Apparently, I over-slept this weekend. No, I don't mean I slept until I missed my fun and exciting plans for the day. I mean that I slept more than the necessary amount needed to keep my body healthy.
The result: insomnia when I finally have something I'll need to wake up for (work).
I've popped a dose of melatonin, and while I'm waiting for it to do its magic, I'm going to tell you one of the many memories that has been going through my head this evening: the first time my heart got broken.
I was 10 years old, not quite yet blossomed. His name was Marc, and he was 13 when we met. Our fathers had been friends back in the day, and when my family moved to Connecticut, which is where he'd grown up, my dad got back in touch with his and the families made dinner plans to meet up. He and I got along fabulously from the first; we spent the entire evening up in his room talking, playing games, wrestling over my slap bracelet (this was when they were all the rage ... the first time around). He taught me how to play MasterMind, and the strategy behind it (after thrashing me a few times). He was older, and nice, and funny, and I thought he was the coolest person in the universe. And he really seemed to like me. What else could I do but fall for him?
It was my first real crush, and at the beginning things seemed to go well. His family lived in a different part of the state (I think) than we did, so we didn't see each other often. This was before the internet was widespread, of course, but I think we did speak on the phone once or twice. When our families visited with each other I think we spent all the time together that we could.
But then one day, some time around when he turned 14 and before I turned 11, it was just going to be him and his mom, visiting my house for the first time. And my mother, knowing that I had a crush on him and knowing, too, things about teenage boys that I was oblivious to, made me promise to keep my bedroom door open the entire time he was there. I made my promise, and did as I was told. He came over and we immediately went up to my room to hang out and look at my stuff. It was warmish that day, and the window was open in my bedroom, so I spent a lot of that visit catching the door as it blew shut and opening it up again. He told me to leave it alone, but I was nervous (and a good girl) and just kept opening it whenever it closed.
I still think that's what it was. I think the door-opening reminded him of just how much younger I was than he. The visit didn't end terribly well and, if this hadn't been my first time in this situation, I should have been forewarned.
A few weeks later our families had a barbecue at one of the few public beaches in CT, and I went excited at the prospect of seeing Marc and maybe even holding hands while we walked down the beach — something silly and girlish like that. Instead, he was cold and distant when we talked, didn't want to walk down to the water with me at all, and basically did what he could to avoid me for the duration of the picnic. A couple girls from his class happened to be there while we were, and all I could do was watch helplessly as he flirted with them ... until I couldn't take it anymore and went to go sit on a bench by myself.
I think I remember being too embarrassed to even cry, so I sat there being miserable for a long time until my mom finally found me and sat down next to me. I forget what she said to make me feel better — something along the line of he wasn't ignoring me because he didn't like me, but because he was embarrassed to like someone so much younger. Somehow she convinced me to get through the rest of the day; I ignored him and pretended it didn't matter until we left, though later when I got home I'm sure I cried myself to sleep for a week.
That was the last time I saw him. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, even though — almost 20 years later — thinking of the humiliation and hurt from that afternoon can still make me cry.
Don't know why I was thinking of it tonight. Just one of those things that surface from time to time, I guess.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
This Weekend: Mostly All About Food
Almost two weeks after someone smashed a hole into my car and raped her of all the worthless electronics, I've finally got her back from the shop, all fixified and shiny (and me $330 poorer).
The first thing I do once I get my wheels back? Take her to the grocery store and buy a chicken.
Most of today was spent in the dismembering and preparation of that chicken. The breasts and wings got salted, peppered, dry herbed and roasted in the oven with some beets for tonight's dinner and tomorrow's lunch. The thighs and drumsticks are currently marinating for tandoori chicken. And finally, I threw the back and giblets (the chicken came with two hearts ... ah, Foster Farms, I love your craziness) into a stock pot with vegetables to make broth, which is currently jarred and sitting in the fridge, waiting for some future use. Considering the whole bird was about $4, I think I'm getting some good use out of my keen budgeting and kitchen skills here.
Before picking up the car yesterday, I took the bus up to Atelier for some yarn, and ended up finally hitting up The King of Falafel on Divisidero, which I've passed often and never went into. I'm generally not a fan of falafel — something about the sauce, and the balls I've had were just kind of tasteless — and went in there intending on getting something lamb-based, but the girl behind the counter shoved a free sample of the falafel into my hand and I was converted. Now I almost understand all those people who randomly crave this stuff; maybe someday I can even join in the lusting fun. At any rate, if you're looking for decent falafel in the city, try this place and tell me if it's as good as I think it is.
