Happy belated birthday to shelly_rae, and to fimbrethil.  I hope you both had much peace and joy on your days! 

After looking at today's date, and remembering someone's birthday this weekend, I suddenly understand why I'm freaking out about everything, and why my brain won't shut the hell up.

My sister's anniversary is on Sunday.

Tell me something:  if I'm not doing anything wrong by talking to someone who contacted me first, why do I get the feeling I'm the one who's going to look like the asshole in a friendship that probably shouldn't be? 

The friend understood last night that it just wasn't the best idea in the world for me to go to the party.  Maybe he'll stop by the meet tonight, maybe he won't, I don't know.  Maybe we'll have coffee next week or something.  People have coffee.  So I find it unsettling that I get am IM from the ex saying that he's "not sure how he feels about that, and [he] told [the friend] too," like it's all my fault that the friend contacted me.  I've decided that I don't care.  It's not like the friend's looking to sleep with me or anything (Mama eleanor will get mad at me, but I've talked to the guy before this, and while I'm not fat I'm too chubby for his tastes), so I don't really think I understand why it matters.  We're not talking about the ex anyway, except sort of basic, "Did (the ex) give you my message?"  "No, he never told me that you wanted my email."  That was really about it.  There was other stuff to talk about, as friendly people do.

It really shouldn't matter, should it?  I mean, in the grand scheme of things I can see why it does, but I figure he's the one who broke up with me, and it's his friend who initiated contact.  So, really, am I doing anything wrong?

I have finally achieved ID!  Well, sort of.  I lost my passport a few weeks ago, the only form of proper ID I had.  So, today, after my interview, I headed to the DMV down on Greenwich Street and figured I'd try to get my learner's permit.  After seeing the line, I decided that I'd just get a non-driver's and take it from there.  Half an hour on line waiting to get my picture taken, then another 10 minutes at the window while the woman behind the desk pretended she didn't know what all my various forms of ID were (blatant lie, since they were all pretty self frickin' explanatory), and then over an HOUR waiting to get a temporary card, which I promptly left at eleanor 's house, where I stopped to try and cheer up a glum mama, and scarf down a lamb gyro (which, actually, ended up cheering her up, as I was assaulted by Norton the cat on the table,  Morgan the dog begging from the floor, and Ellie the person who should know better just reaching into my plate!).  I then watched an episode of seaQuest 2032 (the third and final season of the show) while she got dressed to go out.  I was supposed to go out and meet someone tonight, but I'm too tired.  I should probably call him, actually. 

I've also decided not to go to this party late tonight.  I think it would be strange and uncomfortable for me, and I'm mostly worried about being out on LI that late.  It's my friend's party.  He's going to go ahead and drink a whole lot, which is to be expected, and I don't want to have to rely on him to get me home in one piece.  That's not really fair to either of us.  Plus, if I take the LIRR back home from the Island at 3am, I'd have to walk through Jamaica to the E train, which is not something I'd like to do.  I'll invite him out tomorrow for the NYers meeting, and if he stops by for a drink that's great.  If not, we'll meet for coffee some other time.  I don't want to end up having to stay out on the Island with him, is all, and I don't want him coming back to Queens and needing to stay with me.  Now, I doubt that this is what he's all about, I don't get that feeling, but my instinct is telling me that this party is no bueno for me to be showing up at. 

So, with that, I'm off to put on my jammies and settle in for another exciting night of seaQuest tapes that I've dug out of a box.  Man, I could be going out to a party and surrounded by men, and instead I'm watching reruns of some lame-ass sci/fi show. . .starring Jonathan Brandis, no less!  Oh, but how I loved me some Jonathan Brandis. . .I was sort of sad when he'd hung himself a couple of years ago, like a fond piece of my childhood was gone. 

My day started with a strange email and a random phone call, and it's ended with a strange email and a random phone conversation.  The phone rang early, while I was still in bed, so I waited till it went to voicemail.  It turned out to be another staffing agency that's been sitting on my resume since November, that has an executive assistant position open and wanted me to come in tomorrow, so I'm going.  My appointment is for 11:30, and then directly afterwards I'm going to go to the DMV and take the written test to get my learner's permit.  I've lost my passport, my only form of ID, and I've got to do something to rectify it.  I decided to check my email and found a friend request from My Space, and an email from someone I didn't think I'd ever talk to again (a friend of an ex).  I sent an email back with my phone number, and we talked a couple of times over the course of the day.  Mostly just catch up stuff, it was nice to talk to him because I'd always liked him. 

