Deja vu, over and over
Today shall be henceforth known in my world as “mad deja vu day.” I mean, absolutely everything today triggered a “memory.” I don’t know how else to explain it.
It’s a bit disorienting, of course, to feel like you’ve been here before even though you’ve clearly only been in town for a week. But I’ve been begging the universe for deja vu, and my wish was granted in gobs.
Deja vu is not necessarily like a GPS, as that would be psychic ability, and I’m pretty low on that these days. But it is definitely like a spiritual marker, showing me that yes, in fact, I’m on the right road. Every conversation, every color, every image that has been a part of this day, has happened on another level of consciousness. And I bloody love it.
Today the Extended Houseguest texted me that she wanted me to take her out tonight. *eyeroll* I didn’t respond because the spell-check function on my iPhone would have distorted the message beyond recognition. I’ve been going to the beach practically every night because I don’t want to go home.
I’m sick of tripping on her boxes in the kitchen and dining room (all mine are unpacked). Sure, I have boxes in the living room that I haven’t opened yet, but they’re out of the way. And they’re also my “rainy day” project as Comcast is coming again tomorrow (after missing their Monday visit by FIVE FUCKING DAYS) and I can’t assemble the coffee table in the tiny space where the technician will be working or else that cheap POS will break. (But it’s a cute POS. Just cheaply made.)
So I actually asked her how the job hunt is going, as I keep buying newspapers, bringing home the Employment Guide, and otherwise leaving job-search Web sites up on the computer. Her response was an expected, “No progress, since you just DROPPED me here in a strange city.”
I mocked the “dropped” bit and reminded her of when she said I “dragged” her here. OMG, here’s the world’s tiniest violin (the NanoViolin 2000). I had given her instructions to drive into downtown (it’s three streets away. With free parking) and just hoof the main drag and see where it takes you. Just tell me you did that, yes? No. *scream*
I love to help people. I never passed up a charity case in my life. But taking care of all the needy people in my world has really burned me out toward taking on another stray. I mean, I already pay the rent. (And lots of it. Sheesh.) Put forth a little effort, shall we?
I realized I could live happily in my master suite. I have my bed, my computers, my bathroom and my cats. All I need is a mini kitchen and I’d be set. I could easily trade in 1,500 square feet for a third of that. I was thinking of getting a studio in D.C. if she would have ever moved out. Really, I’ve thrown away thousands of dollars’ worth of crap; I am actually sort of digging the Spartan lifestyle.
So, I never did end up going out or taking her out. I had said something “mean and nasty” to the effect that I don’t want her vacuuming my room or taking my trash out of my bathroom again because it’s the only space that’s mine even though I pay for all of it. In other words, you have the run of the place; let my tranquil space be just that. And if that makes me mean and nasty, so be it.
Of course, Mouth of the South here couldn’t stop there. I said I think she doesn’t want me to have anything of my own. Not my own space or time. I can have my job. That’s it. But God forbid a single 34-year-old girl can enjoy a space of her own — especially knowing how much I loathed roommate-land. I turned against some very nice people who happened to hold that title, which would never have happened had we all had separate quarters in separate parts of town.
I’ve befriended everyone at work. (I think I’m the 13th employee to be on site. It’s that tiny. I love it.) But there’s a gal who’s looking to move closer to the job, who needs a roommate. She has one who sounds like Satan’s Handmaiden, and Satan has an ungrateful Spawn to boot. So yeah, it totally crossed my mind that she would be a perfect roommate. I wouldn’t even need half the rent — just SOMETHING to make the bills hurt less. We could carpool and, since we’re the same age and looking for a few good men, roll over to Lauderdale and stir up some drama.
But alas, I can’t even make the offer. It’s probably best, given my hatred of sharing my space at home. But I can do anything for a year. It’s this year-and-a-half with no ending in sight that’s making me fucking nuts.
Of course, the EH told me “You can HAVE your house, and everything in it.” I said OK. I mean, the Guilt Trip Express left without me. I said I was very serious about my timetable of transitioning her on her way. Again, she ran to her room and that was that.
You know, I always thought that if I worked really hard and was the best person I could be, that good things would come my way. That all the hardship and bullshit was worth enduring for the greater payoff down the road. That time is here, my friends. The workplace that could very well be as close to a dream job as I’m ever going to get. The pretty apartment. The beach down the street. The money I’ve busted my ass to deserve.
And sure, I know good things are meant to be shared. But I think about all the people of my past who sapped everything from me — going beyond all the heart and soul and resources I was willing to give without being asked, and using me for EVEN MORE (i.e., the little I had left over for myself) — and I presume they were calculating about taking everything they could get.
But I don’t think she’s that way … not intentionally. I just hit my wall of “what I am willing to give” about a year ago, and everything else I’ve had to give since then feels like I’m being raped and pillaged and plundered.
I work with a lot of people who have become rich and famous. Or, at least, wealthy and well-known. And I plan to be among their ranks, sooner rather than later. And I want to be able to pick and choose who gets what I have to give. I may never have kids at this point, but I really look forward to being generous with my resources with those who are worthy because I CAN be, not because I have to be.
I have a second cousin who was always generous with me. She saw me struggling and did her best to lend a hand, the way my grandparents helped her when she needed it most. So of course she never wanted to be paid back; she always said to pay it forward. Long before the movie of the same title. But Jesus H, how big is my bill and when will this account be settled?
Of course, she helped me because, even though I was doing my damndest to better myself, I could never seem to catch up, let alone get ahead. But that’s the thing — I did my best to improve my situation. It’s like when you have an employee who tries so hard but never seems to get where they’re going; you’re more likely to throw them the lasso and quietly help them to shine. But the employee who waits for your guidance and won’t move without it, well, isn’t that valuable to you. Maybe they can be, but at what point do you say, maybe it’s time for you to pursue other opportunities that might be a better fit?
I was almost feeling sorry for Samantha Ronson this week, as I read the latest US Weekly and apparently Lindsay Lohan has moved in with her because she’s broke and can’t afford her mortgage and nobody wants to hire her because she’s a loose cannon. And allegedly they fight like dogs but Sam can’t exactly kick her out onto the street.
I know that feeling, that “if I give up, there’s no one else.” And you just don’t DO that.
I also know that my success has been due in large part to my army of cheerleaders. Even if they couldn’t help me or position me for success per se (although there have been a number of those), they made sure to fluff up my ego to ensure that I was dressed for battle when the next round began. And they picked me up when I endured TKO after TKO. My Extended Houseguest was always the loudest voice in that crowd.
So yeah, it hurts that I can’t muster up a half-hearted “go team” for her. Which is what has kept me grinding my teeth and dragging her along like a kid sister with peanut butter in her pigtails who has to go everywhere you do because she looks up to you. But eventually that kid sister washes her hair and finds her own friends and does her own thing. And if that kid sister is actually the person who gave BIRTH to you, you’re way less inclined to want to wash and brush her hair and walk her to school.
Blah. I am delirious and I haven’t yet opened the wine. Which, I was going to go out tonight and see where the singles were in my town, but I figured I couldn’t leave the house by myself. (I had to be here for UPS to deliver ANOTHER WRONG CABLE for my old computer. I swear I am going to just die right now over my locked-up data.)
So, for me, there’s always tomorrow. And I will try once again to not feel like I’m in a shotgun marriage and I’ll continue to have hope that a real marriage — one I want to be in — is still something that’s in the cards for me. Because I know for a fact that if it isn’t an equal partnership, I don’t want to be a part of it. Had enough of that to last me six lifetimes.