G00d g'rl

I'm taking a break for a day and writing blogger-style.
I feel......
I am just so.......
I told G. that .......
Bloggers are losers.
Now watch, my Bitchin' Honda is going to blow up one morning, curiously, the cause of the explosion will never be determined.

But enough of that talk of my untimely death at the hands of the blogger mafia.
I used to say that I had imprinted on Namolita like a little duckling and I also used to say that we are both secretly 8 years old and that's why we remain such good friends, all things considered.
It seems we've grown into fine young 9 year olds and I no longer see her as a flat-footed, bug-eating bird but as an older sister whose approval means that I know what I'm doing with my stuff.
She lets me get away with murder and then ever-so-slightly points it out later, in a joke, or in a subtle aside.
I have sister-troubles and thess allowances from her are important on so many levels for me. I've been looking up to her for awhile now - like I always imagined looking up to an older sister: Not exactly comfortably all the time but always knowing that she'll love my dumb ass. Her house was one of the few places where as an adult, I laughed until I literally would fall out of the kitchen chair where I was sitting. And not once in awhile. I had a hard time staying in the furniture at that place, from the laughing. Crowded into the small, chilly bathroom, we played with make-up and modeled going out outfits, possible lounging around the house outfits, and "I'm-making-Martha-Stewart-very-jealous-with-my-adorably-matching holiday-dinner-outfits". You know, like sisters.
We practiced fart noises, drove each other to unpretty pouting, and as I can't emphasize enough, laughed more inappropriately than I have laughed in this town.
I mean, except for when I laughed at the retarded dog at the dog park, pointing it out to the guy in the wheelchair.
I don't need to tell you that the retarded dog belonged to, of course, the retarded guy.
And I died into a tiny, little pool frayed nerves and bright red embarrassment.

This weekend, Namsie moved.

And I was strangely feeling really, really sad about that. Her house was right near the salon where I go to care for my pretty pretty hair. About every 8 weeks, on a Saturday morning, with coffee in hand, I would look to see if her car was parked out in front of her house. It always was and that made me feel safe. When I go down to Fourth Ave, I always turn on Euclid and work my way up 8th, just to drive by and get that feeling of safety that as long as there's a light on in her house, or her car is out front or something, then everything is safe for me, too. Sometimes, I'd take 5th and snake my way past her house to go to the Coop or to Antigone. I wasn't driving by because I wanted to know where she was, I felt like if I saw her car parked in front of her Amazing Technicolor Dream Fence, if her car was there or if she'd left a light on for herself, than everything was alright and safe and so therefore, so was I.

So now, that place where I kind of stole some of her mojo, she doesn't live there anymore. I didn't even love the house or anything… I just loved knowing that she was in her same place and that it was familiar and safe there. That house holds some of my favorite memories of my adult life thus far, you know?
She moved this weekend. It was supposed to take place later in the month but for one reason or another, there we were, with 2 other ladies, a truck, and no time for the blues. Although I had to pitch in and do actual work, which I professionally avoid at all costs, I was thankful for the very small crew that gathered. Each of us had specific attachments to the house and specific, personal understanding of the significance of what was happening.

Now that she's moved from a very important first-step that she took, I feel sort of inspired to move myself. Not physically, but to make a move somewhere in my life and to build on the momentum that I touched with this weekend. I did a couple of things differently.
I contacted someone really far away who has fascinated me since I was 19 years old. Not that I wouldn't have written to him or anything if I wasn't feeling all left behind, not in the biblical sense, or something. I don't like, harbor some secret fantasy or want him to be anywhere other than where he is. He pops up for me sometimes and when he does, I don't think of him as the tweaky, skinny kid with sad brown eyes that he was when I knew him. I guess I don't think of myself as a fat, babbling idiot that I was then so all's fair, right?
I'm delighted when I hear from him and I haven't in forever -brushing my fingers on his sleeve makes me feel like a grow-up, even though I only sort of knew him when we were kids; or I guess more accurately I, I knew him when I was still very much a child. But just knowing him reminds me that there's no reason to think that I HAVE to do things in their expected manner. His very person reminds me that there's probably not some limited sitaution of love and marriage in my future and that the lack of a limited arrangemet is a good thing for me.
I love that feeling.
It's liberating.

The other thing that I did is to clean behind my refrigerator. I kept thinking that it would somehow not be so gross if I left it alone. I was thinking that it would probably just become so gross that the dirt became the floor. You know, like drinking your self sober and don't EVEN try to tell me that you haven't done it. You can drink for so long that you feel no spinning, no urge to purge, no louder voice - nothing but sober.
Yeah, so finally I realized that my refrigerator has been mocking me with its snotty comments and bitchy observations, offered under the, "I'm just being honest" lie. That refrigerator outed me one time and then later?
It didn't see what it had done with regard to my then very personal life.
So I planned my dressing of it's dirt and pulled the summbitch out and scrubbed until it met my admittedly lowish standards of cleanliness.
Feels better in my place.

Except for that dude who got shot five times IN THE ALLY BEHIND MY HOUSE.
Well, I'm not 100% sure what happened at 3 am on Monday morning because I was frozen in fear, hiding under a very big blanket and since the window was open, I opted to avoid any possible movement that might betray me to some skinhead warlord. I didn't even shush Rosie and frankly, I didn't have to because my effing "guard dog"? She sleeps through EVERYTHING. I wear her out, I know but come on! The CAT perked up and got all nervous and watchful while the dog peacefully snored through my personal terror.
Screw obedience school. I need to take her to boot camp for lazy-ass puppies. Sure… go crazy when I get home from work but in the middle of the night when you are pretty sure some gun is getting fired about 500 feet from your bed, stay asleep!
Good call, dogger. ur vry smrt. Trts? Pppy wnt trts? G00d g'rl.

Did I what?
Call the police?
Dude, are you insane?
Not until the next day.
The only thing I was calling was for my mama and that was only in my head because there was no way I was going to chance giving away my very current living status.

arizonasarah at 11:00 a.m.

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