And that's been my weekend. Food, poverty, and more food. No wonder my posts are few and far between — maybe I need a new hobby, like boar hunting. Something that would be fascinating to write about.
On a side note: I know at some point that I'll get sick and tired of spending my Friday and Saturday nights at home alone, but after the fabuloso of my trip to NYC, and considering that next weekend I have been invited to three Halloween-related events, it think it does me good to have a little inside time to myself. Hopefully. I'll let you know if or when the cabin fever starts to set in.
The first thing I do once I get my wheels back? Take her to the grocery store and buy a chicken.
Most of today was spent in the dismembering and preparation of that chicken. The breasts and wings got salted, peppered, dry herbed and roasted in the oven with some beets for tonight's dinner and tomorrow's lunch. The thighs and drumsticks are currently marinating for tandoori chicken. And finally, I threw the back and giblets (the chicken came with two hearts ... ah, Foster Farms, I love your craziness) into a stock pot with vegetables to make broth, which is currently jarred and sitting in the fridge, waiting for some future use. Considering the whole bird was about $4, I think I'm getting some good use out of my keen budgeting and kitchen skills here.
Before picking up the car yesterday, I took the bus up to Atelier for some yarn, and ended up finally hitting up The King of Falafel on Divisidero, which I've passed often and never went into. I'm generally not a fan of falafel — something about the sauce, and the balls I've had were just kind of tasteless — and went in there intending on getting something lamb-based, but the girl behind the counter shoved a free sample of the falafel into my hand and I was converted. Now I almost understand all those people who randomly crave this stuff; maybe someday I can even join in the lusting fun. At any rate, if you're looking for decent falafel in the city, try this place and tell me if it's as good as I think it is.
And that's been my weekend. Food, poverty, and more food. No wonder my posts are few and far between — maybe I need a new hobby, like boar hunting. Something that would be fascinating to write about.
On a side note: I know at some point that I'll get sick and tired of spending my Friday and Saturday nights at home alone, but after the fabuloso of my trip to NYC, and considering that next weekend I have been invited to three Halloween-related events, it think it does me good to have a little inside time to myself. Hopefully. I'll let you know if or when the cabin fever starts to set in.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Broken (Into)
Let's start with the positive: I had today off via a shift switch with another coworker, so I convinced my baby nephew to visit (along with his entourage of his mother, my mother and my other sister) for the afternoon. A picture of him sleeping on my bed — innit he cute?
Now the negative: While we were lying around waiting for the entourage to gather energy enough to drive back home, I got a knock on my apartment door — a rare occurrence in this fourplex — that turned out to be my neighbor telling me that my car had been broken into over the weekend.
How lovely.
I went downstairs with my mother to check it out. It's actually almost laughable: they smashed the back triangle (that wee one behind the rear passenger's window) and reached around to unlock the door. Which probably means they at least scraped up their hands and arms a bit to reach to the far side of the main window and get at the back door lock. On top of that, the only things that they took were my CD stereo — and the CD function was broken; my old cell phone — which was completely worthlessly dead and broken; and the small coin purse I kept my bridge toll cash in since my coin drawer had been ripped out by the last person to break into my car — and the coin purse, while not broken, was definitely broke.
So, dickhead that violated the sanctity of my vehicle: was it worth it? Because frankly, there wasn't really anything of value in the car in the first place (lesson learned from the first break-in), and it really peeves me that it'll take more cash to fix that tiny back window than the entire value of everything that you took. I hope the cuts you got end up gangrenous.
Now the negative: While we were lying around waiting for the entourage to gather energy enough to drive back home, I got a knock on my apartment door — a rare occurrence in this fourplex — that turned out to be my neighbor telling me that my car had been broken into over the weekend.
How lovely.
I went downstairs with my mother to check it out. It's actually almost laughable: they smashed the back triangle (that wee one behind the rear passenger's window) and reached around to unlock the door. Which probably means they at least scraped up their hands and arms a bit to reach to the far side of the main window and get at the back door lock. On top of that, the only things that they took were my CD stereo — and the CD function was broken; my old cell phone — which was completely worthlessly dead and broken; and the small coin purse I kept my bridge toll cash in since my coin drawer had been ripped out by the last person to break into my car — and the coin purse, while not broken, was definitely broke.
So, dickhead that violated the sanctity of my vehicle: was it worth it? Because frankly, there wasn't really anything of value in the car in the first place (lesson learned from the first break-in), and it really peeves me that it'll take more cash to fix that tiny back window than the entire value of everything that you took. I hope the cuts you got end up gangrenous.
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