Oh.  My.  God.

I have the hottest male counterpart on the planet.  I want to eat him alive.  I am so glad he's finally on land again -- and with pictures this time -- that I think I may die of joy.

But, all my careful months of work...  Oh, well.  When talking to someone makes you smile so hard that you cry and can't breathe, you must know that it is a Meant thing.


~Omi!

My mother just shouted into the locked bathroom door at a resistant Gavin:  "Well, if you don't have to pee, then stop holding your pee collector!  When you hold it, we think it's full!"

My heart just stopped.  Suddenly:  a whole world of possibilities beyond this computer of mine, stacked haphazardly on a cardboard storage box on a rickety tray table, squinched into my tiny, cluttered room.  Where have I been?  Where was I when this news passed by me?

Was I in Pennsylvania, speeding down winding scenic back roads while boys tipped their heads out of their windows in awe of the high moon?  Was I at work, burning my fingers on hot glass and spattering oil?  Was I at the park, crouching in the middle of the bridge over the noisy dam, fisting my hair in my hands and trying to pull everything together?  Was I at the gym?  Was I painting with Lily and Gavin?  Was I at the Philly Diner making emergency lemonade?  Suddenly, you can print out your LiveJournal?  When did this happen?!


~Omi!

Yesterday in Pennsylvania, I told Ashley, "Just a trim," and it turned into, "Oh, just go ahead and cut it all off."  Here's to spontaneity!

Pics later.


~Omi!

Weight loss is proving to be a more difficult journey now than it was before.  It's difficult because for the first time, I'm actively counting calories, and I hate it.  I'm keeping a food diary, and I hate it.  I'm trying to fit three meals and three snacks into my ridiculous schedule, and I hate it.

And most of all, I hate my weight loss 'partner.'
( She doesn't need to add your Friends page to her list of deaths. )


~Omi!

I'm so dumb.  I joined my old gym the day after I got my new job.  Now I'm stuck in a crazy whirlwind of 45-minute commutes to and from work, time-warping third shift hours, and sweaty, disgusting workouts that lead to a never-ending cycle of laundry -- work clothes, gym clothes, work clothes, gym clothes.  I feel like I haven't seen my kid in days; I just find little traces of him around the house, and sometimes I get to say goodnight to him before I go to bed.  Yesterday I found my red and gold crown in the refrigerator, and two little Matchbox cars on my bed.  My calves hurt from the gym, but my arms, back, and feet hurt from work.  I'm running out of mix CDs, I feel like I've eaten nothing but junk food in the wee hours this past week, I'm working with 80% white trash, and there are horrible things that happen at my job that I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Something has got to give.


~Omi!

First day at work starts in two hours.  I've been up since 4am and I only got two hours of sleep, which is tradition for me when I start a new job.  I went to Wawa and got an energy drink and a 24oz coffee which is actually 2/3 coffee and 1/3 espresso, but it's French Vanilla flavored so it's full of deliciousness.  I've drunk about half of each and eaten a croissant, so pretty much I've used up all my morning and afternoon calories on maintaining consciousness.

I hope that today goes well.  I hope that I run into someone I know because the company is doing a mass hire for the new store; hopefully they'll hire some people that I can tolerate.  But for right now, I need to go throw myself into the shower and try to find the right combination of concealer and foundation to make myself look human.


~Omi!

It's big and open inside, with high ceilings and rafters you can count.  There are wood floors with area rugs that don't inspire epileptic seizures.  The kitchen has a ton of counter space and cabinets with beveled glass faces, with an intimidating dining room table in view.  There's a den with a big television.  My grandmother's black velvet oil painting hangs above the fireplace -- like it does now in her house -- and I've resisted the urge to use antlers in all of my dec-or-ating.  The first floor is much lighter when the drapes aren't closed.

There are stairs to the cellar, the second floor, and the attic.  (They don't creak.)  The second floor houses my bedroom and a couple others.  Mine has a wide bed that hits my waist when I stand next to it.  There are clean lines everywhere.  Everything is colorful.  Over the bed hangs the massive picture frame that I bought at a farmer's market for two dollars in 2008 because I knew it was hand-painted and I didn't want it to be thrown out.

The attic is dusty but full of sunshine.  I find the cats sleeping there after hours of searching and running the can opener futilely.  Sometimes the kids go up and explore boxes I meant to open a long time ago.

From one of the windows in the attic, there's a clear view of the stables.  There are three horses.  One of them is named Desdemona.  To the left of the stables is the riding pen.  To the right of the stables is a slow-moving but deceptively deep creek.  It keeps people away.  It's really good for dumping the bodies.


~Omi!

Having a book of aphorisms is so freaking good for my sanity.

"If it is gone and you are alive, you didn't need it."  - Jack Gardner


~Omi!

It is time for a new physician's office, guys.  Between Dr. Isiocha being a complete failure in terms of listening to me or having faith in my intelligence, the fact that he seems incapable of prescribing effective medication (Cipro for the third time instead of getting me painkillers, and blood pressure medicine that hasn't worked for a year but he refuses to change), and the fact that on the rare occasion that I can actually GET THROUGH to a receptionist, I always get put on hold for an exorbitant period of time -- I just cannot stand that practice anymore.

