Coupled with the conversation they all had before going to the airport about how wouldn't it suck to die in a plane crash but even though you would be scared all the way down you would never know the instant of impact because it would be so fast. And I'm all HEY. OLDER PEOPLE. CAN WE QUIT IT WITH THE DEATH TALK? It's the holidays, be thankful you're alive.
Oh, silly adults.
Thankful
Much more to come on the posting front once the week is over and we aren't entertaining family anymore.
I will say that last year at this time, Edgar and I were in a very bad place. We were staring at a black hole. And now life is completely different. It's turned itself around. We're happy, we're healthy, and we're getting ready to start our own family.
Thanks, universe.
I don't do anal
Having gotten myself into a spot of debt problems (called STOP BUYING SHOES AND OTHER SHIT) I decided after Christmas in 2007 that I was going to go debt fee. Mind you, this was before all of the "Aaack! Oh my god, recession! Cut up your credit cards and run for your lives!!" talk and was prompted by my realization that I would one day like to own a house instead of renting an apartment and that if I didn't start working on a down payment now I would never get there. I've been largely successful (at the paying off debt part, not the saving part). I essentially stopped using my credit cards and paid off a few store cards, leaving me with one student loan and three 'real' credit cards with balances. One balance was small, around $600ish. The other two cards were higher; one tottered around $4000 and the other around $3500. I paid off the largest card in the summer of 2008 using part of a generous early-wedding gift that my grandmother gave Edgar and me. I paid the $600ish card off in April using my tax refund. I had planned on that tax refund to go towards the other large card, but Bank of America forced my hand when they increased the interest rate on the card (which I had never ever once paid late on). Not long after that I got a notice from the other card where I had paid the large balance off that they, too, were increasing my interest rate.
No problem, I thought. I have my one "big" card left and even though it's still got a high balance it has a limit of $6000 so if I ever have an emergency I'm fine. I happily went about my business. Happily going about my business has ended up increasing the balance on that card though; add up that day you realized that your wedding china was on sale with free pieces thrown in for purchasing a certain amount with that time in Solvang where your husband got you drunk and made you think it would be an EXCELLENT time to sign up for a wine club with that other time you needed to buy a new laptop, and it all equals Damn I Thought I Was Supposed to be Paying This Thing Off.
No problem, I thought. I pay more than my minimum balance each month, maybe not double but always more, and it's still not a big deal because I have a huge cushion on the card for emergencies. And a great interest rate of 9.99%. You see where this is going, right?
About a week ago I read an article online talking about credit card practices that some banks are pushing through ahead of all of the credit card regulation that's going to be happening in the next year. One of those detailed a certain bank that would be greatly increasing the interest rates of even their good customers, offering them "rebates" on their interest the next month if they paid on time and/or spent a certain amount every month. Didn't sound too great for me. I don't want to use my credit card anymore, and this article talked about how a person (whose description was very similar to mine) would have to put over $750/month on the card to break even on the "rebates." All in all, not a good deal. Seeing as this article was talking about the bank for my "big" credit card, I crossed my fingers and hoped that it would not apply to me.
I was wrong.
I got a notice yesterday from the bank that my interest rate would be increasing to 29.99%. YES, THAT IS TWENTY-NINE POINT NINE NINE PERCENT. I mentioned my current interest rate is 9.99%, right? That is TRIPLE my interest rate. Let me repeat, I have never ever been late on one single payment. EVER.
Oh, but wait, the bank says. The bank says, hey, if you pay your minimum payment on time, you can get a 65% rebate on your interest. We won't give it to you until the statement date of your next month's statement, so we're totally going to screw you up the a-hole for the daily periodic interest rate for two months, but LOOK. SIXTY FIVE PERCENT!
Hello, bank? It's me. Do you realize that I'm not stupid? Do you realize that you will be DOUBLING my minimum payment because of this? And that you're an absolute fuckhead because of the fact that instead of letting me opt out of the interest rate increase and just pay the account off while not using the card anymore, you're actually requiring the account to be closed if I opt out? Unlike any other credit card company where you can opt out under the agreement and pay your card off at your current rate but keep it open and if you ever use it again you automatically accept that higher interest rate? Do you realize that I know you know that I don't want to close the account out because it has a high credit limit and closing the card will slash my credit score because my available credit will plummet? Do you realize that I know you know I know this and that you've intentionally selected my account for this position because I have a good credit score and am obviously the type of person that would want to preserve it and you know you can play me?
