Sunday, September 9, 2012

Wake Me Up Before I Go-Go.

I can't decide. Either I'm just adjusting to the new stress of grad school, or in a depressive episode, though nothing concrete is bothering me, per se. But I'm not awakening at dawn, as was my habit, geared up for the day with a thousand thoughts in my head. I'm taking care of business, don't worry, but I am needing more sleep. While going to bed at my customary time (11'ish), I wake up groggy either very early (to take Luke to school or get myself ready for school) or sleep in until 8am, like I did today, and have been requiring a mid-day nap as of late, which I don't always have the luxury of taking, though I did today. Meh, I'll adapt.

Last night's dreams were weird. Dream #1 was that I had gone into Luke's room to make his bed, noticed it was covered in live ants, totally freaked out and went running. Origin? Probably the pesky fly that was in my car last night, that I couldn't eradicate from the vehicle (though I hate ants with a passion). Dream #2 was of a lovey-dovey voicemail Guy Friend left me, in which he called me honey, sweetie, said "I love you" over and over again, and almost begged me to call him back ASAP. Origin: Easy. The voicemail he left me a couple of nights ago, in which, as I said before, he told me to text or email him. So I did email him Thursday night, and received an email from him yesterday, in response to a video from "The Daily Show" I'd sent him.

His email regaled a story about which he wanted my psychological opinion, but what distracted me, forced me into uproarious laughter and is now a running joke between SuperJuls and I? The fact that, in Guy Friend's email, when he referenced his wife in his story, he put it this way: "blah blah blah my wife (her name) blah blah blah." Thank you for the clarification, Guy Friend, because certainly I wouldn't want to confuse her with one of your other wives (Andrea). I took his email seriously and offered both my clinical and patient perspective regarding his conundrum, and didn't tell any of my friends about it, really, other than the "wife" part, so now SuperJuls and I refer to one another and anyone else we know with their names in parentheses (which, when you're texting, takes a LOT of time!).

Guy Friend went on to blame ME in his response email, in which I snarkily mentioned the parentheses. He said this:
 "You have never referred to my wife or any of my three daughters by name either verbally or in private correspondence. Since you don't have a mental block, it must be intentional. So I will continue to place parentheses to refresh your suppressed memory (Andrea do you have a middle name?)."

I was like, "Slow down, pal." You've never *told* me which daughter is which, always referring to them verbally as "my daughter." How the hell am I supposed to tell the 3 apart? I have, in fact, mentioned his wife by name on numerous occasions, so which one of us has the suppressed memory? (Projection again!) I guess he thinks it's an impolite slight on my part for seeming disinterested in his family, when it's not that. For what it's worth, it wasn't intentional. I figured he'd reveal who was whom in his own time, when he felt comfortable, and I was afraid to pry. I *knew* his wife's name because I met her. But talk about passive-aggressive emails, Guy Friend! Make a big "W" out of your hand and flash it at him. I think we all know what that means. [eye roll]

I don't normally like to listen to my mom's answering machine messages, though if I don't pick up her land line (which I don't unless it's Kate), a call came through while she was out yesterday, and I was upstairs with Luke, who'd stopped by after school to get some stuff for the weekend. Amidst Luke talking, I thought I heard my cousin's wife say that another one of my cousins had died on Thursday. I broke my own rule and did listen to the message and indeed, my first-cousin-once-removed, Jim, died. (Heart attack. His wife just died within the last year as well, from cancer.) Jim's part of a band of brothers who are all my dad's first cousins, which makes them all my first-cousins-once-removed. (All of my dad's FIRST cousins' children are my second cousins. Get it?) Also, Jim's brother, Ron, goes to my church with his wife, who was the one who called my mom. They used to come to our contemporary services all the time, but have been absent the last several months, both not in the best of health. I miss Ron's wink and wave as he's leaving his pew and the band's playing the "going out song."

In any event, I'll have to make the wake round next Wednesday, when Jim is being waked at what could be considered Miklasz Funeral Central, this Polish-run funeral home in Niles. Mind you, I doubt I've seen Jim since MY dad died 28 years ago, and couldn't pick him out of a lineup, apart from the fact that knowing all those brothers, he'd probably be the tallest one IN the lineup. (The whole lot of them, like redwood trees!) I don't plan on attending the funeral on Thursday, though I don't know what my mom's plans are. She and my dad, when they were dating, seemed to go to family wake after family wake on an almost constant-basis. It's how my mom got to know my dad's whole family. Over death. Glory!

