The Twelve Days of a Guy Friend Christmas: Day 7: All Is Quiet on New Year's Day

Tag: "Happy New Year" in Polish.

I can read that it says "milk" on the front (mleczko) but I will have to see what my fluent Uncle Jerry says when he comes over today to translate the rest of it. But it looks appealing!

New Year's Eve was pretty boring, though I did enjoy my first full viewing of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" with my mom. The film is extremely powerful, the experience too close for comfort as to how mental wards really are and how little has changed in 40 years, quite frankly. I had taken my meds and Ma had gone to bed at 11, but I think I was up until midnight, let out a "Big Whoop," responded to well-wishing texts, and went to bed.

Avoided and deflected Guy yesterday, out of both pain and busyness. The only rationale any of us can come up with as to why he called me from home, used his last name, and dug my limp body into a giant, muddy hole was because he'd been drinking, heavily. I have no idea, but in any event, I referred him back to this song that I put on a CD for him some time ago, George Harrison's "Cheer Down."

He doesn't understand the song and never has. No, I'm not going to explain it any more than I already have. He texted me yesterday afternoon asking me if Dick Clark would come back & host New Year's Rockin' Eve, to which I said, "No, Phyllis Diller & Larry Hagman are hosting with musical guests Donna Summer & Davy Jones, with a special appearance by Richard Dawson. Produced by Don Cornelius, who at least offed himself." It helped that I happened to be on a web site that was listing all of the famous people who died this year. My memory's not THAT good. Guy then called me, Craig arrived to discuss money and pick up Luke, who I wish was staying home with me, and I hit "ignore" on my phone, and Guy didn't leave me a message.

I texted him amid my family shenanigans that in addition to being very busy at the moment, I didn't know what to say to him other than "a chagrined, unhappy, heart-torn-out 'Uh,' 'Ok,' 'Sure' and 'It's not me, it's you.'" 

I'd further tell him that he could perhaps call me today, when he's not at home, after revisiting "Cheer Down," referenced Hilary Clinton's blood clot in medical terminology, & intimated that both of us were probably going to have very sedate New Year's Eves. I said we could attempt to talk today, "if you don't plan on scolding me from your house while your family has you behind the 8-ball."  Later, I admitted I didn't remember half of what he said on the phone the other night, because my own drugs had kicked in, but that he sounded weird & told him he chastised me purely because of how strongly I feel about him and ranted about my church because I ranted (in my blog) about his, followed up by a "never mind that I went so far as to say to bring Lady GuyGuy, though "I can't imagine another round of her insulting and judging me with disdain again." (Which is true.) 

So a crossroads. I have nothing further to say to him until he calls and explains what in fuck compelled him to call & bitch me out the other night & ask what he expected me to say to follow up with yesterday. Amid all the familial celebratory hoohah I have to once again endure today, perhaps he'll call. 

Most heartbreaking last night was when Luke texted me that he would've rather stayed home with me than gone to a lame party with his dad, dad's girlfriend, and other grandma, with a gang of "friends" of the other grandma who all share a mutual love of some weenie from Mount Prospect who was an "American Idol" participant, or winner, or something else nobody cares about. Poor kid.

Ringing in 2013 means little more to me than the inconvenience of scratching out "12" and putting "13" down when I write shit out. The most to which I'm looking forward this year is the badge of honor of saying I officially have a teenager and getting to be 33% away from my masters instead of 25% finished.

Whoop-dee-fucking-do.

Enjoy your day and nurse those hangovers.

"Goodbye's" Too Good A Word, So I'll Just Say "Fare Thee Well."

It's going to take more than a few *accidental narcotics overdoses to kill The Offbeat Drummer for good.

