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Sunday, Jun. 26, 2005 / 12:43 a.m. ~It Was Really Weird, All of It~ The cousin only drank half her glass of water, and I told her she couldn't pour it out, it was filtered (I finished it the next day). She drank half her beer at dinner, ate half her pasta, and almost wouldn't let me take home the leftovers. Is she inherently wasteful? Does she always do this, half of everything will forever be all she consumes? She consistently compared me to her daughter, yet only spoke of her in disaparaging tones, with disparaging words. She worries we're the end of our bloodline, on her father's and my mother's side, and yet she doesn't think it's necessary for us to continue it, that there's something wrong with it all anyway, and I jokingly ask if there was inbreeding somewhere along the way. We spent hours in getting to know you therapy, intense intense intense therapy, drilling each other with deep deep questions, and listening intently. I'd bought so much food, I'd gone to so much trouble, and she insisted on taking me to dinner, OUT. I was hurt, offended, insulted, and later, and still, now, I'm thinking that it's unkind to refuse the generosity of others. When people WANT to give, ACCEPT the gifts. Never refuse, at least not more than a polite yet cursory first refusal. When the offer is made again, just say Okay. I'm stuck with too much food now, and I wholly and completely regret buying it all. I was sleep deprived. And after our therapy, and the drive to the airport, and back, in the hot smog, hardly able to inhale, sweating like a pack animal, and she, telling me later that past menopause you just don't sweat so much, and then back out in it, not so hot, to my favorite place to eat, and bad service, and switching tables, and she had jet lag, and the half of everything consumed thing, and she'd never heard of the Downing Street Minutes in Memo form, so I passionately explained it all, and our conversation was great, until she leaned in close to tell me of the relatives who aren't really blood relatives, and the marriages I never knew about, and all the idealistic visions of what her family is and was, and my own too, sort of shattered in a nondescript way. I lay in bed unable to sleep, not even tossing and turning, body prone and at rest, but mind so bungled, so botched, and so active, and so tangled, and jaw tensed, and brain tensed, and my car making that broken axle noise again, and thinking about money and the lack of it, and needs, versus wants, and jobs, and family, and her, this person in the living room on the futon sofa all unfolded and open with sheets and a blanket, and the cats wouldn't even go near her. That said it all right there. Maybe two hours sleep, if that, and back to the goddamned airport, which shall forever be known as the goddamned airport, and when I gave her a hug I felt I was losing something really big, I was saying goodbye to this piece of myself, but she said, "Let's not let another fifteen years go by", and I thought later, no, no, no, twenty, not fifteen, twenty. And she'd kept asking about men, my men, and I'd deflect and bob and weave, yet I finally would tell her, too much, and finally too she'd eaten a banana, and the Mexican who sold fruitsicles outside finally sold some to us, and she paid, and she ate not even half, she hated it, and they were odd, I'll admit, and she gave me money for gas, but I wanted to treat, dammit, this was my treat, and she brought me a bag of goodies, just tea and a tea thing, to brew it, and some lemon oil, or something, and candies, just this bag of stuff from Germany, and yet I couldn't give her more than an unfolded futon sofa and so much talk my throat was dry and sore and I had to cough and wonder if it was the talk, was it?, or the SMOG. I drove home in rush hour, not even 8:00 in the morning, and I'd not gotten the sleep I needed, and I had to stop to get cat food and litter, the two things that always send me to the store, and I came home, and, well, I came home. Nothing has been the same since, and I don't want to share this with the Interweb, and I'm sick, finally, really, after four years, of putting myself out here, for strangers to read, and I hate that there are people who read this instead of just writing me email to ask how I am, or read this first, then write, how awkward is that? Why did I even take the time? No one ever comments, not anymore, not even if I leave a comment somewhere else first. (except for the bizarre comments left in the guestbook, and those I need to go and delete anyway) I don't know why I'm here anymore, so really, don't be surprised if one day you come to check, like you do, instead of just trying to contact me, because you want to be a voyeur, you don't really want to know me, and it's password protected. It may end up that way, for good, one day. Just so you know. It feels like this diary is just about over. Cost of the War in Iraq
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