another bad day

The levels of my incompetence and failure are astounding.  I just defaulted on my student loan. I didn't qualify for an economic hardship deferment because I was only working part-time.  You have to be full-time.  They could have told me this last month when I tried to file but they said I didn't send proof of income that time.  Or, when I tried to file for deferment when I was unemployed, they just denied it.  They didn't bother to tell me that I needed a special form. Chase Bank works with the Devil.  Their policies are purposefully evil and designed to screw their own customers.

Ultimately, the fault is mine. I didn't do the right paperwork on time.  I am incapable of running my own stupid life. Every year my life gets materially worse.  Speaking of the devil, Capital One Bank is suing me for 7k on a 3k credit card balance, that 3k is all fees and interest charges, 39%. I don't know what the other thousands are for.  Their lawyers are getting nasty.  They wrote a letter to the Judge stating that I "was misleading at best" in my Motion to Vacate their premature Summary Default.   The case defaulted 34 days after the date of service.  I'm supposed to have 35 days. Hence, it was illegal.  END OF STORY, I WIN.  That was a fun day at the courthouse when they wouldn't let me file.  I think I had a psychotic break, I started cussing and screaming at the woman in the filing office.  That's the day I ran off my xbf for good.

Had a mood crash today, after I got the news about my loan. All I wanted to do was drive to Brooklyn to see him.  I wanted to feel ok for a little while.  My friends are all out of town so there was no where else to go.  I needed to feel safe for a minute.  But there's no point in both of us hurting.

It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be worse. My car is running. I haven't broken any bones, I don't need surgery.  I'm not up all night because of the crushing pain in my arm. I'm able to feed myself.  No one has seized the rent money in my bank account. I'm not in a dysfunctional relationship with an inappropriate man. This isn't like last summer.

I've started writing a novel, which is very boring because everyone in New York is writing a novel.  Among just the people I know, I would need two hands to count the number who are writing a novel.  But, this is urgent.  I need this.  For one thing, to give me something to obsess over other than myself.  I feel boxed in, like all my options have been cut off and I have no where to go.  Like it's now or never.  I'm going to finish by the end of the summer if it kills me.  At this point, not writing may kill me first.  

NO Christmas for YOU!!

I was supposed to be at the airport right now for my flight to Ft. Lauderdale. This makes me sad. I'm disappointed in myself for failing again. I wanted to get away from this pit I live in. Relax somewhere with clean air in a comfy house with other people. So I woke up this morning very upset that I'd have to skip Christmas because my grades weren't done and I didn't have time to finish and turned them in. When I called my family, they changed my mind. Mom convinced me I could go because my flight left Florida the 29th and not the 30th as I had thought. Great! I had some brunch at the diner then got packed. I was excited. When ready to go, I pulled up the email with the flight info. But, oh what is this? My flight doesn't leave Florida until the 30th? Huh. Well didn't that just suck?

My mother is angry that I stayed home. It's all my fault of course. I just need to grow up because I should have planned ahead. Right. She said in the email she she sent after I hung up on her that I should have found out about the school being closed on the 24th before yesterday "but that's water over the dam". If the water is so over the dam why was she too mad to talk to me on the phone? My sister is sad because she's going to be bored without me. My father is actually sympathetic that I'm missing his big Christmas Eve fiesta.

I'm still packed. I guess I'll be unpacking tonight instead of eating homemade goodies with the fam in 70 degree weather. Here's what I am missing:

The beach. Exquisite food made by my mother, or her homemade fudge and toffee. The long breakfast after we open presents and the warm-fuzzies at giving people things they like. Real Christmas tree smell. Spending the day lying out in the backyard to read a novel and get a tan. My mother's kitchen full of food. Laughing with the sibs. Watching cable TV. Watching movies on a TV that's more than 10 inches. I won't get to do any driving either! I LOVE driving the Miami freeways. No palm trees with Christmas lights on them, or tacky plastic manger scenes and Maria shrines, no balmy nights of looking up at the stars and listening to the croaking frogs, no break from bohemian housemates with their incense and loud sex and curry-stank cooking....