Got a strange email when I'd gotten home.  A friend had emailed me a link to yet another dating service.  I didn't realise that I'd signed up my email for the thing until it was too late, and I'm getting weird emails from people now.  I've already sent an email of complaint, because that shit ain't cool.  I don't want to sign up for internet dating.  Sometimes it's fun, mostly it's not for me.  And then the ex's friend called again, so we talked for a bit.  He invited me to go out tomorrow night, which I think is sort of weird, but I said I'd think about it (it wouldn't be until after midnight, which would a very tired Vanessa make).  On the one hand, I could go and enjoy myself and just not think about it.  On the other hand, this could open things up to such potential badness.  From the way it sounded, the ex doesn't know that he contacted me, though I'm sure he'll find out soon enough.  So, maybe I'll go, maybe I won't.  I'm worried about the consequences.  I guess I'm mostly worried about ruining a friendship that shouldn't have anything to do with me at this point.

Still, any opinions would be helpful. . .

Aunt G. is awful, and I was up late because I was so upset about what happened last night.  This morning, only a few hours after I'd actually managed to get to sleep, my phone rang.  I didn't want to get out of bed, but I was curious to see who'd called me, so I went to check my caller ID and see who'd called, and once I saw the number, I knew that this was the way of the powers-that-be making me feel better.

It was my bestest friend in the whole wide world.  We'd been out of touch for months, as life goes sometimes for us, but I called her back and hearing her voice truly made my heart more whole.  We caught up, and she told me about her new job, new boyfriend who loves her very much and even gave her a promise ring!  (We always joked that she'd get married before me, even though I always had boyfriends or just men, and one of our inside jokes is that when I talk about a new guy, she starts singing the chorus of "Maneater" by Hall and Oates.  Makes us laugh every time, has since high school!).  I caught her up on family, and job doings, and we discussed how excited we are that her cousin is finally pregnant after years of trying.

Even though I know things deep down in my heart, sometimes, like everyone does, I need a reminder.  She called at just the right time, she's always known how to do that.  I'm glad. 

And I feel a lot more settled inside.

Felice Family Christmas(tm) would have been better if not for the chaos.  Now, there's normally some drama created by Aunt G., but it's usually in my direction and no one notices.  This year, because the dates had been moved around so much, her daughters didn't come.  We were all disapointed, but sometimes these things happen.  During our appetizers at Aunt F.'s and Uncle R.'s bar, Aunt G. stands up and says she has an announcement.  We, of course, immediately joke, "You're pregnant!" and laugh.  She says that she's going to be 69, and as the matriarch of the family now that Grandma's dead (mind you, Grandma Sally has been dead since I was about 8.  That's about 16 years.) she's decided that we should hold family Christmas at her house from now on, since it's hard for her to travel.  No one likes this idea.  Not only does she live way out in Bay Shore, Long Island, but she also lives in a small apartment.  We'd all fit, but it's uncomfortable and crowded with all of us together, because there's each family, each with two children in tow, plus people's significant others.  You'd have upwards of 20 people crammed into a tight space, and it's no fun.  The last time we had a holiday there, us kids had to eat in the kitchen at a "kiddie table".  We were all either in our twenties or our late teens.  So, Uncle P. suggests that we meet at a half way point, his house in Queens, and Aunt G. decides to tell Uncle R. that the real reason her kids weren't there was because they want to do the family celebration on Christmas Eve like we used to.

Now, none of us under 30 remember having our family Christmas actually on Christmas Eve.  Uncle P. always worked, and we all had other places to go.  At this point in time, we've all established traditions with other people.  It's not fair to three sections of the family to have to change their plans because one section wants to do things their way.  This HUGE argument ensued, no joke, for about an hour as to why or why not we should do things on Christmas Eve, and why it was rude of her to bring something like that up, etc.  My cousin C. leaned down to me and said, "Where's your dad when we need a joke?"  The fight went on and on, and at one point, when Aunt G. said something about her daughters' opinion, I jumped in and said, "Why does it matter what day we do it, if we're all together anyway?"  Aunt G. looked at me and said, "This doesn't concern you, so butt out!" When I started to ask why it didn't concern me, she actually raised her voice and shouted at me, "Butt out, I told you!  Just BUTT OUT!"  I walked away in a huff, and Aunt D. had to calm me down.  Not because I got yelled at, tempers were flaring all over the place and it was perfectly understandable, but for her to tell me that something doesn't concern me, when my cousin R. had said something, and my cousin C. had said something, all without comment from her, is simply bullshit.  Eventually she calmed down, and Aunt G. apologised for yelling at me, so I told her it was okay, and that it was forgotten, but it's not.  I'm actually really annoyed and really hurt.