I swore to myself when I started this blog that I was not going to ever mention by name my current or any former employers. To quote Chandler on Friends: Can...open. Worms....everywhere! Too much trouble can come of it. But I've decided to change my stance on this just this one time because I am so super pissed off and because I never intend to go back to the mortgage/insurance industry. I'm comfortable burning this bridge.
FUCK YOU CITIBANK! FIRST YOU LAY ME OFF IN THE MIDDLE OF A GODDAMN RECESSION AND THEN YOU COME BACK TO POUR SALT ON THE WOUND? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME FUCKING LEMON JUICE TOO?
And so it begins
Holidays are always great because you end up with a big group of family that is normally never together but for the reason of that specific holiday. Thus, we end up with Keene Family Thanksgiving Week 2009.
My dad has one brother and two sisters. The brother lives in a town called Simi Valley, about an hour away from Long Beach when there's no traffic on the 405. That's a rare thing, the no traffic on the 405 thing, but we can always wish. My dad and his two sisters, one that is married and one that is a widow, live in Indiana. This Thanksgiving the Indiana part of the family decided to come to California. It's gonna be an interesting week.
Their flight got in a little after 6 on Saturday evening. We managed to get out of LAX a little before 7:00 and headed up to Simi Valley from there. My mother, who is not a drinker, immediately started pounding the chardonnay. My aunt and uncle that live here are regular drinkers ( but alcoholics they are not), and I think my mom was trying desperately to keep up. She failed miserably. About three glasses in she started talking with her hands, and with every point here and gesture there the wine kept coming closer and closer and closer to slopping over the edge of the glass. And it eventually reached that point, resulting in a huge splash of wine onto her pants and her drunken vehement denails that she wasn't in fact drunk, that she just talks with her hands and it was bound to happen. Bound to happen BECAUSE SHE WAS DRUNK.
I was viewing this show from my non-drinking armchair. My parents and my California uncle and aunt seemed to be highly disappointed that I wasn't getting sloshed with them, my aunt even going so far as to say "I told you that you needed to wait until January to try to get pregnant so that you could enjoy the holidays!" That point of view makes me think that people must have a waaaaay different perspective of me than I thought. When Edgar and I were at his friend's birthday party two weeks ago and I mentioned that we weren't drinking anymore since we were trying to get pregnant, they were all shocked and "Wow, that's got to be hard for you!" Just because I'm the only girl of the group that ever drank I guess that automatically made me the group's alcoholic. And then my family thinks that I need to be able to drink in order to enjoy the holiday season. Ok, yes, I miss the wine and the bourbon (OH MY GOD THE GOOD BOURBON) but I don't need it to enjoy my holiday. And I actually discovered that I can enjoy myself plenty being stone sober and watching a bunch of 50+ year old men and women getting wasted.
The best part of the story came the next morning from my dad: my mom apparently had to crawl up the stairs to bed, be undressed and then redressed in her pajamas by my dead, during which time she kept falling over, and then once that was done she laid down on the bed and alternated between moaning and giggling until she went to sleep. Oh, mom.
Let the festivities begin.
More to come
My parents got in on Saturday, and of course I have tons of things to write about that happened this weekend.
For now:
My mom got wasted on Saturday night.
My 54 year old father is trying to grow a ponytail.
Chew on that for a while.
Yes, this is where I live
Keeping in the tradition of Friday night date night, Edgar and I walked down Pine Avenue last night to have dinner at a place called George's Greek Cafe. We've walked by it every weekend since we've lived here, usually always saying "Hmm, we should give that place a try sometimes." And would then continue on down the street to Rock Bottom to get $3 beers. BUT, since the drinking has been kiboshed since I'm trying to get pregnant, we've started trying out the places we've wanted to go.
We got a nice little table outside on the patio right against the sidewalk. We started out with their hummus, and dear lord it was the most delicious hummus I have ever had in my whole life. I'm planning on having pregnant cravings for it once I'm knocked up.
But then, out of freakin' nowhere, these two ghetto teenagers that had been walking back and forth in front of the restaurant ran by a table a few tables down from ours, grabbed a plate off of their table, and threw it on the ground. Then they ran away down the street laughing and yelling like the little tools that they were, holding up their pants that were down by their knees.
Welcome to Pine Avenue.
Why would you even REMOTELY think that it's ok to just ruin someone's dinner like that? What the hell is your problem? Do you have a disease that prevents you from wearing your pants around your waist instead of belting it around your knees?
Motherfuckers.
LAX Again
My parents get to California tomorrow for a weeklong visit. I haven't seen them for 14 months.
