thorvalson.net : babble ether

How to Be an Annoying Neighbor

Leave your enormous piles of dirty laundry in the basement for two full weeks, so that no one else can use the table space normally available. When I place some of your laundry in my laundry basket to create space, take my basket to your apartment and keep it for a week (I'd still like that back, by the way). When you start to finally wash your laundry, and I now need to do mine, and I kindly transfer what appears to be the final load of your clothing from the washer to the dryer - and pay for it - don't return the favor. When you find my nice clean whites in the washer in the morning, transfer them to the dirty table - which is half covered in your laundry, still - and proceed to do your own laundry without regard to mine, which is this very moment beginning to smell moldy, meaning I will need to wash it again.
Do all of this while you are A FAMILY OF THREE NOT REALLY LIVING IN THE BUILDING, ONLY STAYING HERE TEMPORARILY, AND THEREFORE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE USING THE GODDAMN MACHINES, and do it WHEN I'M ON MY FUCKING PERIOD, MISSING MY BOYFRIEND, AND STRESSED OUT.

I understand you're going through a rough time. Really, I do. You wouldn't be staying here if you weren't. And thus, maybe you really can't afford to shell out the 75 cents to dry my clothing in addition to doing your own. But really, you should have 75 cents, because I paid for your drying time yesterday. All that aside, I understand you're going through a rough period. My point is this: you do not live in this building normally, and I can only assume (I know... I shouldn't) that this living situation is temporary. My only request, while you are a guest in this building, is that you respect those of us who do and have paid rent to live here for the last two and a half years, and either do your laundry when the machines are clearly not in anyone else's use, or TAKE IT TO THE LAUNDROMAT, where you can get it done in under two hours and thus not leave the afore-mentioned enormous piles for two weeks. Did I mention I'd like my basket back?

But, hey. At least you emptied the garbage pail. Thanks for that, seriously. As for the rest of it...
I really, really hope this is only a temporary situation.

Who? Wha? Huh? Where am I?

Wow. I think one week is the longest time I've gone without posting in quite a while. Be warned: I am over-worked, running behind deadline on my article, missing my guy, and T-minus 24 hours on my monthly friend. The good news? I signed up for dental and personal indemnity insurance yesterday, so I'm covered (at least partially) if my teeth need cleaning/fillings/replacement or if I lose a leg. The bad news? Getting insurance automatically makes one paranoid that one will need to use it, i.e., I had dreams all night last night that my teeth were breaking in half and falling out.
In news of the little one, she received a bike this week, which we have yet to try out. Weather looks nice today, so maybe we'll take it for a spin this afternoon down to the Clare, provided that I have at least STARTED on the article (as soon as I'm done typing this!). She is also now sporting a watch, trying to learn to tell time, which is going... well, not so well. Telling time requires that one understand the basic mathematical divisions of time, which requires one to be able to count to sixty and divide that number into five minute increments. So far, she's a little backwards. Last night, she asked me, "Mommy? Can I PLEASE stay up, just for another three hours?"
Uh, no.
This morning: (me) "How'd you sleep last night?"
"Oh, fine. I was so tired, I slept for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES."
Yeah. We'll work on that.

G was gone all weekend, playing in Champaign, which went well, from what I heard. More shows to come... will post them in the sidebar when I have time. Enough about G, before I start spouting about how much I miss him right now. :)

Visited the Gessner clan last week. So good to see my little beans, and of course, Trace (I gotta tell ya girl, you're more smokin' than ever). I walked in the door, and she literally took my breath away. I thought she'd dyed her hair, done something with it. Nope. Just my best friend, her naturally beautiful self. :) Pictures to come soon.

Hope this finds all well with the internet... Laundry beckons.

Take my hand, not my picture...

I'm in the process of trying to reacquire much of the music I've sold, lost, or given away over the years, mainly stuff from my middle school and high school experiences: Sugar's "Copper Blue" (a must), The Judybats, Ride, Soundgarden, etc.
Purchase number one was made a few days ago, and I am now swimming in the audio ecstasy of Pearl Jam. Yes, Pearl Jam. I grew up during the grunge era, and three things have been on my mind lately in reference to this subject: a) the apparent ignorance on the part of some of the younger generations of the enormous impact grunge had on not only its primary audience, but anyone with a radio, in its early moments, and b) how, after a few years of radio overkill, any and all bands who suffered this constant spotlight were subsequently shunned - justifiably or not - by their originally relatively small fan bases, and c) how, once the radio stations laid off those bands a bit (most notably after Kurt Cobain's suicide, but with the exception of Nirvana, which seemed to - somehow - be played even more frequently as some kind of sick corporate eulogy/apology?/flogging of the dead horse, rest his poor soul), some of we fans of old have gone back to that music, tentatively pressing the play button to hear once again even the likes of "Nevermind."
Having done so myself, I urge you to do the same. Try it. Remember when Eddie Vedder was a round face among a much smaller crowd? Remember when you didn't have to pay $35 a pop to see your musical heroes in an arena full of all the people you hated in high school? Give it another listen. Try it. Just don't tell your friends.