Here's what I do not mind missing:

The tri-lingual Christmas eve festival at Pops' house with his Brazilian wife's family. Half of them speak Spanish because they emigrated to Panama, the other speak Portuguese. My step bro and sis speak English because they grew up here, but Portugese is the house language. They usually smoke a blunt before the party and are quite boring anyway so it's no loss. The girl wears something slinky on her perfect body and always has her boyfriend around. Everyone mingles in the house waiting until midnight, not speaking English. At some point they watch the Vatican mass by satellite. Then when it hits 12 am we have a toast and a prayer from Pops' wife's mother in Portuguese that is too long and dramatic, then a Spanish one from the cousins, and lastly the English one from my father. Then we all have to hug and kiss and cheer. After that the dinner buffet begins with lots of beans and rice and meats. The food rarely tastes good. The Flan isn't bad.

Once everyone has eaten their fill, all 20 people sit around the tree and the Walmart singing and dancing Santa from Hell whom I find scarier than Chucky. We have to sit on each other's laps or the floor because there aren't enough chairs, and watch as one by one everyone opens their two presents. I always attempt to feign pleasure at the Swapmeet gift from the wife, but I suspect I'm not good at it. My bro, sis and I always try to leave after the presents before Pops busts out the Karaoke on his big-screen TV. Sometimes we aren't so lucky...

That's what I would have been doing tonight instead of sitting alone in my bedroom with my cats and bluebooks, eating cheesepuffs and cold canned soup. Listening to Portishead on repeat might seem excessive, but it's perfect. I enjoy wallowing in this kind of miserable-ness. There is an art to it. When done right, it can be cathartic. If I'm wallowing, that means I'm not depressed. Depressed people don't have the energy to wallow. However, I did go out to do something special for myself. I went to the 99 cent store scross the street and bought christmas lights, candles, chocolate and 18 agw speaker wire. And some fixings to wrap presents that I haven't bought yet.

This is my first Christmas alone.

Director's cut from 'What a Difference'

I often change posts significantly the day after I publish them. I added to the 'What a Difference' post on Monday. I wrote the 'Difference' post on Sunday to express my very positive change in mood and the cause of such. On Monday I turned it into a post about my mother. I'm unsatisfied with the dual-themes and change in tone. I think one distracts from the other. I should have made this a separate post so I'm doing that now. In case you've already read it, I added more content for your trouble.
*****
Sunday night, the 19th, my mother queried after my unusual and sudden improvement in mood. I didn't tell her the whole reason. I like to keep her out of my love life, she's only met two of my boyfriends. One was in high school because she made me bring him over for a family dinner of fun. Mom told me she thought he was very cute and she could see why I liked him. That was both icky and wrong. She was supposed to dislike him because he had long hair, an earring and played drums in a speed metal band(Stop laughing! It was 1992 and that was still cool.) My dad didn't give a rat's arse about him. The poor boy asked me what he'd said and was disappointed when I told him 'nothing.' So I went home and asked my pops. All he said was: 'He's ok. He needs a shave and a haircut.' That boy had no facial hair. I think he was mocking me and my tender 16 year old heart.

The second time was in 2001 when she came to see me for Thanksgiving and we three had dinner together which gave me an anxiety attack. Really. I had to go outside of the restaurant for awhile so I could start breathing again. I don't know why it was so hard for me other than the 'worlds colliding' problem. (The Seinfeld show did a more than adequate treatment of that in one episode so I won't discuss it here.) She was very pleasant and he was a gentleman, I was the only one suffering from the collision. My extreme discomfort during that meal lead to more anxiety the next day when he wanted to come over. So I told him he couldn't. Then we had a fight and he threw his home-made pasta out the window of his truck on the freeway. Looking back, I think I was ashamed of him and what my mother would think. He was a sweetheart, and a beautiful vacuous mimbo with a temper.

And so it went. I'm still not comfortable sharing my love life with her. Hundreds of strangers, yes. Mother, no.
****
Re-released POST FROM DEC. 20:
So currently, there is a man around here. Mom will be all over it if I'm getting phone calls from a boy while staying with her for Christmas. She can wait until then to hear about it. There is no reason to get her excited yet. When she hears of one guy she'll ask me about him for a year. Even when he's been history for ages, or when it was one date that turned into nothing.