It's difficult to say which one irritates me the most.  I imagine some kind of post-trauma hormone kicked into place sometime last summer to make me forget the countless times I sat in an antiseptic room, bouncing my heels off the exam bed while Dr. Isiocha told me, "There's nothing wrong."  If you were around last Spring, you know how frustrated I was.  I can barely even summon a spark of anger now, even though I remember everything clearly.

I remember him not listening, from the grand scale where he ignored my repeated protests that I was in pain, to the tiniest scale where I'd sit there with my Hello Kitty notepad flipped open, reading him questions from a pink sheet of paper, and he wouldn't even pay enough attention to answer the right question.

"I was told," I would tell him, when they had told me that I had E. coli in my system, "that the infection was in my pelvic area.  I'm wondering where E. coli actually colonizes in the human body once it's in there, so I know whether or not my reproductive organs are at risk."

And he would give a little scoffing laugh, shake his head, and say, "You see, females are built differently from males.  Females are more prone to getting E. coli in the system through the urethra, because the--" and his inability to comprehend my age and knowledge of correct anatomical terms would kick in, "--front and back ... openings ... on the body are so close together.  You understand?"

I would stare blankly.  Whose question did he just answer?  Did I ask how most women get E. coli in their bodies?  Did I ask for an anatomy lesson?  No.  I asked where renegade E. coli settles in the human body, and whether or not it was possible for my lady bits to be affected.  How hard of a question is that?

This morning I was on hold with his office for eleven minutes and thirty seconds, just trying to reschedule an appointment, which only took forty seconds to do.  Took seventeen times longer just waiting to talk to the woman than it took to actually complete our conversation.

Now I'm irritated, and I think I need to look for a new physician.  Last time I picked one based on the number of vowels in his last name.  Who wants to suggest how many vowels the new doctor should have?


~Omi!

Communication between Taylor and me on his birthday:

Me (9:34am):  Happy birthday.
Him (11:47am): ... Thanks.


Communication between Taylor and me today:

Him (9:06am):  After puking 6 times, it's safe to say i turned 21 the right way
Me (9:07am):  ... Congrats.


~Omi.

In this order, I had a dream last night about the following things:

• Laura and Jack serial killing for money
• Jehosephet
• The New Twin Oaks
• Yard sales
• Dirty socks
• Piergois
• Packing for college
• Two Asian boys playing golf with an extremely crass parakeet
• Bill Cosby
• My mother talking on her cell phone
• Being the First Lady of the United States of America.

And even with all that competition, Bill Cosby still totally stole the show.  It must be the Jell-O Puddin'.  <3


~Omi!

It's 2:30pm, I've been up since 2:30am, I fell asleep at 11:30pm and so I only managed three hours of sleep and I had a driving test today.  I got up, I ate, I went for a power walk that lasted over an hour, showered, dressed, went to the DMV, practiced parallel parking, drove my mother up to New Castle, then drove my father from New Castle to Dover, thinking all the while that due to inclement weather, they were going to cancel my test.  Again.

No, it became readily apparent at a sunny 1:15pm that I would be taking my test today, and you know what?

My hair is doing a weird witchy thing in my driver's license photo.


~Omi!

Tags for the preceding entry might include:

- Projecting
- Pointing the finger without actually pointing the finger
- Males ruined me for other males
- Writing for sanity
- Giving up on ever actually loving another human being, and
- Things I have no right to say.


~Omi!

When I was in sixth grade, the principal gathered the smarter half of my class in the library for a brief on seventh grade protocol.  For example, we'd move from class to class as individuals, not as a group; we'd take horizon-broadening hobby classes like Home Economics and Tech Ed; and the assembled group (being the more intelligent half of the student body) was eligible for second language courses.  He told us that there were three classes available for students wanting to take Spanish, and only one class for students who preferred to learn French.  My best friend at the time, Rebecca, sat cross-legged on the floor next to me and held my hand, whispering, "We should take French.  That way we'll have at least one class together."  So when the time came, that was the choice I made.

I was surprised to find her in Spanish the next year, having reneged on our pledge, but I shook it off and steadfastly continued with French courses.  Then, once I got into French in high school, I found myself needing to procure an English-to-French dictionary, and I found one with a sense of humor.  The author included clever, must-have phrases for women traveling abroad, like, "I want to be alone," and, "Go away; I'm a lesbian."  Also, he had a section on what to say if you find yourself in a difficult situation, including, "I've lost my tickets," and, "I've lost my passport," and -- my perennial favorite -- "I've lost my faith in humanity," or, in French, "J'ai perdu ma foi en l'humanité."