I'm pretty sure my mom is going to cry.
What is the music coming to?
I'd like to preface this post by reminding everyone that I am 25 years old, not 80.
That being said, what the hell is this world coming to? I kid you not, on the radio this morning I heard a song that had these lyrics:
Shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't keep out
Got me singing na na na na na na na na everyday
It's like an iPod stuck on replay
(It probably ups the funny quotient even more if you actually read it in your head with an 80 year old man's voice.....)
Elsewhere in the song he sings about how he met his "Shorty" at the mall and about how he's in the kitchen cooking her things that she likes, later failing to rhyme the word 'likes' with 'wife.'
So you're such a bad songwriter that the only melody you can think of to accompany the feelings that you have for your Shorty is fairly monotone and sung with a 'na'? And you're comparing it to a broken iPod? If I was Shorty I would not be impressed.
Really? This is what music is now?
What ever happened to song lyrics that actually meant something? I know that every song in the American music canon can't be chock full of meaning and symbolism and messages about the current state of affairs, but this is just ludicrous. And I like a good, silly, meaningless pop song as much as the next girl, but please. It's like these people weren't even trying. At least be entertaining. Don't be a song where I'm just waiting to hear the ridiculousness of the next word and marveling at your inability to use words correctly in your vocabulary.
Side note: I got an email yesterday at work where this lady (who was also using selective capital letters as I do to make a point--but doing it incorrectly) kept using the word 'fallacy' in her email, but put into the context of her sentence it was clear that she had no idea what the word 'fallacy' meant. Word of the day toilet paper isn't for everyone.
One race where I get to sit still
On Saturday evening Edgar and I made the three-quarters of a mile trek down Pine Avenue to check out "2012" at the local Cinemark. Which brought up a few things, like:
1) Must stop going to movies in the evening at full price.
2) Why do people bring tiny tiny children to movies that aren't going to let out until well after 10 o'clock?
3) Why was the movie theater playing the sad Wal-Mart commercial? As if I wasn't already feeling trepidation for the people that were surely about to bite it in the movie I was about to watch?
4) Why do people clap at the end of a movie? It's a movie, not play, stupid. They can't hear you.
5) Why would you stand leaning against the sink playing with your phone in a crowded bathroom after a packed movie gets out, blocking other womens' access to a free sink to wash their hands and completely ignoring the bitter "Excuse me?" coming out of other's mouths? (Yes, tweenie, I'm looking STRAIGHT AT YOU.)
Going to the movies also brought me that little happy feeling in my gut that Oscar season is upon us. Of course that feeling might also be a little bitty baby but let's not confuse one thing with another, shall we? I've always loved to go to the movies; something about overpriced popcorn and buckets of soda six times the size of my bladder (for only 25 cents more than the medium!) make me tremble with delight and say "Sign me up, please." I revel in movie trivia. I may not have seen all of the "classics" and I can tell you very little about foreign films, but I still just like going to the movies, plain and simple. I have my standards, but they are totally inexplicable. I like what I like, and that's that.
Last year, though, I got very into the Oscar race. Edgar and I saw every movie that was nominated in the Best Picture category, and nearly every movie that had an actor/actress in the lead/supporting races. I say nearly because some of the smaller release movies that had actors in the race weren't playing at the theater near our place and I didn't feel like driving 40 miles to downtown LA to catch them. Especially since to catch a matinee showing we would have to leave much much earlier.
And take advantage of the matinee showings we did. At the AMC theater that was near our apartment in the December-February period of last year, they offered weekend matinees before noon at $6 per person. And since their security was ridiculously lax Edgar and I would make it a double feature and just movie hop. Nothing like a 10:30 am breakfast of salty buttery popcorn goodness washed down with a couple gallons of Diet Coke. There was also nothing like the slightly sick feeling that it would inevitably leave me with around 2:30 when we would be stumbling out of the theater into the blindingly bright light; turns out that your body does require more than fluffy carbs and soda in order to function.
And so it is time to begin that Saturday morning tradition once again. The only thing that is not going to last is the movie hopping part of it, I fear. Long Beach is much more ghetto (in the we-need-more-security) way than where we lived before (which was a whole 'nuther kind of ghetto). The Cinemark is much smaller and designed in a way that is not conducive to movie hopping activities. There's an AMC theater closer to our apartment, but it's even worse for the movie hopping, and *gasp* it does not have stadium seating. I guess I'm just spoiled, but we saw one movie there after we moved in and I don't really fancy seeing another.