One day she'll be pondering her grandchild-less state and the injustice of the universe, then...she makes phone calls. Like this one to my sister. She calls both of us and starts prodding for info about our love lives. She brings up whatever guy she can think of that she once heard about from me and ask,
"So do you ever hear from that ______ guy? What was his name?"
"His name is mud. No. I hate him."
"Oh. Why?"
"Because. He sucks."
"Well what about so and so?"
"No. He hates me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm me. Can we not talk about this."
"Oh,ok. What's about___?
"He came out of the closet last year and is much happier. We hang out all the time. I have to go."
"I sure wish you had someone. I think you'd be happier."
"So would you. Where is your boyfriend, huh? Why aren't you dating?"
"I'm too old and ugly."
"You're not. But whatever. I have to go."
"What's that guy doing that you grew up with? Do you ever hear from him?"
"We're friends. He has 8 girlfriends. I'm going now."
. . .
God bless her, she just wants some grandkids. My mother and my ovaries should start a club, the "Get JL Frigging Preggers Already Boosters." Then they could have bake sales to benefit the cause. Hmm, what would be the best way for my boosters to spend the proceeds?

As far as injustices go, mom is afraid to ask my eldest brother if he and his wife of 8 years are planning to have children. She has never asked him. Finally, last year she asked my brother's mother-in-law if she knew anything. She, of course, had been asking her daughter when and if they would breed. The answer: They won't rule it out. Translation: They won't complain if there's an accident.

JL Van Winkle wakes up

Scary. I'm writing this post so that I don't forget what I've learned this week. I don't want to repeat this failed experiment.

Rude Awakening #1:
Because of the way I struggled with my work last spring I decided I should try a different med. So I changed over to it in mid-September. Last week I looked back and realized that my intense apathy towards my work dates exactly to the time when I change meds. I thought the change was good initially, it allowed me to sit and read for 4 hours straight. I also felt more relaxed.

But this relaxed apathy has not been good. I spent one week without either drug. Then this week I changed back to my old med. I now feel terror at the situation I have put myself in. I did nothing for two months. Absolutely nothing but write for this blog. I stopped going to classes, I did no school work. I stopped lecturing but I did manage to show up for my classes most of the time. And I fell into this deep crisis because all of a sudden I didn't love my field anymore. I also stopped getting any satisfaction from teaching. So because I no longer cared about my education and work, everything seemed pointless and I almost decided I needed to change my life.

ACCKKKK!! The fear I physically feel upon awakening as someone who gives a damn about my life can be described thusly: It feels like I am surrounded by huge shards of glass pointed at me, I don't know if they are moving towards me, if they'll fall or if I'll move and crash into them. Seriously, imagine for yourself what it would be like to wake up after sleeping for two months. What kind of shambles would your life be in? Some zombie, albeit a relaxed one with better vision, was stumbling through my life screwing everything up. It managed to show up for the bare minimum of my responsibilities and that's it. Holy crap. I'm in deep. I'm never touching that med again.

Rude Awakening #2
I am soooo grateful my mother flew up here to help me put myself back together. She dropped everything and took 3 days off of work to fly up here because I asked for help. She brought me breakfast everyday, cleaned up my stuff, went shopping with me and more. You can't buy that kind of love. I'm truly in awe. Also, this is a big step for me to even ask for help.

Ummm, but, next time I think we'll limit her visit to 3 days. By day 4 she started in on the judgmental criticizing. She said over dinner that she wished she could make me smile, and then said I shouldn't be alone.
"Yeah, I'm very aware of my solitude Mom."
"You should go to the singles ward. All the men there can't be obnoxious."
"Of course not," said I, "but I can't stand the environment in those wards. My chances would be slim anyway because I'm not the kind of person most of them want."
"Not with that attitude you're not."
Blah blah.... I wish you and so and so would get together."
"He doesn't want me that way."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"Then why does he keep ...Blah blah blah... When I was teaching, I know that my attitude had a lot to do with how my classes went you should....blah blah blah.... I think most people want too much from life. So what if you don't like teaching. Life is hard and we just have to get through it anyway. Most people don't like their jobs."
"I know that. But I want to at least get some satisfaction from life. Since I probably won't have children, I'd like to accomplish something instead of just getting a dumb job. I don't think that's asking too much."
"Well, I don't get any satisfaction or pleasure in my life."
"I know. I don't want your life either."
She scowled, then said "Thank you."

Mom, next time you want to make me smile, please tell me a joke instead.