It seems people do make it difficult to have faith in humanity.  I'm having a hard time with this.  My closest friend promised to protect my good name, and then jumped me when he was drunk.  When I've needed my male counterpart, he wasn't always there.  I wasted two years of my life on a guy who made promise after promise and then broke them, right down the line.  When I wanted him to meet my parents, he opted to fly to Denver to see some stupid club.  When I wanted him around for my 18th birthday, he chose not to attend.  The friends with whom I surrounded myself didn't make the efforts we promised we'd make so we could stick together -- like Rebecca in sixth grade.  I've seen the relentlessly sober get drunk.  I've watched dedicatedly good kids do drugs.  People make choices that lead them away from the promises they've made.

The hardest thing for me to watch is the crumbling faith in a solemn vow.  It bothers me.  Couples get divorced.  Best friends drift apart.  Vegetarians eat meat, the sworn chaste have sex, doctors betray the Hippocratic oath.  People let it go so easily.  How can I still get hung up on it, when a man with a ring sets it aside long enough to sleep with someone else?  I want to believe that there is good in nearly everyone, that your word means something, that everybody deserves a chance to prove their moral character.  I try not to let it stand in my way.  Those close to me have broken all sorts of codes and promises, and I try to forgive and forget, pump that pedestal back up and put my faith in them again.  When does it get to the point where it becomes necessary to accept that people are innately insincere?  How many times can your will be trod before you just break down and say it?

"J'ai perdu ma foi en l'humanité."


~Omi!

I had to drag Gavin, kicking and screaming, out of the restaurant last night because he wasn't behaving and he was being mean to Lily.

Then I had to drag Gavin, kicking and screaming, out of his second cousin's birthday party because he was hitting and pushing other children.

I had to wrestle with Gavin on my parents bed for fifteen minutes while he screamed and kicked me, because he refused to take the nap that he desperately needed.

Now, if you ask him why I took him away from dinner last night, he will tell you, looking distractedly at something else:  "I wasn't listening, and I was getting out of my chair, and I was mean to Nilwy."

If you ask him why I made him leave Parker's birthday party, he will tell you:  "I was hitting the other kids."

If you ask him why I made him take a nap, he will tell you:  "So I can be a good boy."

Do you know how hard it is when your kid knows what a good boy is, knows how to be a good boy, and wants to be a good boy, but for some reason, those pushing hands and twitching feet move far faster than the thought in his head saying, "You're being bad?"  He's intelligent enough to know that his behavior is getting him into trouble, but he's so ADHD that he can't hold onto cognition long enough to employ simple Cause and Effect.

And I'm stuck looking like a bad parent because I have to pick up my kicking, screaming, scratching, sobbing four-year-old and carry him out of public places because without attending school first, he won't get a diagnosis (let alone treatment) for his social/behavioral condition(s).  I feel like putting my head in my hands and just crying until I don't feel like I'm failing him anymore.  The only problem is, I only have until Gavin wakes up from his nap, and that's just not going to be enough time, is it?


~Omi.

I was looking through my documents for some song lyrics, and I found something titled "taylorwill."  Then I opened it and started laughing, because a long time ago, Taylor and I discussed what would happen if he died, and he dictated to me, over the phone, the instructions:

( I think we were very tired when all this went down. )

~Omi!

My life is awkward and my kid takes really short naps these days.  Today I thought I had time for a shower while he was sleeping, but I was apparently wrong, because as I was about to put conditioner in my hair, he barged into the bathroom, whimpering and covering his ears.  (I was listening to Orgy. [I listen to music while I shower.])

"Omi?" he sniffed.  "Omi, are you in the shower?"

I groaned.  "Yes, honey.  I'll be out in a minute."  He sat on the toilet seat cover and whined that the sound of the shower scared him until I turned off the water.  I should mention that he only takes baths at this age, and isn't accustomed to being in the room while other people are showering.  Taylor says, "Understandable.  He's like a dog:  curious, but wimpy."

So I grabbed a towel and covered myself before I stepped out, and tried to shoo Gavin out of the room, but he fought it.  I thought, if I can keep him from seeing anything important, it'll be okay.  No, it wasn't okay; it was insanely awkward.  At one point he jumped up and down and went, "Omi!  Omi, I saw your naked butt!  I saw your naked girl butt!"

Well, Gavin, I guess... that makes you the first?


~Omi!

My best friend would tell you that I'm great because 'my boobs are as high as an elephant's eye!'  He would also tell you that I write the most perfect text messages that sound amazing when they're passed through a monotonous verbalization program like Windows' Microsoft Sam.  (He has this one saved:  "So Baby Jesus is trying a new trick today:  turning water into pain!"  He says he wouldn't let a gem like that go into the recycle bin.)

My other best friend will tell you that I am always good for a spellczech.

As for family, I don't know what my dad would say.  Maybe he'd mention my tolerance for other people's idiocies, and my patience.  My mom would tell you I am a talented artist and a fantastic writer, and that those qualities would make me even more great if I'd actually put them to good use.

I'm not sure what my siblings would say.  Sense of humor?  Ability to make excellent tuna sandwiches?  Mark, Laura?  Contributions?

Man, even if I'm not sure what my family would say, this Writer's Prompt is making me feel wicked good about myself.  Cheers to that.


~Omi!