Aunt G. treats me like I don't count fully as a member of my family.  Granted, I really only see everyone once a year, and half the family doesn't bother talking to me unless they're forced to at a gathering, but that's okay.  I am who I am, and I can't help it.  But Aunt G.'s always been antagonistic towards me.  When my father died, she was quick to take me in, even though it would have been better for all involved to let me stay where we'd been living.  Aunt D. told me that today, that she suggested it and no one would listen.  Once I moved in with Aunt G., nothing I ever did was good enough.  Her daughter could do no wrong, and my cousins were fabulous, but I was just a brat who had no manners.  She hit me once, I remember that, and she never did it again after she got no reaction.  She treated me like a poor relation, which I guess I was, and as if she only took me in out of a sense of duty, not because she cared.  My sister lived with her for a time as well, after she ran away from Aunt D.'s and Uncle P.'s, but decided to jump ship and leave there, too, to live with  my grandmother where she'd have total freedom.  After my sister left, Aunt G. tossed me out.  She actually did, one day told me that I was too much for her and that I had to go live somewhere else.  I was a week shy of my 12th birthday, and to this day I still don't know what I did to spur it on.  A few years ago, at Thanksgiving, she told me that it was my mother's fault my father died, because she was the one who turned him onto the heroin.  I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Yes, well, I don't remember her asking him to beat her when he was drunk, but I'm sure you'll find a way to blame her for that, too."  I didn't talk to her for the rest of the night, and I never went back to Thanksgiving there.  I'm not responsible for what happened to my parents; I was just a little kid.  I didn't even know they were dying!  I'm also not responsible for my sister's actions; she did what she wanted, and there was nothing I could have said or done to stop her.  I'm lucky she even noticed me in those days!  And now, she treats me differently than she does the other cousins.  Like I'm not good enough, I'm simply not enough, a poor substitute for her brother Ralphie, and obviously not good enough to be his daughter.  It's funny, when I was a kid, I adored my father.  Aunt G.'s the only person with any pictures of him, it'll be like pulling teeth to get them from her, but she doesn't seem to think I deserve anything having to do with my dad.  And then not only do I feel like a second class citizen at these family things, but she makes me feel just . . .not quite empty, but . . .it's sort of like when you're stomach's empty, and it hurts.  That weird, twisty feeling even though your tummy feels hollow.  I feel hollow.  I feel angry and sad and just empty all at the same time, because my father's not there to defend me, and she won't hear a word I say because I'm not Ralphie.

She makes me feel like that confused and scared 11 year old kid again, who had to go live with strangers because her family didn't want her.  She completely ruined my night.  And I'll never forgive her.

I just made cookies for Felice Family Christmas(tm).  The ones with the red and green M&Ms are still in the oven, but the chocolate chip ones are on a plate, waiting to be wrapped up.  They're just Pillsbury, not home-made, but the Felice family doesn't care.  At least, they'll say they don't care and then they'll talk about me for a month after; how lazy I am.  My cousin C., closest to me in age, knows, because this morning we had our yearly, "What are you wearing?" phone conference.  She was annoyed at me, but I always feel badly showing up to Christmas empty handed.  I really don't see anyone for the rest of the year, and then I show up at Christmas for presents.  Seems sort of . . .I don't know.  I just hate it.

So, C. and I are dressing up this year, because she's got a pair of "holiday" pants that she feels she has to wear.  I, on the other hand, do not have "holiday pants" that are not my jeans, so I now have to wear a dress.  This wouldn't be so bad, I love the dress I'm going to wear, only I'm bloated.  This is never good when you're wearing a dress, and though I could wear body armor under my dress, why bother?  It's just my family, and I'm going to get the "You're looking chubby this year" comments anyway.  I'm the only one who does.  Maybe I'll find a skirt in my closet that magically has an elastic waist that I don't hate?  I won't hold my breath.

Aunt D. is picking me up at 1:45 from the 179th Street/Jamaica Avenue station on the F train.  I double checked to make sure it was running, but when C. was on the phone, I said, "How long is this whole thing going to last?  Seriously.  1:45?"  Neither one of us thinks that we'll be out on Staten Island for too long, probably not past 11, but when you get somewhere at 3:30, and you're surrounded by your family, anything past 7:15 is too long. . .at least, for me.

I tend to take the most abuse.  Aunt D. and Uncle P. tend to try and deflect the abuse that Aunt G. hurls my way, but often they're off talking to other people, and I get cornered trying to pour myself a hefty dose of scotch.  After a few years, it gets old.

Ahh, optimism.  I just reread that last paragraph, and thought, "Well, at least it's good scotch!"

Hopefully I'll make it through this evening without raising my voice (there was one Thanksgiving that I didn't make it, and I haven't been back for that holiday since).  Maybe Aunt G. will be nice to me, but likely she'll start off nice and then move on to the "I can't believe Jenna's gone" track.  Last time she started this, I actually said to her, "I don't know why you care, she didn't like you very much."  It only shut her up temporarily, but I think that maybe she's realising that I won't just meekly answer her questions anymore.  When I was a kid, she scared me.  She never really loved me, I think it was more out of obligation to my dad than anything else that she took me in.  And now, raised away from the family, I have too many ideas and thoughts that are different, and this is her way of trying to bring me down. 