"restless soul, enjoy your youth
like Muhammad hits the truth
can't escape from the common rule
if you hate something, don't you do it too
small my table, sits just two
got so crowded, i can't make room
where did they come from? stormed my room
and you dare say it belongs to you

this is not for you"

Wong Gone for Zitty Kitty

Witness this member of the species felis catus. Note the distinct lack of reproductive organs, most obviously, the testicles. This particular member, known as Solomon, is also, due to recent surgery, missing its front claws. When asked for comment, Solomon snaps, "Fuck. This. My powers life of and death - those of procreation and those of Death By Clawing - have been revoked. I can't walk, 'cause my feet hurt, and I can't sit down, 'cause they gouged out my ass. Damn that woman straight to hell."
Still in recovery, Solomon is adapting well to his new handicap, discovering in a "trial by fire" fashion that he is no longer able to participate in activities he previously enjoyed, such as climbing up the draperies in Ms. Thorvalson's bedroom, or gouging at the eyes of his other owner, Miss Madilyn. Although a bit sulky at his recent loss of manhood, any post-traumatic stress Solomon is experiencing is currently manifesting itself in an extreme need for affection, which he exhibits by crawling all over Ms. Thorvalson's computer keyboard while she's trying to publicize the news of his private-est of privates.
Pre-op, it was discovered that Solomon, who came from a rather disfunctional pet store, has a congenital heart murmur. Precautions were taken during the surgery to prevent sudden death, however, Ms. Thorvalson has been cautioned that, as a result of this murmur, Solomon could have a shortened life span, i.e., it is possible that Miss Madilyn could wake up one morning - five months or years from now - in bed with a dead cat. Shaken and disturbed by this possibility, Ms. Thorvalson has, however, opted not to shell out the $400 it would cost for a heart scan and official diagnosis, followed by the veterinarian's most likely assertion that, "There's nothing you can do." Ms. Thorvalson has decided instead to rely upon her vast well of freaky mojo to magically will Solomon alive until her daughter is in college and therefore far, far away from any possibility of finding precious Solomon stiff as a brick on the floor. That is, after all, a mother's duty: desperately trying - and failing - to protect her child from the inevitabilities of life and death as we humans know it.
Of far less concern is Solomon's concurrent diagnosis with a case of the zits. It would seem that his chin is a bit sensitive and has broken out in blackheads, probably through his choice of a porous plastic, rather than a non-porous porcelain or stainless steel food dish. Ms. Thorvalson plans to alleviate this problem by offering each of his daily meals on a shining silver platter, complete with fresh unstained linen napkins, wine service, and an entourage of frisky females, which - thanks to the snippage - he can now screw his merry little brains out without worry of reproductive consequences.
Rest assured, Solomon is reacquainting himself at home just fine.

Signs You Need to Get Off Your Ass and Go Visit Your Best Friend Already, For Chrissake, Jaysus Man

You go to her Gessner Girls page to read about the latest haps, and upon viewing a photo of the younger Gessner daughter, your own 4 year old says, "Mommy! She's a grown up!"

Relishing This Brief Period of Time Before My Daughter Fully Understands the Complexities of Sexual Nuance

Maddie: "Let's sing a song!"
G: "Okay! Mukalaka muka-hey! I like to eat saLAmi! Mukalaka muka-hey! I like to eat... YOUR MOMMY!"
M: "NOOOO! DON'T EAT MY MOMMY!"
G: "YES! WITH PLEASURE!"

This episode of Too Much Information brought to you by yours truly, whose duty on earth it is to be blatantly honest and open with the universe even when the universe - including you - would rather I just keep it to myself.
You laughed. Admit it.