The Flirting Line of Death

Months later I told one of my girlfriends about what happened. She didn't know what went wrong. I said that I didn't understand northern men. Why do they always ask stupid questions like, "What do you do for fun?" I told her the sexy prof had asked me that, as did all the other men I've flirted with in this city. But none of them ever went any further. She asked how I answered the question. "I tell them the truth, 'I don't have the time or money to do anything fun.'" She almost fell on the floor laughing. She pounded her hand on the table of the restaurant and it took a few minutes for her to calm down. Everyone stared at us.

Then she explained. "That question is a lead-in to asking you out. You are supposed to say something like, 'going to the movies' or 'going to see plays' so they can say, 'Me too, do you want to go to...? EVERYONE knows that!" She laughed again. And then some more. "Oh. I didn't know that." She explained that when I answered 'I do nothing', they really heard me say: "I'd rather sit at home bored and do nothing then go out and do something with you loser, so don't even think about asking me out!" That's what she found so funny. I wanted to cry I was so horrified.

So I had insulted all those men I wanted to go out with. Brilliant. How was I supposed to know all this? Not everyone is born with common sense, especially those of us who spend too much time in our heads. Men think I'm rejecting them when I'm really just clueless. I should probably work on that.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetic exploits of me not having sex in the city.

The Bishop who cared too much

(My Homeless story is in the works. But I wanted to break the Mozotiny with this little tale. )

Many years ago, in a land far, far, away I had a very loving bishop. He was wonderful. When I went through a very rough time, he met with me once a week for a personal check-up or bishop therapy. He helped me put myself back together and then helped me through the "to be a missionary or not to be a missionary" quest.

The answer was not to be a missionary at that time. So what is the next thing a young lady recently graduated from college should do? Get married! My bishop didn't like to encourage his singles to migrate to the singles ward. He liked to load us down with 3+ callings to keep us out of trouble. So he took some extra duties on himself.

My dear bishop wanted to help me along towards the next life goal. He began with subtlety. Have I met Tom, the nice single guy in our ward? (The only single guy in our ward under 30.) Yes, I had met him. Bishop told me things about him. Things he thought we had in common, such as coming from a broken family. Tom was shy too. He also had a degree in something intellectual and smarty sounding. Blah blah blah.

I stopped listening and really didn't care to hear more. The bishop suggested I might like to talk to Tom. I told him no, not really. I found Tom disturbing. It was not just that he was unattractive (I've dated some of those) but he was creepy. Something in his eyes made me uncomfortable. He had an icky-ness and didn't seem like anyone I would want to be alone with, especially not on purpose. You know the type, one of those guys who would surprise everyone if he did manage to get married.

My bishop did not get discouraged, but he dropped the subtlety. The next Sunday he asked me what I thought of Tom. I told him honestly that Tom gave me the creeps and I had no interest in him. The bishop told me again about all of Tom's wonderful qualities. What a nice guy he is, he's smart, we've had some of the same problems....snooze. Then he asked me if I wanted to go out with Tom for dinner. What? Excuse me, what did you just say? I thought so, um, no I don't want to go out with Tom for dinner. But thanks for asking. (I wondered if this was Tom's idea or the bishop's.)

He didn't stop there, my persistent spiritual shepherd. He wanted me to get married and he wanted Tom to get married. We should marry each other! Tom might have expressed interest in me, or the bishop might have similarly assaulted him with a flattering description of me and unlike myself he acquiesced. Either way, the bishop stepped way beyond the bounds of his duties.

Since I didn't want to go out with Tom alone, he asked me another question. What if he and his wife invited both of us to go out to dinner with them? It could be a double date. Um, is this a dream or did you really ask me to go on a double date with you, your wife and a guy I don't like? Oh, but it was real and he was serious. Definitely, no.

And still, he persisted. Since I didn't want to go out out with them, what if they invited me and Tom over for dinner with the whole family? Well that's better, not only would the bish and wife be there but their four children and live-in nanny as well. Oh yes. How could I resist such a tempting offer? I'm sure Tom and I would fall in love while sitting at the dinner table: passing the potatoes, picking the flung bits of salad out of each other's hair, ignoring the honking toddler noises, staying out of the adolescents' fights, and praying that the oldest remembered to take her Ritalin. Despite such a sweet offer, I declined while trying to hide my shuddering fear.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match? Not. And no thank you.

Eventually, Tom got the guts to ask me out himself, but that's another story.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.