I will always be the White Sheep of the Felice Family.  I'm pretty proud of that.  And now I'm going to go and take the cookies out of the oven before they burn.  It's my good-faith effort, because every Felice Family Christmas(tm) seems to be theirs. . .

I commuted into the city today for a temp job.  I didn't want to go, I wanted to stay in bed, but duty prevails, and I could use the money, so I tried to wait for the bus*.  About an hour later, I trudged back home to try and call out, but ended up going to wait for the bus again.  I got lucky this morning, and was able to catch a taxi.  Coming home, however, too nearly all night!  I got to the bus stop around 4:45 or so, and the line was already snaking around the block.  I realised, after getting to the end of the line, that the bus stops at the corner of 60th Street and 2nd Avenue, and I, at the end of the line, was on 2nd Avenue halfway between 60th and 61st Streets.  It sucked, but it was still light out, so I figured it'd be okay. 

At 7, I was thisclose to getting on a bus.  At 7:20, I finally did, but I had to stand.  I'm not complaining about the standing, at least I didn't have to walk over any bridges or anything, but I was so tired and miserable, and on a bus with the most awful, vapid people.  (I'm complaining about the people while I'm tired)  I just wanted to go home, I just wanted a cup of tea and my jammies. 

Hot water boiling, hot water achieved, I thought, "Okay, I'm tired, but I'll survive."  The lightbulb in the kitchen blew, and after I changed it, I made the worst discovery of the night:  there's no milk! 

All I wanted was a flipping cup of Lady Grey tea, and I've used my last tea bag only to discover that there's no fucking milk in my fridge.

So, I'm going to have to go to bed with a cup of tea that's just not what I wanted, because, really, I'm not going to waste the tea, I really want it.  And then I have to get up and start the whole commuting process all over again.  Bleh.  Fuck the TWU, and double fuck the MTA.  All I wanted was my stupid flipping cup of tea. . .

EDT: I never added my explaination for the *. I live in an area of Queens that gets Green Line bus service. This would be wonderful if half of Queens wasn't taking this bus as well, making it difficult to get on the bus at my stop.

I guess I never thought to post about this, but a few weeks ago, I went to hang up one of my winter coats.  As I shook it out before putting it on a hanger, a mouse came running out of one sleeve!  It made a beeline for the door, but I was sufficently freaked out enough to have a single thought:  grab Bailey.  So, I grabbed the kitten, the fierce hunter of anything that happens to fly into this apartment, and proceeded to fling him at the mouse, huddled in a corner squeaking.  This proved ineffective:  the mouse fled to the other corner of the doorway, and Bailey fled to his refuge under the dining room table.  I tried to open the door to the apartment, since the mouse obviously knew that this was the way to salvation from the hunter of the house, but the mouse ran deeper into my apartment, not to be found. . .

. . .or so I thought!  I've been moving stuff around, and so I'm not really paying attention to what the cats are doing.  I was in the living room, putting some books away, and walked into my bedroom for something when I saw Bailey playing with something that looked like a mouse on the floor.  Since I knew that there were no toy mice out, I decided to take a closer look, when I noticed that Bailey smelled worse than usual. 

IT WAS A REAL MOUSE!!!  Well, to be fair, it was a real dead mouse.  I don't know if Bailey killed it, but it was missing limbs, half it's tail, and an ear.  Bailey was just batting it around, took it in his mouth, ran into the bathroom, and nearly lost the prize behind the bathroom sink!  I finally got over my shock (and called a few people to be like, "Remember that mouse I couldn't find?  Well. . ."), fetched one of my rubber dish-washing gloves, and disposed of the poor dead thing.

I now need a shower.  Screw housecleaning.

I haven't really had too much to say lately, partly because nothing that exciting has happened, partly because I've been too depressed to really care.  Last week I started a temp job at an insurance agency that was supposed to be a long term job, and I hated it but figured I'd stick it out through Christmas and earn enough money to pay my rent for January.  I worked last week, and I hated it more than anything, but I survived it, and on Friday people were talking to me as though I'd worked there forever.  I had to call out sick on Monday, becaue I've had a slight sinus infection this week, but managed to break the fever that came along with it and go in on Tuesday.  I went into that office, and was treated like a leper.  No one talked to me, no one said good morning, no one even acknowledged I was there.  I was sort of shocked, and more than a little appalled, when the receptionist explained that no one really ever calls out sick, and they see it as a bad thing.  I could really care a whole lot more, I suppose, if I was a different kind of person, but I began hoping that maybe they'd just ask me not to come back.  I ignored how I felt back in November, and I ended up with strep throat, so the last thing I  needed was to ignore something my body was telling me.  Sure enough, when I got home on Tuesday night, there was a message from the temp agency telling me not to return to the job the next day, that it just "wasn't a good fit."  I laughed so hard I cried.  Now, it's not really that funny, I needed that assignment, I need a flipping job, but I was only going to stick out that assignment for a little longer because I'd been such a nudge at the temp agency.  They, to their credit, were appalled by what I told them about the place, and by the fact that they were so shady about me.  People usually request me back, they've never had a problem with me.  So they're promising to find me something else, but I won't hold my breath.  Life just seems to be sinking deeper and deeper into the poo. . .