Untitled

Call it hormones, call it the residual effects of a weekend of amazing food and even more amazing... well, some things are best kept private... Call it post-Mother's Day gushing, but I feel it necessary this morning to spew out a little mush.
This week will be perhaps the busiest week I have all summer. One can hope. In addition to my normal work schedule, here is a glimpse of what is to come (and yes, I realize this may be boring and TMI, but stick with me here):

1. Clean. House. Today. Like, now, before brain explodes due to endless mental repeating of the phrase, "Cluttered house: cluttered mind."
2. Laundry. Before the stench of the southern-and-vegan-fare workplace aprons starts mingling with the Irish workplace pants, resulting in a hybrid mutant aroma of Deep Fried Shannon Reuben Sandwich.
3. Have 2003 federal tax return transcript faxed to attorney's office so we can get this bankruptcy on a freakin' roll already.
4. Visit Solomon at "the kitty hospital" before child's endless repeating of the phrase, "I miss Solomon, Mommy," drives me into guilt-ridden trip straight to said hospital, where I just may yank the poor guy right out of surgery, mid-snipping, and bring him home drugged and bleeding to a confused and now permanently psychologically scarred four year old.
5. Find babysitter for Friday, as Patsy is not available this week (any takers?).
6. Try not to gag with affectionate, empathic joy as G (he will henceforth on this website be known only as "G", so as to avoid attracting potential stalkers, which, trust me, do exist, and even though most are friendly I'm sure, he'd freak out and go into hiding if he knew how many times people are referred to my website every month after Googling his name... Resume thread...) ... as G recounts his tales of wonder and awe after seeing his favorite guitar player, The Edge, perform in Chicago last night.
7. Saturday: 9:30 am meeting at Irish workplace.
2 pm meeting at southern-and-vegan-fare workplace.
4:30 pm: Work at Irish workplace until 10 pm.
8. Sunday: Work at SVF workplace, brunch, noon-5.
9. Subsequently call editor at newspaper for which I am supposed to be writing article for July issue to inform said editor that I have DROPPED DEAD.
10. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, start actual writing process of said article.

Yikes.

Not exactly "mush," I know, but it leads me there, thus:
How in God's name did I get here? G and I stopped at a park in Door County this weekend, got out of the car, and walked to an advertised "looking point." On the way, we saw approximately eight deer standing in the woods, some close enough to touch outside the open car windows. The only sounds were of silence, wind in the trees, birds and insects, and the occasional deer darting off into the woods. Down a few steps to an overhang, where we stood fifty feet above sure death in the rocks and branches below, holding each other and trying to reassure one another in our shared fear of heights, and staring out over the water. Memories come flooding in: sitting on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, rock climbing with my ex-husband years ago, waking up in a hospital bed and going outside to watch the sun rise over the lake and thinking, "I just gave birth.", exchanging vows on a day like this in a natural environment something like this with a person I wasn't sure I'd be with five years from then. All the times I went camping with someone I was too young and stubborn and hopeful to admit was not, despite how much I loved him at the time, my life partner.
I thought of what could be going through G's mind in that moment: past lovers, the last time he drove through Door County, sadness over the passing of a formerly promising relationship, hope and comfort in where his life has led him, whether or not he is happier now than he was then, both with himself and with his choice of partners.
I thought of home. My house, his house. Our houses. We pulled into the parking lot of his combined workplace and house and he said, "We're home." Not, "I'm home," not, "Here's my house." We're home. His grill and the flowers he and my daughter picked out on my balcony, my ribbons above his bed. The bands on our fingers - mine on my left, where he put it, and his on his right, out of respect. My daughter, coming home from her dad's house with secret letters in sealed envelopes, signed "Love, Maddie", for a man who is not her father, but loves her as much.

How did I get here?

A local magazine will be publishing my first professional attempt at writing, knowing full well that I come with no resume, no professional experience; just a load of passion, a determination to exceed their expectations, and a lifetime obsession with the written word. All because of the gentle encouragement of, yes, that one person.
My daughter will be entering kindergarten in a few short months. Last chance for a slow dance: here it is. Gone will be the days of alternately screaming at her to pick up her shit and smothering her to death in my effort to somehow convey how much I love her. She will soon after start riding buses, walking full blocks alone, when just yesterday, as we crossed a street downtown with a cat in my hair and my hands, therefore, unavailable for her holding, she cried huge, dropping tears because, "I'm scared to cross the street by myself!"

"Maddie, I'm right here, honey. I'm right beside you. Just hold onto my shirt."
"I'M SCARED, MOMMY!"
"We'll get there just fine. You'll see."