But I love movie season! I love being able to watch the Oscars with a previous knowledge of the movies that are taking all of the top prizes. I like having my horse in the race. And I'm glad that I do this. While some of the Oscar fodder is, utlimately, fodder ("The Reader," anybody?), I also found some movies in there that I really liked as well ("Slumdog Millionaire," "Doubt") that I never would have seen if not for my goal to see all of the big Oscar movies. So let the games begin! My movie-watching ass is ready and waiting for that popcorn.
An open letter, vol. 3
Dear Colts,
I'm sorry I doubted you. I'm sorry at the end of the third quarter I said some choice words and phrases mostly beginning with the letter "f" and stalked out to run errands because I was mad.
I'm sorry I went to Rite-Aid to soothe my pain with a triple scoop of chocolate malted krunch. Actually, my waistline is really sorry for that.
You did not fail me. You made me happy when I came home.
Sorry for being a sucky fan.
Love,
Amanda
Envious
Edgar and I attended the 33rd birthday party of his best friend Chris yesterday. During which he and his wife dropped the bomb that they are having a baby.
WHERE IS MY BABY?
They are only about four weeks along. So if Edgar and I are successful this first time out, we'll only be about a month behind them. Which would be very exciting. Edgar doesn't have any other friends that have kids, so it would be really great if he could go through the whole experience of fatherhood with another person that's been there.
I have to say, though, that when I find out, after that initial moment of shock I kind of plunged into a place of anxoiusness. Now that Edgar and I are trying for a baby, finding this out makes us more excited and impatient for us to be the people that are saying "We're having a baby."
So when we left and I gave the wife a hug I hoped that her fertile mojo would rub off on my belly. Osmosis works that way, right? Or is that only what people desperate to get knocked up think? Probably.
Beat you to it
The other day, I wrote about this, where I typed "is there" in Google and the search suggestions came up with "is there anyway I can get this popular guy to get me pregnant?"
I'd just like to note that today, the exact same thing was posted on failblog.org. Go me, I'm ahead of the times!
Wondering....
If my parents will freak out when they come to visit next week when they see my huge jar of prenatal vitamins.
I have a feeling I will become involved in a long, circular conversation with my mother that no, I'm not pregnant, and no, I'm not going to call you every time I have my period until I get pregnant.
Oh, Internet. You make me laugh.
Since Edgar and I are trying to have a baby, I'm trying to do everything right. Start exercising again. No more alcohol. Don't stand in front of the microwave. Easy on the ibuprofen. Morning sex. OH THE MORNING SEX. Eating right. Those five servings of vegetables a day aren't going to magically get in my belly on their own, you know.
So I've been brown bagging it to work again. Part of my lunch today was an Apple Turnover flavored Yoplait Light. Out of curiosity I was reading the label to find out how much fiber was in it. Fiber=good. But there wasn't a listing on the label for dietary fiber. I wasn't really sure what that meant; does it mean that there is no fiber at all or just that they chose not to list the fiber? I'm not an expert on the requirements of food labels, so I went to Google to find out.
Google. I heart you. Here is why.
As I started to enter my search string, which I intended to be "Is there any fiber in Yoplait Light?" Google conveniently listed what they thought I might be looking for as each letter was typed in. And after getting to just "is the," the SECOND item listed in the search suggestions was:
"is there anyway i can get this popular guy to get me pregnant"
Of all of the questions that could begin with "Is there" in THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD, this is what comes up second on the Google search suggestions?!
Oh, honey, where there's a will there's a way. Good luck in your endeavor.
Get to "is ther" and it's number one.
Ay carumba, papas del jamon
So this is just too good to pass up.
One of my coworkers just returned from vacation in Spain, bringing with her lots of tasty Spanish treats, including: HAM FLAVORED RUFFLES POTATO CHIPS.
That's right.
Ham flavored potato chips. And they are delicious.
Thank you, Spain.
Listen to the words coming out of my mouth
Edgar and I had a dinner and a movie date night last night; now that we're trying to have a baby (more of that to come in another post) we want to make sure that we're still giving ourselves "us" time and that our only focus in life isn't becomeing a baby factory. Even though Edgar would love to do nothing but make a baby. All. The. Time.
Anyways.
We walked down to The Pike to have dinner at everyone's favforite Pan-Asian restaurant, PF Changs. Whatever, scoff if you will, but HOT DAMN, HAVE YOU HAD THOSE DAN-DAN NOODLES? No? Then back off. The meal was great, but our waitress was...well, how should I put this? Mensa. And I mean that in the Spanish language way, which is the exact opposite of what you would think it means in America.
