Thursday, July 19, 2012

Whoa, Misjudged That One. And That One.

Guess who surfaced last night, out of the secluded darkness I cloaked as the end of our friendship?


I didn't take his phone call, rapidly firing away last night's hypomanic school blog amid the thunderous humming of the courtyard's air conditioning units and my iTunes, intent on finishing my thoughts and ideas before attempting to read my homework (which I never did finish, which I have all weekend to finish...) before actual thunder, lightning and a severe storm would drown the drought for a few hours last night, as we lost electricity (and internet! Damn!) for about half an hour. (Naturally, the power was restored right after we'd lit candles and located all the flashlights.)

Not leaving a voice mail when he called, I texted Guy Friend later that I saw that he called, but was unavailable and too busy to speak with him. "Sorry to hear you're stressed out. Grad school is a ton and a half of work," he replied. I told him that "stressed out" was a kind but inaccurate description of my state of mind, told him that I'd been worried about him and was assuming the worst case scenario, e.g. that he hated me. "We have to catch up since I'm never on the computer," he said.

Admitting he was "totally guilty" for not finding time to call me, he once again described my life as a "soap opera," though he hasn't read any of the blogs in which he's been ripped a new asshole recently. I honestly told him that he wasn't being a good friend to me, admitting that I hyper-reacted, and that it was perhaps best he stay off the computer. (On this, I think we can all agree.) I reiterated to him that Luke would be out of town all next week, and that it'd be nice to get together.

Avoiding making plans to make plans to make plans, which he is wont to do, he told me he wasn't upset and didn't want to see me upset, and that he'd been working 24/7 with no free time and hoped I'd get some rest. Thus, he missed all my "upset" in the last week which was publicly voiced for the masses, I apologized for "lambasting" him (or worse, I should've said "I totally castrated you on the internet.") and told him I was glad he wasn't mad at me. (Which, if he was mad at me, would be too damn bad, because I was honestly justified in my feelings, which I think my legion of friends would wholeheartedly agree.) It seemed fruitless to chastise him for not having the common, friendly, polite courtesy to take 30 seconds off his harried clock and fucking text me that he was frantically working. Hare Krishna, that's just plain rude.

What Guy Friend said back in May rang in my head once again, "I'm glad (or was it "grateful"?) you don't stay mad at me for long." I don't know what it is about that Guy, but no, I can't find it in my big ol' heart to bear a grudge against him (lest we forget, he FIRED me from my JOB!). I'm a chronically forgiving and accommodating woman, most of the time, with men, whom I love. On the other hand, have a woman piss me off, and I can hold a grudge for YEARS, my most vile claws will surface and it isn't a pretty sight, because, with the exception of my close circle of girlfriends, I really don't like women very much.

None of this news will come as a surprise to Best Male Friend, but it also won't make him very happy. It could be worse, Best Male Friend. I could likewise be, well, married. Ain't that a hole in the boat?

Luke just left for Dad's house, packed up for his mission trip/work camp for next week, parting ways with me as if I'm sending him off to military school, when in reality, he'll see me at therapy in FIVE HOURS. (It's after THAT we have to say goodbye until July 29th.) That whole regression into calling me "Mommy" and telling me how sad he was, while I was sympathetic and hugged him tightly, was overkill, don't you think? I told him to man up, called him "Lucas," which he hates, and made him lug his own suitcase to The Other Grandma's car. I'll miss My Little Preteen Caretaker fiercely, but I will enjoy the independence, it's anybody's guess how I'll get to bed without his shepherding, yet will have an unadulterated respite from the rigors of motherhood (read: sometimes it's hard to feed myself, much less Luke). 

At school this morning, we were delivered our cumulative scores and overall percentages for the class thus far. With the assumption in my mind that I was stumped in a D-level pit out of which I was begging my research paper and The Gloriously Insane and Hugely Entertaining Presentation would pump me out from, I was actually quite surprised that I am, in fact, presently getting 85% in the class, a solid B. It's vital to note that my paper & presentation haven't yet been factored into my overall grade. Each worth 150 points, the point equivalent of an exam only 80 total points, if my (frequently incorrect) math is right, I could verily be getting an A by Monday, when the professor reveals those grades. 

The test last week on my resident expert topics (to review: depression, bipolar disorder, drugs, alcohol & eating disorders), which I really didn't study for at any great length? I missed an A- by 3/10 a point, getting a B+, my best test score yet, which damn well should've happened. Without seeing the exam or what I got wrong, I can only assume it was on matters of statistics or theories, or specificity in the minute details of anorexia versus bulimia or the foreign idea of "binge eating," because I sure as hell know my dope, booze and loony. 