Alas, we've come to the end of 2012. My ex-husband & I both lost our jobs. I turned 40. I upset a lot of apple carts. I made people uncomfortable. I played drums. Luke rocked & grew like 5", & never did finish Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason."  Got a few tattoos & more piercings. I finished 25% of a masters degree. Had a couple of surgeries. Icky shit went down and I was annoyingly stalked for months by the office asshole brigade who used to work with me. Your usual year of rejection, deflection and unnecessary but unavoidable heartache. In 2013, I don't foresee it being much more than the same shit as 2012, minus perhaps the surgeries, with the addition of more gut-wrenching music, another semester of school & ringing things in tonight at home with my mother watching "One Few Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and NOT being drunk.

Not one to make or keep resolutions, next year, I should probably exercise more, cuss less & learn not to let incidental crap over which I have zero control affect my moods either positively or negatively, because I tend to live my life perpetually walking a tightrope. Eh, fuck it. What people without serious mood disorders fail to recognize in people WITH mood disorders is that, especially during the holidays, and the Ultimate Shitfest that is New Year's Eve, the normal people try to convince the sick people as to how wonderfully they're doing, while the sick person silently slaps his/herself with a taut, "You fucking idiot. You can't even successfully pull THAT off," THAT being an operative term for any number of destructive things.

Raise a glass, it's Monday.

*Or were they?

The Twelve Days of a Guy Friend Christmas: Day 6.

It's a really beautiful, delicate, fancy, silky scarf. I absolutely love it, and that's the truth.

Guy Friend is mad at me again, most likely because I've been critiquing his gifts this whole time. He's insulted that I would even imagine that he re-gifted anything he's given me, when he hasn't. When I picked up the phone last night, he said, "Hi, it's Dr. [Guy Friend's last name]." I thought that oddly formal, and he called from within the confines of Camp Guy, sounding extremely downtrodden.

It was weird because he asked me at 8:40pm if I was still awake. I said yes, I was. He wouldn't call me until over an hour later, during which, for whatever reason, he felt compelled, unprompted, to read a few blog entries from home.

He either was weary of all the family shenanigans or just totally emotionally beaten down by my mouthiness and ill-appreciation as of late. The conversation didn't go well at all, and was brief. I did a lot of sedate "Ok, yeah, alright's" & he tried to explain further why he would never come to see my band play at church, to which I owe no one except my best friends an explanation, and it's not because of the Pope (entirely, though Catholicism has something to do with it).  He said he would call me back today (New Year's Eve), though I'm not sure why he'd bother when all I imagine is me once again stringing along another long response of agreeable and accepting "Ok's" because I don't have handy a petition signed by my legion of fans and loved ones who all think that he is a few leaves short of a clover.

Woke up at 6:30, unable to get back to sleep. That priest hole I mentioned in a previous blog? Yeah, I'll be hiding in there. Kate told me not to despair. A little late for that. Ok, hello Major Depressive Episode via the Entrance of Total Rejection. It's been literal days (a week, maybe?) since I felt so awful that I self-increased my Zoloft dose up by another 50 mg.

The best advice I could give any woman at this point is to never, ever let yourself become so vulnerable that a guy knows exactly how much you love him. The tailspin isn't worth the bullshit. I have to remember that I'm neither of my 2 best girlfriends, one local and one far away, who are both knockouts who sparkle, dazzle and rock. I'm far too nuts, complicated, and me-like, which historically, eventually sends everyone fleeing.

Nonplussed, even about joining a gym with Luke as my workout buddy, this is pretty much how I feel:

After toying with another memoir title, "Sorry, I Must Have Dozed Off Again," I think the new working title is "History Repeats Itself." 

Well, fuck.

All There is To That.

To the nosy, unwelcome, thought-I-was-long-rid-of reappearing reader: You wretched nit, your pimply hyperbole and lack of internet savvy is not lost on me, so I wish you'd crawl back into the well from which you came. My life is interesting, though, thank you, I have most of my sanity back since we last sparred and I'm 1/4 done with my master's degree & could psychoanalyze all of y'all to death, and 90% of you need psychotherapy and a psychiatrist to begin with. In short, GO AWAY. For running a newly computerized office, you once again did a pretty shitty job of visiting me *not* under a proxy IP, but you're nothing if not stupid and I'm nothing if not brilliant. So sod off.  Slow holiday season for the Former Supervisor of The Offbeat Drummer, Who Never Earned Anyone's Respect...because she is incapable of an intellectual thought.

