Sorrow and relief

Wow.

Okay, am I far enough away from this that I can tell you about it without weeping? Cuz I am at work, you know. Can't be leaking and swelling and turning bright red here at the front desk.

Okay. You know Joe moved back in with me, supposedly only for a few days, but I told him he could have a month, and then later told him he could have another. We were getting along, but I was growing increasingly unhappy at the state of my apartment.

And then I went to my parent's place up in Ocean Park for four days, and Joe stayed home. He is a grown-up now, legally, and so I told him that as a guest in my house, I expected him to be appropriate and discreet in the people he had over and the things they did (I actually said, "No parties and no drugs, right?" and he said, "Right.") and that whatever transpired I wanted all signs of it to be gone by the time I got home. On the day I was leaving, I called Joe and told him I would be home in about three hours, so it was time to start picking things up and turning the dishwasher on.

Well, for sheer stomach-turning disgustingness of the mess the kitchen and bathroom were in when I arrived at home, hot and tired, to find no Joe, he wins a prize. The counters were mounded high with crazy stacks of dishes, half-eaten food, glasses half-full of juice and sticky spills running down the fronts of the cabinets, garbage and more dishes, tilting this way and that. The hot kitchen smelt strongly of sour milk and rotting fruit. And over the whole thing was a large cloud of busy fruit flies.

Shall I describe the bathroom to you? I think not. It will be even harder for you to imagine, unless you are a parent of an unaware teen-aged boy, with unaware teen-aged friends. Suffice it to say that I was still cleaning black greasy handprints ("Nick was working on his car!") off walls, light switches, cupboard doors and towels for days. I couldn't even look into the sink.

So. This was the last straw. I called Joe. He answered. I told him to come home that very minute and clean the house. He sullenly agreed. FIVE HOURS later -- midnight-thirty -- he showed up. I told him that I was in bed, that I did not want to be kept awake by the noise of him cleaning, that I would go to work tomorrow, and when I came home, the house would be clean and all signs of the weekend eradicated. I said that this was the last straw of my willingness to believe him when he said he would be responsible for something, and therefore, he would be moved out by Friday, and hand over his key. He agreed, and apologized, really as though he meant it. But STILL! It was unbelievable. Hang on to your hats, though. It gets worse.

The next day, when I got home from work, Joe was there, with a friend. I could hear the dishwasher running. I asked him, was the house clean?

"Uh....no."

So I turned around and left, telling him that I would give him half an hour, and then be back. He protested that he only needed twenty minutes, but I said half an hour, and the kitchen, bathroom and living room must all be done (I had left a list for him of all the things that I objected to, since I knew he would just look right past them).

When I arrived home, Joe and his friend were leaving, were actually outside the apartment and coming down the stairs. I didn't make a big to-do in front of the friend, who was not at fault (hmmm, wonder if that's why Joe broght him along?) but asked if they were done, and Joe said yes.

When I went in, I saw that it looked at first glance as though a lot had been done, but that with the exception of throwing away a lot of garbage, pushing the dishes back into the corner of the counter, and turning the (half-full) dishwasher on, Joe had done very little. The bathroom was untouched. Still cheese in the living room. Real cheddar cheese, I mean, not slang for a mess -- but a sharp knife and the block of cheese siting on top of a speaker.

Anyway. I'm growing weary of telling this story. Let me sum up. I was unable to get Joe home for the rest of the week. He kept coming in while I was at work, taking showers and making the house more untidy, and leaving before I came home. His phone does not take messages, so I could not even get in touch with him. After some hard thought I realized that since I had thrown him out, I should clean up the rest of the mess myself, treat him kindly, and be ready to stand my ground when he tried to avoid leaving.

So. At 7:45 on Sunday evening, Joe turns up. Tells me that he is moving in with his friend Nick, and that Nick's father is fine with it. Then says, "But I can't take my stuff over there tonight, so I'll leave it here and pick it up tomorrow."

"Nope," I say, firmly, but feeling my stomach curl up. Here we go! "This is the last day of the week plus weekend. You gotta go by end of day today."

"Okay," he grouches. Then he hangs around in the bathroom for a long time, then comes out and hangs around in his bedroom. Then the bathroom again, then takes a shower. Finally he calls through the house to me, and says that Nick has a girlfriend over, and so Joe can't take his stuff there tonight. Can't he please leave it here, just until tomorrow?

I point out that he has had all week to figure this out, and now it's the end of his time. I'm getting shaky, and take the phone out on the deck to get some encouragement from my mother, who gives it to me. I mean, he has plenty of money, and if worse came to worst, he could get a motel room for the night. But he has had seven days to figure this out, and has just been partying and sleeping late all week, figuring, no doubt, that I would cave when the time came.

But I did not.

Then there is his dresser -- a small Tupperware thing. He says that it won't fit in his car. I offer to follow him over to Nick's with a load of stuff in my car. He accepts, then refuses, and says to throw the dresser away. I say, in that case, I will keep it, since drawers are always useful.

Now he's finally worked himself up, and he's Angry. Anger has a special force for Joe and his father, acquitting them of all responsibility. Like being really drunk in England. So now he's stalking back and forth and slamming doors and yelling insulting things as he goes out the door. When he finally leaves, and I lock the door behind him, he is yelling, "Fuck you, Mom! Fuck YOU!"

