Tuesday, July 24, 2012

I Feel Fine. Today.

Tasteless. Tacky. Sad. Tragic. But as a recovering alcoholic, I can jest about such things. Also, I'm a real bitch.

My sponsor wants to take me to Holy Name Cathedral next month for my 6-month AA sobriety coin. I think that's a great idea, though under my breathyzer I still feel like factoring in the 3.999 years of continuous sobriety I achieved before the NyQuil binge debacle. Hey, Guy Friend and I celebrated it anyway, the night of Tattoos Fundamentalist Christians Oppose & Piercings Snotty Gynecologists Remove While You're Asleep back in March.

As we will celebrate again tonight. What are Guy Friend and I celebrating tonight? Um, him not killing me in the course of the last several weeks for being a douchetard and me not slashing his tires over him not sending me a brief text message. (Which one of us is the fatalist in this relationship? What are you implying?) Our phone call last night to make plans for dinner tonight was chipper and cheerful, as he was driving into a beautiful sunset over Deerfield and I was batting down the hatches in Park Ridge for a storm that didn't ultimately hit until 6:00 am today. (Thank God my local meterologist, Mike Caplan, made up with me on Facebook after a feminism argument/unfriending/refriending, because he answered my question as to whether or not I'd need a sweater tonight and what the chances are that it'll rain. And he got a chortle out of my "umbrella accessorization query.")

"I think there's a restaurant on Milwaukee Avenue," Guy Friend said. "There are LOTS of restaurants on Milwaukee," I replied. "No, a vegan one, I mean," he said. Impressed with his thoughtfulness over dining choices, knowing vegan is my culinary preference, I honestly didn't know of one, but he said he'd "research it" (because doctors "research." Laypeople just Google.) prior to picking me up, and ideally, it wouldn't be boarded up and gone like the vegan restaurant we'd visited in March, where we'd previously eaten last summer. I'm sure wherever we end up, it'll be great. There was no hostility in his voice as we shared triumph in my getting an A on my presentation, no annoyed tone, and the noticeable absence of his trademark "exasperated sigh." (Though driving, with me on speakerphone, he very well could've been steering with one hand and flipping me the bird with the other into his Blackberry.)

I kept trying to interrupt him and interject yet another apology for the events of late, but the quick pace of jibbing and jabbing wasn't conducive to said topic, he's not a grudge holder, and I know when to leave well enough alone. I did prepare this, just in case:

Will I dress cutely but modestly? Of course. Is my small Louis Vuitton (the antithesis of punk, but I roll that way) located and ready? Naturally. Do I still fit into my size 4 brown pants? Lying on my bed, inhaling deeply, saying "motherfucker" over and over again, buttoning the interior button, yes. I also feel like my butt crack is suffocating. (He's not picking me up for about 2 1/2-3 hours. I'm trying to stretch out my pants a little.) Not having consulted with Kate yet, whose motto is "Beauty Hurts," I'm torn between my Cole Haan heeled boots or my brown combat-ish boots. (At the moment, I'm wearing Crocs. Call 911.) 

It never helps that Guy Friend walks at a cheetah's pace and I am always in seemingly impractical footwear, begging him to slow down, though like a gentleman, he at least holds my hand (read: drags me along, racing forward). Is my arsenal of benzodiazepines packed and loaded? Fuck yeah, what do you think takes up half of my handbag? Preemptive nicotine patch? Haven't found one yet. Test for tomorrow studied for? Here and there. To my own credit, I DO wake up at 5:30am and school starts at 9:45. Study crunch time? Plenty. 

Coffee for tomorrow prepared, timer set? No, for the cheap coffee I purchased the other day is SO unbearably gross that the last 2 days, drowsiness not a deciding factor, I've made emergent runs to Starbucks in my pajamas, where the baristas, when they see me approaching, by now know that I take a venti, half Pike Place/3 shots of espresso/steamed soy topper. Can I afford it? Not really. As beauty hurts, so does the pounding of a caffeine withdrawal headache and downright dangerous when driving with one eye barely open.

While we're on the subject of finances, Guy Friend is notoriously gentlemanly and historically pays for dinner. (He's a doctor. I'm a penniless student on unemployment.)  While I have enough cash on me to contribute to a tip, and he *was* the one who invited me to dinner, I cannot afford dinner. Quite literally, I have enough money until Thursday to feed my insatiable caffeinism*, my nicotine habit and...that's about it. (Hey, I pay for all those benzos out-of-pocket!) 

*Welcome to Annie's Psychological Couch. "Caffeinism" is a DSM-IV-TR recognized psychological disorder. If you can't rev up your morning without your cup o' joe or Earl Grey, or you're inclined to pound those vomitrotious "energy drinks," you, my dear ones, have a legitimate addiction. I don't know of any support group for you jittery fucks, but I'm right along there with you.