Last weekend was a party orgy.  It's no wonder that I'm so run down this week, I was at work by 10 on Friday (lateness due to the snow, a blatant lie I told because I was tired from partying on Thursday night), and didn't crawl into bed after a friend's Christmas party until about 4:30 or so.  I was up at maybe 10 for dim sum, and then up until, I dunno, 4:30 again at a party.  I went to sleep, and was up again around 10 to make it to football on time.  Then I was out having adventures until about 12:30, at which point my body just completely shut down.  It's my own fault, I spread myself too think, run myself too ragged, and then wonder why I'm so sick.  This weekend is going to be low key, because I can't really afford to do much else.

Next weekend is a balancing act.  Friday is Felice Family Christmas, which I actually have to take a day off for (if I'm even working).  I'm sure I'll update when it's over, but this always leaves me a complete and total crank, even with the self-perscribed scotch.  Saturday is going to be dinner with Mama eleanor and the girls, all at the girls' mom's house, and then possibly up to New Haven.  It all depends on if the CT family is going to midnight mass.  If they aren't, I'm just going to go up on Christmas morning, which will be awful cold, and lonely.  I'm glad the holidays are almost over, because the lonliness will lift sometime after March, and I can be me again until next November.

My brother finally sent me a check from my trust fund, which I managed to deposit yesterday.  This is when I found out that my bank account is so overdrawn that the check didn't matter anyway.  It's nearly all going to correct the overdraft, and it won't even be available until possibly next Wednesday, which leaves me without immediate funds anyway.  So, I've got a little bit of money in the bank that I can't even get at because I was so overdrawn the bank is holding it for five business days.  I should get a paycheck tomorrow, if I'm lucky, but that most likely won't come until Monday, and I'm beginning to realise that I'm going to start World Wars III and IV when I got up to CT for Christmas, because I'm going to have to ask for more money.  Jason likely won't understand, and hilarity will ensue, leaving me in tears and the family mad at me.  I simply don't have the money, and now being asked not to go back to the insurance agency means that my income is again limited to next to nothing.

Eventually, the universe will balance itself out, and I will have a fabulous job, and savings, and I won't be so darn . . .low all the time.  I just wish it'd happen soon. . .

 

I live like a bachelor.  I'm not kidding.  If I was still working steadily, my fridge would be full of take-out containers and beer, with maybe a few condiments on the door, possibly some Gatorade for hangovers.  Really, I'm not kidding.  This has happened.  But alas, I am poor, and always make enough food for myself that I will get to have leftovers for lunch.  Sometimes I remember, quite often I do not.  This, dear readers, leads me to tonight's post.

I cleaned out my fridge.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  Gee, Vanessa.  Most people do this once a week, still others once a month.  Why are you making such a big deal out of this?  Because, my friend, I do not think to clean my fridge.  I barely think to do my dishes on a regular basis, and right now my bathtub is under several inches of Scrubbing Bubbles brand cleaning foam (which, incidentally for those who ever wondered, hurts like a motherfucker when it comes in contact with your eyes!).  I am lucky that  I make it out the door.  My Meows are lucky that I clean their box on a semi-regular basis.  So yes, cleaning out my fridge is a BIG DEAL. 

There aren't even words to describe how absolutely foul it was in there.  Pull out a container.  Could it be?  Yes!  The tomato soup I made when I had strep throat that hurt me too much to eat!  And this little fellow?  Oh, joy of joys!  A chicken breast baked in honey, made even before my strep throat!  And the acorn squash that accompanied that I never ate!  *SQUEAL!*  Ancient sour cream and chives mashed potatoes that I added cheddar cheese to!  My night is made of rapture!  (And, yes, the mashed potatoes were made from flakes, and they were made in the quest for comfort food, as my mother--G-d rest her soul--never made real smashies.  Gross, but I eat them right out of the pot, and I like it better than chocolate.)

So, a bunch of small garbage bags later, and after massive tupperware washing, my fridge needs food.  Well, fresh food, anyway.  I wasn't courageous enough to tackle the ancient jar of peanut butter that previous roommates left behind, or the applesauce that I didn't even know was there till I moved a tin-foil wrapped something.  So maybe, just maybe, I'll keep the fridge that clean. 