Baby that I am, I immediately begin trembling, and call my mommy. I get Dad, who calms me down, and tells me I've done the right thing. And I know I have. I'm not going to start second-guessing myself (she says, second-guessing away like mad).

Anyway. I am sad, but I am also really relieved. He is out. He is gone. And although he could easily break in, I don't think he will. I will fix the door he knocked off its tracks and the map he tore (although I mourn that, since Niels sent it to me from Denmark) and then go on getting the house clean and aired out (reeks of old cigarette smoke now)and ready for Ruthie.

Quiet

Here it is, two in the afternoon, and not a single turned-in packet of paper. Not one. Usually Nameless Agent turns them in by the bucketload, but he has been here all day and not a single one.

Ay, de mi.

I do dust

Oh, heavens, I think I must be a very lazy person. I know I am, in fact, the laziest of people. I will live with a situation that is uncomfortable, inefficient, ugly and smelly, out of sheer laziness. This has all been brought home to me for the last few days, by reading the ten year's worth of blog by John Bailey. Here is this man, whose blog starts when he is 59, and he is constantly "clearing things away" or "washing down the shelves," or "giving the floor a good going over with some Flash." I'm halfway through the third year of this, and even though he rarely mentions it in his blog, he refers to it in a way that shows this is a regular process. And of course I know it is for most people.

I've just been comparing myself with the few people whose houses I know well, and feeling fairly okay about myself -- about my public self, anyway, since my private self will do almost anything not to have to get up from her chair once sat upon. When I sit down in front of the computer, I always take a book along, since otherwise I am stuck with the bookcase I have there (full of favorites for just that purpose) and that would never do, but once I am sitting, I'm not going to want to get up and go get it, so I'll HAVE to read one of those favorites!

In my leather chair in the living room, I have a box next to the chair which is for holding magazines and crocheting projects, and so on, but it is full of empty envelopes and bits of wrappers and so on, because it's there! And Heaven forbid I should have to actually get up and walk the two steps to a trash container.

And then of course, there is the pan in my sink, in the kitchen, the baking pan which was full of rhubarb and strawberry cobbler. It has been in the sink, full of water (changing all the time, at least) since May 20. And today is June 23rd. More than a month, and it has survived several washings-up. I will get down to just the dishes in the sink, and then give up.

And my public self is hardly any better. Hardly any. I do dust.

An extra chin

I am drinking cranberry-pomegranate juice, and loving it. It is yummy-yummy, mmm-mmm-mmm. Last night I drank a very tall iced glass of it, with the addition of two ounces of Irish whiskey, and a large bloop of heavy cream. Now that was eyes-rolled-back-in-the-head DELICIOUS, and I very nearly made myself another one. But I'm not a hardened drinker, and I was alone in the house on a Monday night, and cream is very fattening, so for all these reasons I did not.

What is it that pomegranate juice contains that makes it so very healthy to drink? I know it contains some appalling amount of sugar, being the sweetest possible fruit juice. But it's also full of vitamins and folic acid, and some sort of antioxidant. Prevents cancer and cures heart attacks and beats off strokes. Something like that. And cranberries are anti-bacteria. So I'm doing myself a mort of good, unless I add the cream and the Jamesons. THEN, I'm just giving myself another five pounds and an extra chin.

Apres le deluge

Hooray! The phone just rang! That was the first call of the day, at 10:41. I am alone in the office today, too, no others here even for a moment. Find myself watching anxiously for the mailman, just to make sure I haven't been abandoned by my race.

Crunch, crunch, crunch

One of the agents who works in my office -- we'll call him Nameless -- has several habits that cause a reaction in me, among them a determined and exhaustive cracking of every finger joint in every possible direction. Really. Every direction.

Well, he has another habit -- one which really causes every nerve of mine to stand up and shriek aloud. We keep a few bowls of candy in the office, it is my job to keep them full of mixed candy, and I enjoy that part of the job. Right now there is a slight preponderance of hard candies in the mix, peppermints, butterscotches, tropical fruits, etc. Lots of suck-upons. And Nameless picks one up, unwraps it and chews it up right there and then. He is swallowing its pulverized form as he reaches his office again. CRR-RRUN-NNCH, CRR-RUN-NNCH, CRUNCHY, CRUNCHY, swallow. I can hear his teeth splintering into shards as he does this. Brr, shudder!

Like a good apple

Feeling good today -- oddly, and very noticeably, better than I have felt for the past several weeks. Yesterday was a good day, and today is also one, even though I haven't left the house or indeed showered yet. My hair is currently soaking in fresh lemon wash, and I'm sorting and folding sweaters in my room, listening to an interesting book on tape. Even the sorting and discarding of too-small clothing is not distressing me, although as I do, I am noticing that there are several articles of clothes that I never even wore, so rapid was my inflating. I am saving a few pieces that I really like, in case I am ever able to deflate, at least partially, this rotundity which now houses my person.

It is not upsetting me, though, not at all. I am eating slices of cold chicken breast, as I walk to and fro from room to room, and burning candles all over the house to freshen the already crisp and chilly air -- the sliding glass door was open all day and night for the past several days, and a few windows as well. I do like that sensation -- to walk into a room and breathe completely fresh air. Not just perfumed with room freshener, not with any faint trace of we-have-been-here-before, or re-filteredness about it. Just purely, crisply fresh. Like biting into a good apple. Not waxy, not soft, not wooly inside -- but right off the tree, hard and crunchy, bursting with sweet-sour juice and chilly on the tongue.