Edgar and I shared two dishes between us. At the end of our meal, one dish was empty, the other had less than a third left, Edgar's rice bowl was empty, my rice bowl was half empty. Our chopsticks were down. Our napkins were on the table. We were sitting back in our chairs and talking. In short, we were done eating. So the waitress comes up and asks "Are you still working, or all you all done?" I've been a waitress before; this is standard. Essentially, you're asking if you can remove the plates. I say "Nope, we're all finished." This should be the point where she asks ok, would you like a dessert menu or just the check? Instead, she asks Edgar "Ok, would you like some more rice?" Um. Lady. We're all finished. That doesn't mean more. So he gives me the look, that look that every married couple can share with one another where you know exactly what the other one is thinking, and says "No, we're done." So she happily says ok and wanders off.
Ok. So we're assuming she'll be back with the check. Instead, we don't see her for about 10 minutes, and when she comes back she says "Can I go ahead and take your plates? I wasn't sure if you were stll working so I just want to make sure you're all finished before I take them." Um. Lady. Again. What do you not understand about "We're finished?" Especially that part where we told you twice? So we give her the okay, and then she starts shilling the dessert menu. Um. Lady. You should have asked that about 10 minutes ago, thank you very much.
I was totally a better waitress than her.
No, I'm not pregnant...just easily upset
Does anyone else besides me get really really sad when they watch that Walmart commercial that is always in rotation lately? You know, the one where the grandpa gets to go visit his grandkids because his daughter saved so much money at Walmart that she could buy him an airline ticket? And he packs his neatly folded shirts into his little grandpa suitcase? And he has to take a taxi to the airport and go by himself because he has no one else?
Why does it have to be a not-so-old-he's-a-dinosaur grandpa that is clearly a widow? Huh? Why? Where is Grandma?! What happened to her, huh? THAT COULD BE MY DAD.
Walmart, you suck.
Patience
I know that my posting has been sparse through the last week; please forgive poor lil ole me. Our friend just got out of the hospital and we've been focusing on getting him settled in at our place as well as getting his apartment packed and in storage.
Plus the whole trying-to-get-our-cat-and-his-cat-to-get-along thing. Last night when we were in bed we heard some hissing and screeching and what sounded like a cat body slam going down outside our bedroom door. Come on kids, can't we all get along?
And I've been crazy busy at work because I unexpectedly had to take on one of our national accounts this week.
Look for regular posting to resume in a few days.
Baseball
I find it funny that after a baseball team wins the championship (ie: the Yankees tonight for the World Series) that they always, always run into a big group and start jumping up and down. Up and down up and down up and down. Every. Single. Time. As if they're SO EXCITED that they just won that the only way they know how to express just how excited they are is to jump up and down in a big group.
How cute.
Thinking
It is absolutely mind-boggling to walk into a bathroom and see poop floating around in the toilet with no toilet paper.
So not only are you the type of person that doesn't flush a public toilet, but YOU DON'T WIPE EITHER? Were you raised in a barn?
Quien habla?
So for the first time in my life, my life as a white girl from the suburbs, I have been ethnically profiled.
When we got married, I took my husband's last name. His Hispanic-sounding last name. Tonight, for the second time in a week, we have gotten a telemarketing call on our home phone asking for me in Spanish. Edgar has happened to answer the phone both times and told the people, no, my wife doesn't speak Spanish and what do you need? I understand enough Spanish to get the gist of the conversation from what I can hear him say, but I just find the fact that these people trying to shill long distance phone plans all of a sudden want me in Spanish since I changed my last name.
Since the first name Amanda is so clearly Hispanic.
Loco.
It's time
The time has come where I Edgar and I can finally start trying to have a baby. It would have been a little bit earlier, but we wanted to avoid any possible fallout from The Battle of the Flea so we wanted to wait for the next egg, just in case. Since you were so obviously wondering about my menstruation schedule. GET USED TO IT.
We’ve been wanting to have a baby for about, oh, FOREVER now. We were originally planning on having a baby right after we got engaged, when we were in those (metaphorical) drunken-stupor days that accompany an engagement. Once reality clicked back in we realized that it wasn’t the right time for us, but that we wanted to try as soon as we were married. But job losses and real life and the lack of health insurance and flea repellant kept getting in the way. Until now.
And it’s kind of freaking me out.