Then again, maybe pigs will fly. . .either way, I've a bathtub that really might have melted away from all the foam cleanser.  Someone seriously needs to domesticate me.  I can't live this way anymore. . .

Tomorrow's episode:  *gasp!* The dining room!  (dun dun DUUNNN)

I'm starting to get together my birthday party plans, which are at the end of January.  I know it's early, but I've got to pick a place and get myself together before Christmas, so that I can figure out how to pay for certain things.  Anyway, I'm asking for email addresses.  All comments are screened, so the emails shouldn't show up, but if you're not comfortable doing that, just email me to my addy on my user page, or IM me or text me, whatever.  I just want to make sure that you're all on the evite!

I have to say, the first time I went to a meet, it sort of freaked me out, but I'm really glad that I did.  You're all pretty damn awesome!

There's a special on PBS tonight, some Doo Wop concert from Atlantic City.  Right now, the Duprees are singing "Have You Heard?", before was the Platters and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes".

I lied.  The Duprees are now singing "You Belong to Me."  I miss my mother.  By all rights, I should be seven years old, listening to Don K. Reed and the Doo Wop Shop on the former CBS-FM (when it was oldies) on a Sunday night, and dancing with my mother, Jenna looking on. 

Cousin Brucie!  He's on, too!  The only reason I'll get sattelite radio, when I can afford it. 

"Just remember, till you're home again, you belong to me. . ."

In other news, my hands have started shaking.

 

EDT: Johnny Maestro and the Brooklyn Bridge! If I had $250, I'd pledge it to get the concert DVD and the set of CDs. Man. . .Johnny Maestro!

Taken from nemesisbecoming  because it looked like fun!

Ten Random Things About Me
I was raised in science fiction publishing, but don’t actually read much of it.

I am obsessed with Mary, Queen of Scots.  Don’t know where it came from, but I buy every book possible about her.

I once tried to translate the Lord’s Prayer from Anglo-Saxon to modern day English when I was 16.

I really like Hilary Duff.

I harbor a secret wish to be a paleontologist.

I used to play the flute, and was quite good at it.

I was a math geek.  I was on a math team, and would even go to competitions!  Now I can’t even add to save my life without a calculator.

Though I come off as totally jaded, I really would like to be in love again, and would be absolutely delighted to hear a boyfriend say they loved me back and mean it.

Sometimes I’m relieved that my sister died, because if she hadn’t I’d always have been “Jenna’s little sister” instead of me.

 

 

Nine Things I Want to Do Before I Die
Learn more Italian than “Go away, cretin!”

Relearn Spanish, because I was nearly fluent and lost it all.

Go to Spain and visit the medieval castles.

Live in AIDS ravaged villages in Africa to help the sick.

Graduate college.

Have children. 

Live in Boston and Chicago, so I can say I lived in cities other than NYC without having to learn to drive.

Go to Scotland.

Own a bar.

Eight Ways to Win My Heart/Affection/Respect
Be intelligent!  Life is not only sports, no matter how much we’d like it to be.

Make me laugh.

Tolerate small children who grab your pants with grubby fingers.  Children are funny, and they do funny things to get our attention.  Your pants can be washed.

Love animals.  Nothing makes me melt more than a guy who’s willing to play with my kitten.

Be able to let the little things go.  Life’s too short, and there are swings to be swung on!

Don’t be afraid to be goofy! 

Understand that my life was fucked up, but that it’s not a competition of who had it worse.  I’ve worked too hard to get out of that place in life, don’t bring me back.

Teach me something new. 

Seven Things I am Afraid of
Dying

That I will not be a good nurse

That when we’re dead, that’s it, and I’ll never see my family again

I’ll never be loved by a significant other

Going deaf or blind

Being sick, or in agonizing pain for a prolonged period of time

That I’m not really that strong, that’s it’s all a front and one day I’ll be found out.

Six Things I Believe In
The kindness and compassion of other people

The powers that be hold the cards.  We just do what they draw.

Life works itself out, no matter how badly off you are

My animals understand more than they let on

You make your own family

Myself

Five Places I Have Lived
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Richmond Hill, Queens

10^th Street off Avenue A, LES

Riverdale, the Bronx

Elmhurst, Queens

(As you can see, I’ve gone far)
Four Favorite Items in my Bedroom
My bed frame

The one blue wall

My double door-ed closet with the mirrors

My bookcase full of old books

Three Things I Do Everyday
Shower

Have a cup of coffee

Sing along to something

Two Things I am Trying NOT to do Right Now
The dishes

Think about the laundry I have to put in the dryer

One Person I want to See Right now
Jenna

Current Mood: contemplative

Current Music: "Look Away": Chicago

My father died the day after my mother's funeral.  My grandmother, I'm guessing, had insisted on having a viewing for my mother, even though she hadn't wanted one, and my father's side of the family was there, as was my "step-dad" and his family.  My father's side of the family didn't like them, and vice versa, and I was caught in the middle not knowing anything.  My "step-dad" tried to hug me, and I looked at him and said, "I don't have to call you daddy anymore, I have a daddy who'll take care of me now that my mommy's gone," and that was that.  My Aunt Dee took me home with her, and the next morning they told me that my father had died at 6 that morning.