Next week's test is on four lengthy chapters, including the plethora of confusingly similar personality disorders (like schizoform vs. schizoid personality disorder vs. narcissistic and borderline personality disorders etc), sexual disorders and dysfunctions, as well as all the different types of therapy and legal an ethical issues in the field of abnormal psychology. Read: Some confusing fucking shit.  *IF* I come to find out I'm, in actuality, getting an A, the grade on THAT test will be relatively insignificant, over which I shan't tear out any hair, and will likewise exempt me from having to take the "optional" final, which I'll only endure if I'm stuck on the fence between an A and a B, is cumulative on the entirety of the course, and would prove to be utter torture, though it can only enhance our grades, not count against anything. You with me?

In any event, after next Thursday, I can kiss Abnormal Psych goodbye for the time being and walk into my appointment with my Adler School admissions counselor Friday morning with my head held high, and tell him to BRING IT ON. You're all, I'm sure, thrilled to hear I'll be on academic sabbatical for another couple of months and can refocus on my creative, artistic and intellectual ventures and proudly add another successful notch in my psychology belt. If, however, I come to find that I need to take statistics this fall, all bets are off and I'll no doubt completely break down and shove anti-anxiety pills rapidly down my throat. (There's a good chance, like I've said before, that I can simultaneously take graduate courses while throttling haplessly through what the community college calls "Elementary Statistics," though how "elementary" it is, for someone like me, translates to "An Epic Adventure Into the Land of Sixteen Weeks of Perpetual Cardiac Arrest.") Friends? If you're local and know more about math than my son, on whom I will rely, CALL ME. Guy Friend was all like, "Take nursing statistics or psychology statistics." I would do that, if such a thing existed, trust me. Meh, I shouldn't get my Victoria's Secrets in a bundle just yet.

I informed Guy Friend last night that What's Left of The Who, Minus Ox and Moonie, are coming in November to play the entirety of "Quadrophenia" & "Other Hits" at the arena Steven nicknamed "The Airplane Hanger" when I saw him there a couple of years ago. The announcement must've went over Guy Friend's head, because if there's any wagon on which he'd jump, it's that of The Who. I ran it past Steven's Douche-o-Meter yesterday, and with tickets at $129, he said "Man, no way." (While still cheaper than Roger Waters' uberdouchery of "The Wall," at $250 a pop, I think if given a choice, I'd rather twist Guy Friend into going to see my crush, Lou Barlow's, band, Sebadoh, at Schuba's or my 2nd generation crush, Dhani Harrison's, band, thenewno2, playing a Lollapalooza after-party at the Logan Square Auditorium on August 3rd, my wedding anniversary and Dad's birthday, which is, at least, free.) While Steven and I might doubt Guy Friend would enjoy either show, HE OWES ME ONE. 

Why do I have a decades-long crush on Lou Barlow, you ask? Because I am a Generation X alterna-gal. I don't know any woman similar to me (Steven admits to having a mancrush on Lou himself, especially between 1996-1999.) who aren't in lust with Lou. If you want a visual of Lou, skip back to the blog "Free to Go" from a few days ago, featuring a video of a song by one of Lou's offshoot projects, The Folk Implosion. If you require further proof of his inherent adorability, he has a toddler, Hendrix. He lets Hendrix sit on the dining room table and fill his mouth with paper napkins, just because he finds it humorous, then posts pictures of it online. I found it downright AWESOME, and something I totally would've let Luke do when he was 2 or 3, uh, if Craig wasn't home. Don't all call DCFS at once.

Prophetically, I posted this to my Facebook feed yesterday, and low and behold, he called, as I mentioned above:


I guess I should get back to reading my psych work while I'm still conscious, before dinner and Luke's therapy, since the Entire Pot of Coffee AND Starbucks Triple Shot of Espresso haven't crashed me yet. I didn't get through the whole sexuality chapter, and please, Professor, we all turn Japanese. There's no shame in discussing it like adults, even if you did have nuns tell you it'd make you blind in grade school.


best male friend said...

Damn. I still think he's worthy of The Buzzcocks' "Oh Shit." Lovely. I really can't bitch, though, 'cause you've forgiven me too many times. (BTW, I just typed "tims" instead of "times." Isn't that a Freudian slip?)

Andrea Miklasz said...

BMF: Sweetheart, I toyed with the idea of deleting your comment's Freudian slip (nice) but I found it almost as humorous as Lou's napkin-munching offspring.

If I had a dollar for every lame excuse or crappy apology you've ever laid upon me, that I've accepted and loved you regardless over the years, I'd retire in style (probably drunk).