theivery, child support, relationships, NOT POETRY
And now for something completely different.
This is not a poem.
I shall wait for your shocked gasps to subside.
This is actually a post. Like a for-realsy post. An update on my life, if you will.
I am officially on Spring break. I am still in bed, but I can't manage to sleep in much. I've been writing a lot, which is pretty much amazing since I'd rather do dishes than write, and if you saw my kitchen, you'd know how much I hate to do dishes. I've planted myself in coffee houses, so I can get away from my "normal routine" and make myself actually do it. It seems to be working out alright. I am pleased. It's been so long since I've been pleased when it comes to my writing life. This, as Martha Stewart would say, is a good thing.
My boyfriend was a punk-face this morning. And I am at peace with it. I can totally handle the grumpy in the morning. It feels...normal. Like what everyone deals with in regards to their partner. Not earth shattering or anything. I'm liking the boyfriend more and more these days, and I have some sort of hope that maybe, just maybe, we're past the worst of it. (It feels something like what I imagine survivors of the holocaust may feel. Only not, because I can never really imagine something so horrendous, and I feel like I have to apologize for that comparison, but, in truth, there were times in my relationship that felt like the holocaust. Or like a hurricane. Or like being forced by my father to live in the basement for 17 years and bear his children. I know you think I am exaggerating.)
Can you imagine? Knowing you're past the worst of it? There is a lightness to this.
My daughter, Luna, will be 7 years old tomorrow. I'm officially fighting with her biological father because I am selfish enough to file paperwork to maybe possibly eventually get child support. This will make him homeless, he says. It may be the law, he says, but the laws are not always right. I am only hurting Luna, he says. And, mostly, I don't say much back. He can say all this to the judge, weep his crocodile tears, threaten to not take Luna anymore (knowing it will break her heart and break mine in the process), and make me out to be the bad guy. I'm done with it.
There is still guilt. But much less than once upon a time.
I went to the optometrist yesterday. My left eye is officially worse than my right...great. I'm totally going to mix up my contacts. But it makes sense, as I now catch myself tilting my head to look out of my good eye. I ordered new glasses. Had to pick them out all by my lonesome. And by all by my lonesome, I, of course, mean without friend or kids or boyfriend, but with tiny optometrist assistant hovering. Standing next to me. Watching. Not even making suggestions or giving opinions. Just watching. So I felt like I had to hurry and had to choose between red, funky glasses that maybe made me look like John Staedler, or black semi-funky glasses that had the added benefit of having sparkly rhinestones on the sides. If you know me, you know which I chose. Oooh, shiny! all the way.
But the Dr. was very nice and didn't give me shit for wearing my contacts 24/7 EVEN THOUGH I used to work at an optometrist's office for two years and know better and EVEN THOUGH I've already had a corneal ulcer (aka eye-AIDS) and should know better and EVEN THOUGH I told him I don't want a contact lens exam, he still looked at my eyes with them on to check things out and did not try to pressure me. This is a rare find. I made an appointment for my kids for today, and I shall give him a good review on-line. My highest compliments.
Sidenote: The best thing I ever stole from a job is the prescription pad WITH stamped signatures on every page, taken just as I knew I was about the leave the optometrists office. For this reason, I have never had to pay for a contact lens exam...I just write my own prescriptions. I get the RX filled at Wal-Mart (yes, I know, evil) because they don't care enough to call and check with the doctor, PLUS, this particular RX pad does not have an expiration date or a phone number for the doctor. Luck! It's the gift that keeps on giving, even 7 years later. I am brilliant.
I shall abruptly end this post with this: What is the best thing you ever stole from a job?