Am I ready to acknowledge my culpability in what's become an epic misunderstanding of tension-filled, insane proportions? Mostly. Is it Guy Friend's tendency to avoid matters of the heart? TOTALLY. How much either of us ends up on the defensive tonight about our behavior is anybody's guess. We both behaved NOT in the spirit of love or friendship, but I think do care enough for one another to, at the very least, civilly discuss my infantile overreactions and his aged-generation lack of electronic manners. 

Fucking Psychology Today. It's the retarded person's version of a layperson's clinical mental journal. (Or, as I like to coin it, the Cosmo of the Shrink World for Psychiatric Hypochondriacs.) Like any monthly magazine geared toward a specific demographic (Parents? For those of us with children over, say, 6, it's safe to say that statistically, they rehash the same fucking articles like 3 times a year. Know what I mean?) Anyway, on Twitter today, they shot out a link toward an article on the health benefits of kissing, which happens to be the bane-of-existence, hot-button, nerve-wracking, endlessly tension-producing issue between Guy Friend and I, which I've envelope-pushed and he's lamely attempted then denied relentlessly throughout our friendship for the better part of 3 years.

(BMF, like I, can't understand what the big deal is, as we're major smoochers, which goes back to a previous blog commentary in which I hypothesized that Guy Friend thinks we're a bunch of wild, free-loving hippies or something, while he probably packs emergency holy water with which to spritz himself at the onset of any remotely impure thought.) 

Amid the other chemical-bonding, spiritual-uplifting, seratonin-releasing benefits of kissing someone you, er, like, they felt compelled to interject the subject of GOING OUT TO DINNER, saying this:
"As if these health benefits aren’t enough, the researchers proposed that the stress-busting effects of kissing could even lower people’s cholesterol. A romantic dinner for two is likely to include some pretty high cholesterol food (think chocolate souffles). However, if the couple ends the night with a long enough kissing session, that cholesterol may not even damage their cardiovascular systems."

Well, shit. We're going vegan, which is low-cholesterol, any chocolate souffles would be made out of carob, and Guy Friend's sole interest in my cardiovascular health pertains to my chronic tachycardia and my impetus to get no exercise whatsoever. Guy Friend went on a long bike ride this weekend. Any energy I had was all in my hypomanic head, which does, however, contain my lips.

But speaking of my test tomorrow, and while a source of intellectual pride I shan't bring up over our low-cholesterol dinner, I found some congruous information via Facebook that pertains to the chapter for which I *don't* need to study: sexual disorders and dysfunctions. (Gee, Chris, who knew all that sadism would emerge to be so clinically handy?) NOT related to Guy Friend, who, while a guy, is not a guy I think of in this context, I came across this:

Speaking of people I have zero desire to kiss, but kissed enough with whom to procreate, Craig and I, in happier times (I kept the boots):

My ex-husband, while I was in class this morning, asked me a deep and urgent question via email, and to be honest, I wasn't paying attention to the professor at the time anyway: "How much does a pair of drumsticks cost?" he wanted to know. Not a simple answer. I told him it depended on the brand/style, but I said that mine (Vic Firth Hickory 7A's w/nylon tips) are about $8 a pair. I think he'd just read the story about a recent government agency meeting (the GSA) where the US spent $20,000 on accessory drumsticks for Fuck Knows What Reason, Which Doesn't Matter if Canadian Neil Peart Wasn't Involved.

Why *wasn't* I paying attention in class? Because psychosocial strategies in universal interventions are, surprisingly, NOT very compelling. I got an A on today's quiz on therapy disciplines and psychological ethics and law. I did not, however, get my highly-anticipated paper back. The professor finished grading and handed back all but 3 papers, mine included. And no, I kinda sorta doubt it was because mine was so riveting and hard-to-put-down that she needed an extra night to scribble upon it in red ink. See, had I known my paper grade, I'd know in advance if I was getting an A in the class, whereupon I could guesstimate my perceived time devoted to studying for tomorrow's exam, the last for the semester.

So we were expecting this HVAC company to come today to estimate putting a fan up in the attic that would  swoop up all the hot air upstairs and improve the efficiency of our central A/C, which is thrilling and intriguing, yes. In order to get to the attic, they had to go through my bedroom, which, while not messy, I neglected to anticipate a gaggle of burly guys barreling through in order to install said fan. Now they all know in what I sleep. Bravo! (My Keef t-shirt from BMF and a pair of shorts, you pervs.)

Ma, while I'm on my way outside with my laptop, my books, my phone, my smokes & a can of seltzer: "Can you make Luke's bed or clean Luke's room or..."

Me, hushing her, "No."

Ma: "Annie."

Me: "I'll shut his door. I'll worry about cleaning his room after my test tomorrow."

(Whereupon I exit, but later beg her to iron my blouse for tonight, and proceed to blog and check my Facebook with my book on my lap outside.)

Ok, Chickie Babies, I need my confab with Kate, to get ready for my non-date-date, and manage to pee while still re-buttoning my size 4 pants. Yes, I can put makeup on and talk to her at the same time. Yes, as per BMF's suggestion, I will take a chill pill.


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