I guess I'm getting to that age where you have to, by obligation, start going to wakes and funerals. Last week, I went to the funeral of my next door neighbor's mother, who also attend my church. I'm friends with her daughter, who sings in my band, but the next door neighbor woman and I have been on the outs for several months, when she broke the 8th Commandment at church by accusing me of breaking the 6th Commandment. But you do what you gotta do, so I went to the funeral but not the wake, which my sponsor said was unfortunate, because a Chicago firefighter who had a stroke at age 41 was being waked adjacent to the neighbor's mother's wake. Apparently, the joint was teeming with hot firemen. In hindsight, I'm not sure scoping out boyfriends at a wake is such a hot idea...

Wakes creep me the fuck out. I understand they're part of the family, friends and loved ones' grieving process, and closure and whatnot, but there's scant little I dislike more than going to a wake, which is why I elected not to attend the neighbor's mother's wake and just slightly gazed over at her corpse in the coffin during the lying-in-state before the funeral last week. Rest assured, none of that crap will be happening after I bid sayonara to the world.

Pastor Dave cracks me up. He asked us if we'd been to this other old woman's funeral a week prior, to which we said no, for which he was glad, because he was using the same sermon over again and laughed.

I really should come up with an end-of-life plan for my son to carry out legally, though he's certain I'll live to AT LEAST 100 years old, which I guess *could* happen, but isn't bloody likely. (I think it's what he wishes, though.) Evidently, cremation sort of, I think, goes against my religion, but as in all OTHER matters regarding me and my religion, CREMATE ME ANYWAY. No wake. Please. Memorial service? Absolutely. Lots of music and drinking. Totally.

The next door neighbor's not without her typical nerve. The family is sans a vehicle right now, so after this death in their family, there was much driving around my mother did with her as a favor, which is fine. But then the other night, I was sitting outside working on the patio, and Nervy Neighbor (no, I'm still not over her Commandment breaking) came by and asked me if I would drive her to the Park Ridge city hall the next morning, and presented one of my patio chairs with a bag of drugs, the size I'd never seen before in my life. (The City has an Rx/haz mat drop off once a month, I think, and she had to go in the morning.) The bag of drugs was so enormous that my neighbor couldn't handle putting it in her backpack and riding her bike into town. Being as full of tact as she is, she proceeded to tell me about all the controlled substances that were in the bag, particularly morphine. Because that's really fucking sensitive to do to a junkie. (I guess I broke the 9th Commandment coveting her wealth of morphine.) At any rate, I drove her ass to City Hall Thursday morning, begrudgingly, and listened to her postulate the whole ride over about psychology. I swear, had she mentioned my "sin," I would've slammed on the brakes, thrown her out of my car, and taken off with all of her dead mother's morphine.

Church turned out great. SuperJuls did a great job on the piano tonight, everyone got along, and Pastor Dave rocked it out. That is, though he kept feeling compelled to cough from asthma after being around my second hand smoke outside before the service. Whoops! Sorry, P'Dave! You could've told me you were allergic. I'm batting 1000 today, aren't I? 

And what was up with the 91-year old lady who usually comes to 10:45 Sunday church, who came tonight, and insisted upon sitting in the front row pew on the band's side, with everything booming into her hearing aids? I understand. Traditionally, that's *her* pew. But when we were all standing, and the singers were right in her face, she edged closer to the middle of the pew, close to the drums, whereupon she flinched in noise overload any time I crashed a cymbal or did a tom fill. Lady, honestly...I hope you learned your Contemporary Worship lesson, which is "if you don't care for the band, don't sit in the first damn pew."

Damn afternoon nap has me wide awake at 1am. And I have to get up at 6am. Here, again, is where I think a manic episode, during which  I can get by on 2 hours of sleep, would come in handy. Fortunately, I rapid cycle, so that very well may be the case tomorrow, who knows....But I have church picnicking to do and figuring out wardrobe, etc. Ack. 

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