I don't know where my partner will be in five years. I hope it's with me. I hope that one day, he will, despite those nagging voices of insecurity, make a decision to go forward, to stand by the person who every single waking moment is striving to be the kind of person who deserves to be his wife. I hope he recognizes that now, in many ways, I have already become that person. Or at least, I've come quite a stretch down that path. I hope that he will honor my daughter's hope that one day, he will spend the night "forever and ever."

So I loosen my grip. Fear makes us cling. I'm reminded of a bit of advice I heard years ago regarding partnerships and marriage: Hold onto it like you would a bar of soap. If you squeeze too hard, it slips right out of your hands. Let it lie there, cupped in your fingers. Don't grab on. Just hold it. Catch it carefully. I write these words to an audience, the majority of which is unacquainted with him, knowing full well that he himself may never read these words. They're not for you. They're not for him. They're not even for me. I write these words to a Promise, to a God or a State of Enlightenment that sits in the silence and hears me and knows. Go Ahead. Go on, ya good ting. You'll get there just fine. You'll see.

Maddie is learning to read. Not just recognizing words, but actually trying to sound out the letters. Each one makes a sound, and those sounds put together make words that mean something.
Last weekend my partner and I drove through Wisconsin. This fall, it will be Ireland. Poland. Maybe even the Czech Republic. We will stand on overhangs, listening to the wind, holding each other gently and reassuring one another that we will not fall. Most of our days in between these excursions are relatively mundane, day-to-day life stuff. Dishes. Laundry. Work. Oil changes. Meals. Trying to quit smoking. I think of a day in the future when all of these efforts will be officially combined, and maybe it's because I've done it before, or maybe it's because I just envision it this way, but I really don't think much about The Day itself. It'll be sunny; it'll be rainy. It'll be cold; it will be muggy. We'll be outside; we'll be in a courthouse. I'll wear a dress. Who cares what color or kind. He'll be there. I think about what I'll say to him, and my mind goes blank. Not out of a lack of feeling, but because of an overwhelming sense of peace. I'll say what comes naturally. Five years from then, we may not remember our vows, the specific individual words that were said, but I will remember this: All of our experiences, the big ones, the little ones, may not seem like much individually. But put together, they mean something. And that Something means more to me, and to my daughter, than any human, object, or idea in this world.

A look over an overhang. A sudden gasp, a wave of calm, and two left feet, stepping forward together.

We'll get there just fine. You'll see.

I Was Gone! I'm Back! Gotta Run!

Great weekend. Not too many stories; just lots of dozing, driving, and deer. Antique shops with fedoras, bars and gas stations that haven't changed their decor since 1982... great stuff. To postpone - or hopefully avoid altogether - the dreaded post-holiday-weekend guilt trip, I have covertly tricked my psyche into magically metamorphosing the stray elements of guilt into a rock solid Equation of Justification, which I cannot share with you because, duh? hello? "Covertly tricked"? Alright, fine. I'm too busy to think up something clever right now. That's why. Stick it.
In other news... Solomon is now safely, although not-so cozily, nestled in the steel entrapment that is his temporary home at The Cat Doctor on Water St. Yeah, they gave him a blanket and all that bullshit, yadda yadda... Maddie cried when we left and would not be consoled by anything less than cherries and cookies at the County Clare, which I duly administered. The blood that was streaming down my arms and chest after this carrier-less adventure has finally coagulated, resulting in a dazzling array of punctures and slices this flesh ain't seen since the psych ward. Iggy would be proud. I would like to also thank the manufacturers of Volvo station wagon interiors for making a vinyl that, twelve years later, can still withstand the fury of one freaked-out pussycat. For a scrounging, scavenging, curtain-shredding little tumbleweed of piss 'n hairballs, I sure do miss the little feller. Asshole.

Dishes: Check.
Take out the garbage: Check.
Get some sleep to prepare for the rest of the list tomorrow, which includes mandatory relaxation bath to calm nerves about impending article.... Check.

This Is What Happens When Girl Scouts Grow Up and Drink Together

Urban Girl Scouting: Badges for making campfires, arts and crafts, and now... Crystal Meth Labs!

And my personal favorite: The Crack Whore Badge.

Next week: Swing Your Partner! Gym Class (Naked) Square Dancing For Grown-Ups.

SHOW ME THE MONEY!

Priceless, yes, but I wouldn't be upset if a check showed up in the mail. :)

Check it out.