I worshipped my mother, but I was my father's daughter.  He was a mean, sarcastic man, but funny.  Always had a joke for me, always made me laugh, and he tried to protect me from Kenny, the "step-dad" the best he could.  He always tried so hard, as divorced parents often do, and he'd buy us stuff in efforts to buy our love, I guess.  He'd pick us up on Sundays, our visiting day, and take us straight to the toy store.  We'd get to pick one board game, and each of us got a doll or a stuffed animal of our choice.  I had more Jem dolls than I ever would have otherwise because of him.  He'd buy me big things for Christmas, too:  Cabbage Patch Dolls, and a Barbie and the Rockers stage, and he's the person who bought me my favorite doll of all time that I still miss.  It was called a "Bathing Beauty".  Her name was Kelly, and she had green eyes and blonde hair, and when you put her in the water, her hair turned green.  When you rinsed her off in cold water, her hair was supposed to turn blonde again, but mine never did.  My mother called her the ugly green haired doll, but I loved her more than anything else I owned.

My father would also try to make us dinner sometimes.  There was one afternoon when he tried to make ribs like my mother did, with that Saucy Susan apricot glaze (my sister used to make them for my birthday every year for me after my mother died), but he forgot all about them and he burned them.  It was a day when he'd invited our other cousins over, so there was a house full of kids and my dad, with burned ribs.  He made us all eat one, and then took us to Burger King. 

Sometime around the time I was 6, Kenny started insisting that we call him daddy, and I said, "But I already have a daddy, I don't need you." He got very upset, I probably got hit, and I told my dad about it.  He was unhappy, and I know that on more than one occasion custody hearings got ugly, because my parents would fight so much.  When I was about 7, my mother found out that Daddy was drinking while we were with him, and sued for full custody.  Instead, he got supervised visits at a Salvation Army that they agreed on, and so we'd meet him there.  He'd always have something there for us, and the place always smelled like eggs.  The last few times I saw him, it was at that Salvation Army, and then my mother refused to send us anymore, Kenny took over as our dad, and I didn't see my father again until his funeral.

At my dad's funeral, I didn't cry.  Aunt Ginger didn't understand why my sister and I didn't cry, didn't understand why my sister wanted to go to school (my sister didn't like our dad, she had her reasons, some I know, some I don't.  It was her choice, and even then I understood and agreed she shouldn't have to be there.), didn't understand why we were both so unfeeling.  I hadn't seen my father since I was about 8, and now all of a sudden here's this guy lying in a coffin that looked much skinnier and had makeup on.  I didn't cry for my father, even when my cousins did.  I didn't really understand the impact of what had happened, I'd thought he was going to take care of me, and now I wasn't sure what was going to happen.  I didn't cry for my father until I was about 20 years old, when I started to cry for my sister, and couldn't stop, and I cried for my whole lost family, and all the lost times and things we could have done.  And then, when I was done, I laughed, because at the end of it all, after they closed the casket and gave me the crucifix that had been hanging in it (which Aunt Ginger told me I didn't deserve and took away from me not long after), I realised something.  Before the casket closed, my uncles slipped a pack of Camels in one pocket, a picture of my sister and I in the other, and a bottle of Johnny Walker underneath him!  I asked about that recently, and Uncle Robert said, "Well, if he had to go, he may as well go with the things he loved!" 

My mother went to see him in the hospital once, one of the rare times that year that she was out of the hospital.  She went upstairs, and I had to stay with my sister, who looked unhappy to be there.  Then she insisted that my sister go upstairs and see him.  I wanted to go, I begged to go, I wanted to see my daddy, but I was too little.  I got special permission to visit mommy in the hospital, but they didn't know us here, and they wouldn't let me up because they didn't want me to make my dad sicker (in 1991, there was this huge measles outbreak, so anyone under 12 couldn't visit patients in hospitals.  I was only 10.).  I was the only person who didn't get to see him or to say good-bye.  My mother looked so sad after she came from seeing him.  My Aunt Ginger (who blames my mother for my father's death) said a few years ago it was because it was her fault, she knew he was dying and it was her own fault for mixing him up in the drugs.  I looked at my aunt and said very calmly, "Maybe she was just sad because she loved him, and they were both dying.  Maybe she was sad for us.  But I can't see how she held a gun to his head and a needle to his arm." 