That is all.

The Twelve Days of Guy Friend Christmas: Day 5, Gift 5

The tag: "Life's a beach. Then you die." 

Evidently, sandcastles smell a lot sweeter and more confusingly candy-like than sea air. Or sort of like disinfectant, which has charmed my son unbelievably so, so I gave the candle to him under strict Grandma scrutiny that he not burn anything in his room. He likes the candle, so I let him have it.

Oh, Guy.

This is what I should've given him for Christmas, minding that there's been a teensy-weensy security breach within "Rhythms." (For example, Google Chrome users may be put off by the Chrome browser's implication that since TwitPic is at the bottom of every individual entry, you are entering a malware-loaded zone at your own risk. Not like reading my blog wasn't enough of a mental landmine in the first place...Chrome users: click "Advanced" and then "enter at your own risk," though that's pretty self-explanatory.)

The Twelve Days of a Guy Friend Christmas: Day 4, Gift 4.

"For a doubly sweet Christmas..."

What's doubly sweet? The cocoa, how quickly it's prepared--its instantaneousness, or me?

Frango, to Chicagoans, is sort of an institution. Originally only available (in candy form, etc) at our former Most Famous Store, Marshall Field & Co, the local chain was bought out by Macy's (boo!) several years ago, & we thought that would be the end of Frango. Macy's continued to produce it, though it's kind of schmaltzy & lost most of its charm since, but they still put out a good product (kind of like me). I've never had their cocoa before, but was impressed with the Starbucks cocoa I got from my cousin last Christmas, along with the design-and-bake your own giant mug, on which Luke drew a walrus for me, his name and date (I think he did it on New Year's Day last year) and wrote on it, "Settle Down, You Crazy Bitch." Fortunately, the flagship Marshall Field's on State Street downtown's building still bears their name and wasn't extracted by the Macy's chain, on the facade anyway.

I was so excited this afternoon while waiting in line at the pharmacy for my fuckload of sedating drugs that I texted Guy Friend that, after an epic migraine yesterday, during which I tried but failed to get back to sleep after therapy but couldn't, and required 2 nausea pills and implied that it was all his fault because I was preoccupied with "my imagination" of him, I slept 10 hours last night. Apparently, that wasn't *enough* sleep, and in the middle of emailing SuperJuls this afternoon, I conked out for another 3+ hours.

Guy left me a voicemail from work & said he'd call me back tomorrow, & wanted to know how I'm enjoying all of his presents so far. They're great, Guy, but my HANDS ARE STILL COLD. (My backup Kate Spade handwarmers shipped yesterday.) I was 90% asleep in a long winter's nap (again) that I kind of slept though his phone call, but he left this long, rambling voice mail, which in the middle of, he said, "Oh yeah, this is [insert Guy's name]. Kind of "Duh."

The Twelve Days of a Guy Friend Christmas: Day 3, Gift 3

Ok, the enthusiasm is waning. Never a big fan of holiday-only, discriminatory picture frames, Guy gave me...a Christmas seasonal photo frame. Who's picture am I supposed to put in it, his? Actually, my girlfriend had a great idea which was to put my favorite Christmas picture of Luke in it, so I will fill it with this, from when he was 3:

It's no small coincidence that the Kate Spade hand warmers I asked for in the first place went on sale yesterday with a 25% coupon. Too challenging to say if they're overtly in the wrapped packages, I am thinking I will order them anyway, and I can always return them if it is a double-gift, which I'm sensing it would *not* be.

The frame itself isn't objectionable, it's just only useful for about 20 days in the year.

Still waiting for a feat of superhero proportions under the tree....