I’m trying to wrap my head around the idea that I’m actually allowed to have a baby. That I won’t get in trouble for it (some people would say that babies are trouble, and I’m not talking to them right now). I’m a grown up, I’m married, I have a job, I have insurance….I have the things that society says are good things to have when getting pregnant. When you’re a little kid, you look at your parents and think “How will I ever be old enough to get married? Or *giggle* have all the sex?” AND I TOTALLY AM.
Like I said: freaking me out.
I’m going to grow a whole human being. Inside of me. And it will be my little human being.
This can’t be allowed, right?
We’re going to make a whole person. We’re totally about to become someone’s parents. Someone that will always be there, day and night, that we alone will be responsible for taking care of, nurturing, feeding, clothing, teaching him or her how to tie shoes and make the perfect blend of Jack and Coke Zero.
I’m going to have to go a whole year of my life without Jack and Coke Zero.
I can’t wait.
Improving my grade
As I was getting home from work on Friday night, I received a phone call from a friend of mine to tell me that he was in the hospital. While he was reluctant to give details of his hospitalization over the phone, the message was loud and clear: a week prior to that he had attempted to take his own life. I'm not going to talk about his reasons and his method; those are his own and it's not my place to share that with the world. He is alive, he is still with us, and he's hurting like hell, but he is still here.
This situation has made me aware of what a really bad friend I am. I had absolutely no idea that he was going through the things that he was going through. When Edgar and I visited him in the hospital on Saturday, he told us about a myriad of things that have been compounding over the last year that brought him to his breaking point, and in the back of my head there was this little voice going I had no idea. I once had a friend that jokingly told me "You get an F in calling people back." I can't even remember what friend it was (BECAUSE I'M THAT BAD AT BEING A FRIEND), and while it was meant as a joke, it was totally right. I'm notoriously bad at answering my phone. Usually because it's buried at the bottom of my purse, and if I'm not in the same room with said purse, I'm not going to hear the phone ring. Or sometimes I'll hear the phone ring but I'll be all "Hmmph, I'm comfortable right now, I'm not getting up. If it's important they'll leave a message." And later I'll listen to the message, but if it isn't life or death, the likelihood of me returning that call is very slim. Not that I don't care, but I'm lazy. I'd much rather be reading a book or curled up on the couch with my husband watching TV than talking on the phone. My parents, once Edgar and I had moved in together, often started calling his cell phone whenever they wanted to talk to me because they knew that Edgar would answer.
Because it's easy. It's easier to not make the effort than it is to work on a friendship. I always hear people say that "Relationships are hard work"; I'll admit to finding this expression ridiculous in the past. My relationship with Edgar has always felt effortless. We don't work on our marriage. Or at least if we are working on it, it doesn't feel like work. Yes, we've had to work through hard times together, but it was always the circumstance, not the relationship, that needed the work. But I'm beginning to see that this expression, at least in my life, doesn't apply to the relationship in my marriage--it applies to my relationships with my friends.
I have very few friends. I have one friend from when I lived in Indiana that I still keep in touch with, and even that is very sporadic. Not because we don't like each other anymore, not because we've had a falling out, just because I GET AN F AT CALLING PEOPLE BACK. I only really have one friend in California, and seeing as his life was so bad that he wanted to end it and I didn't even know about it, I guess you could say that I SUCK AS A FRIEND. Whenever Edgar and I have people over, it's his friends that we're seeing. Edgar doesn't suck as a friend.
I think that making friends as an adult is hard. Once you're out of school and you're in a professional environment and you're out of the world where it's ok to stay out until 2 every night drinking, you don't really get to meet a lot of new people that are of the friendship material. Not without putting out the effort. And even with the effort it's still hard. Where do you make these friends, the friends that you can invite over for dinner, or go shopping with, or catch a movie with on a Saturday afternoon?
So here is my goal: to be a better friend. To be a better daugther, a better sister. To call people back. To answer the phone. To put forth the effort.
And I'm getting my first chance. Our friend will be staying with Edgar and I once he is released from the hospital while he starts to put his life back together. It's obviously not a permanent situation, since we live in a one bedroom apartment (even though it's spacious with the loft) and will very soon be trying to have a baby. He'll probably be racing to get out of there after a few weeks; three adults, 1 bathroom, 2 cats, 1 litterbox. Fiyero will likely not be pleased with having to share his domain with another cat. I talk too loud. The parking is bad. But now is the time to start being that friend that I should have been all along. It's time to stop caring from afar and to actually do something besides listen to a voicemail. It's time to help.