I don't think Daddy was a bad person.  Like my mother, he had demons, and they got the better of him, too.  My family plays the blame game, each side blames the other, and I have no idea what's true and never will.  My aunts and uncles insist, though, that I am still my father's daughter, straight through my heart.  I do look like him, I'm one of those kids that no matter which parent you put me next to, I looked like them, but it's deeper than that I've learned.  I'm sarcastic at times, I've got his nasty temperment (which I'm not sure is a good thing, but I tend to take no bullshit or prisoners, just like him), but I've got his sense of  humor.  That makes me happy.  I thought my dad was the funniest thing on two legs, and could see how he and my mother would make each other happy sometimes.  I just wish I'd had the time with him that I'd had with my mom.  I think that we'd be very close if he was still alive, my Dad and I. 

This is the first year that I can remember that the anniversary fell on Thanksgiving.  Today will be rough but I'll have fun, and wherever he is, I'm sure he'll enjoy it with me.  I am, after all, my father's daughter. . .

There was much drama surrounding C.'s birthday party this weekend.  I invited a friend, the friend I went to Culture Club with.  He and I are buds, we have fun when we go out, and we only hooked up that once (and he's man enough to admit that I know more about football than he does!).  I invited him to come, I figured it'd be no biggie, and C. was happy to see him.  We flirt when we're together (how is this different from any other guy I know, you ask?  It's really not.), and I'll admit to having a crush, but that's fine.  This girl C. works with, apparently, is a whore, and walked up to him and said, "I know you're here with your girlfriend, but I'm interested."  Now, I thought this was funny, because seriously, I think maybe I'd just gone to the bathroom for a moment or two when she moved in.  I thought it was funnier that he fell for it.  And in my conversation with another of C's coworkers, she asked, "So, do you like that guy?" and I said, "Well, I have a crush, but he's my friend, it's fine."  SHE GOT MAD!  She decided that she had to put a stop to the conversation between my friend and this other girl, and enlisted C. to help her.  We all tried to talk my friend out of leaving with her, and as I got drunker, and the girls got me more and more worked up, I finally said, "I have a crush on you, and I think you're an asshole for leaving with her, but oh well."  They left to go to another bar, and none of us knows the real story of what happened afterwards.

The whore coworker claimed she went home with him to one friend, told all her other coworkers she didn't.  She got home to Jersey City to find her car'd been vandalized for the third time this month, and when she called the friend, the friend said, "Maybe it's someone else's girlfriend you fucked over."  She then started getting phone calls late at night, hang ups, I'm guessing, and accused her friend and C. of being the ones calling.  But she didn't accuse them to their faces, she told other coworkers, who approached C. and said, "Man, I heard your party had some drama!"  I find that to be totally unprofessional and kind of awful.  Do you really want your entire office to know your business?  I worked with some people for three years and they never knew that my parents had died!  And she's announcing to her entire office that she got the guy from some other girl?!  That's just skeevy to me.  So my guy friend texted me this morning to wish me a happy Thanskgiving and to apologise for not calling me the day after, and I was like, "I don't care you didn't call me, but much drama ensued."  I'm sure I'll talk to him next week, when we're all home from our turkey-day celebrations, but seriously.  Such drama.  I felt like I was in high school.

Men are not worth fighting over.  I know this, I always have.  I am happy to bow out as gracefully as possible--I figure if the man's worth his salt, he'll walk away from her and come back to me.  If not, there's a better man around the corner waiting for me.  But I will say this--what she did was bold, and if I had been his girlfriend, they'd still be finding pieces of her!

 

( Because I grew up in Bensonhurst, and Sly was the man! )

I've discovered that when I'm over one health ailment, two more pop up in it's place for me to contend with.  It's all part of the ongoing "She's got no health insurance so let's see if we can catch pneumonia" thing my body's got going on.  Seriously.  I had health insurance for years, and only felt that scary sick once. 

My temp agency has pulled me out of the boring temp job.  They're sending me on an interview on Monday, set something up at the same rate I was making at the AFA on Tuesday, and will get back to me on Monday about something for Wednesday.  On the one hand I'm glad, because she said that she had other stuff for me that would pay more, but it worries me that I won't be working on a steady basis.  Oh well.  Take my chances, I guess, maybe I'll end up with a better job.

( Happy hour drama. )

I gakked this from weret_hekau .  it's what my name says about me.  I'm sad that my name was made up, I'd like to think that maybe it had roots somewhere.  One baby name book said that it was from the Greek for "butterfly", which actually does explain a whole lot about me, but the definition below isn't so bad, either. I've retyped it in, to fit better.

Vanessa:  a creation of poet Jonathan Swift

Sensitive and emotional, you are higly intuitive and have a wonderful imagination.  The instinctive impressions you receive about people or situations are usually accurate and means you can't easily be misled.  You have healing and counciling abilities which can help to alleviate the suffering of others.  Your loyalty, integrity, and belief in life means that you are much admired and assured of many friends.