Monday, Nov. 04, 2002 / 9:03 p.m.

~I Fucking Opened It~

I opened it. Just a little while ago. I reached down behind my pile of pants, each pair folded once, in half, piled atop a plastic storage bin, down behind where I knew I put it. I put it there because I was never going to open it, but I wanted to one day.

Never. But one day. I've been thinking about it. Every time I do my laundry, pile my clean pants atop each other, pairs and pairs of work pants, slacks, if you will, jeans, cordurouys, a ridiculous system of piling, flannels, sweats, every kind, even shorts. A ridiculous system, all piled there like that. Every time thinking how ridiculous it is, how I've got to go through it all, get rid of what I no longer wear, reorganize, make room for some new clothes. Every time I think of it there, behind that pile. And I want to know what's inside, but I am resolved. I'm strong.

I grabbed it, I reached down and grabbed it, United States Postal Service Priority Mail, an outline of an eagle, a rendering of a likeness of an image of an eagle's beak. A portion in blue and white. My brother's wife's handwriting on the other side. From her. She wrote both their names. Her writing.

I'm not being too dramatic, no melodrama here. You don't know, you know nothing, you can't begin to know, don't even ask. Families are never simple. Don't say, "Where does your brother live? Why don't you see him? You don't talk to him?! Why?!!!???". Don't get into someone else's business like that. Don't ask about the last time I called her, or the last time she and I wrote email notes to each other. Fucking families. Fucking life. Don't even ask.

I ripped it open, actually there was nothing to rip. I pulled it at the glued flap end. The sealed end. Just pulled it open, it was easy. I smelled cigarettes, stale cigarettes, their house. I read the postcard before I looked at it really, noticed it's a dress, or a blouse, or an ensemble of some kind, but went for the note. A postcard. It's from St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. Here is what it says:

"Happy really late birthday. We spent a week on St. Thomas and St. John, which was cool, and I did some tourist - shopping. Hope this fits - think of it as a lounging dress -------- take care, Chris"

I held it open. The dress. It's like tie dye, sort of. The colors are sort of red, and fuschia, orange, and a dark blue, or is that purple? It's rayon, made in Thailand, strangely enough. It's a size XL. The top is sleeveless, a cinched bodice. Cinched. It will cling, which I don't like. It's okay, it's nice even. I'll try it on.

I'm feeling................ odd. Guilt. Anger. Sadness. Remorse. More odd, more strange. A desire to shed tears. Hormones. I should write, more email, I should thank her. Yes, she sent a Birthday gift to me in July. My Birthday is in April. They travel without telling me. That's fine. They could be anywhere at anytime. And vice versa.

I'm holding it back right now. There is a history. With her? I've known her more than half my life. She's been there for so much, but she shut me out of so much. She helped me when he wouldn't. She was the one.

I never wanted to open it. But I had to know what it was. I thought it would be fun to have something new. I knew it was an item of clothing, I could feel it through the packaging. I can smell it from here. It's on the floor in front of me. I don't want to try it on. I will, but not now.

I took off my socks after work and saw my tattoos on my ankles, and was shocked for a moment. I forget I have tattoos. I've forgotten the newest one, keep forgetting to apply lotion.

I was going to watch an old Shelly Winters movie on TCM, from 1947, but I couldn't get into the whole prologue portion. A script by Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin, husband and wife, don'tcha know. I'll watch "Dog Days" in a bit.

N and G are sitting on clean, hot from the dryer jeans. I almost took a picture. I love them so much, my girls.

The 'new boy' was particularly demeaning, rude, nasty, and dick-ish today. So much so that when Mark called me I told him flat out. "I work with this guy who is being really demeaning, derogatory, etc.", etc. And I didn't care if he heard me. I don't know why I started talking to him. The silent treatment was working so well. Why did I choose to forget? I can't stand him. My first impressions are so accurate, but I have this horrible tendency to forgive and forget.

I can't believe I opened it. I've got to thank her, but I don't want to start something. Maybe in my Christmas card. I'll send one, I'll mention it. "Oh, by the way, this is really late, but thanks for the really late Birthday present that you got while tourist shopping in St. Thomas - and don't forget, I was there before you, in '88, and didn't I buy presents for you too?"

Fucking families. I should've been an orphan. Everyone has to wonder what kind of woman would marry my brother anyway, and stay with him all these years.

Cost of the War in Iraq
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