All week I’ve been wondering where all the money went that I had in my wallet last weekend before setting out on the spontaneous Freddy/Sussex road trip. What did I buy? All week I’ve also noticed that my purse weighed heavier on my shoulder, didn’t slide to the ground every few feet as usual. I was so caught up in enjoying the extra weight that I never thought to question where it might be coming from. Until this afternoon. Dumping my purse, searching for keys, I discover nearly $30 in change — Aha! Two mysteries, one dumping, yes, I went to a cash bar last weekend. It’s been so long since I paid cash for anything I forgot how change gathers when you’re drinking.
Getting around to burning Dad’s cds (I’ve got a whole spindle for godsake!) and I’ve had to test the songs to make sure they are what they say they are so he doesn’t accidently get some Seether or System of a Down or something silly mixed in with his country tunes (though I’m sneaking in a Bob Dylan here and there . . . I don’t think he’ll notice). And Hot Rod Lincoln comes on and it makes me smile. Truly I am healed, if I can remember fondly the times this was sung at my request. Despite everything that came before and after, in the moment, during the singing, I was okay. Progress? Perhaps.
Last week I mentioned The Pickle Man (in case you missed it or forget, he’s the guy who gave me a dill pickle at the Legion New Year’s Eve dance and contributed greatly to the impending break-up with my then boyfriend because said boyfriend went ballistic jealous yet AGAIN and only a mere week or two after dragging some boy out of the pool room at the Urban Corral and presenting him to me like a bouquet of flowers while calling one of the guys in the band Jesus all night long . . . and I was nearing the end of my tolerance for this sort of insane behaviour).
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Christmas at The Pickle Man’s house. I used to go every year. Well, except when he didn’t have it off work. I don’t know if it was a Christmas Eve thing, or a Christmas Night thing, or even a Boxing Day thing. I don’t even know how I got into that mix. I mean yes it was a group of orphans and misfits who had nothing else going on for the holiday . . . but I was the only woman . . . and pretty much the only one not snuffing coke up my nostrils every few minutes. And no, it was not a gang bang type of situation either. It was actually one of the few places and occasions that seemed sexually neutral to me, where I felt safe, where I felt I could fall asleep and not wake up to find some guy pawing me. Where I felt like I could totally relax and not be “on” for people. But in the beginning I did not know The Pickle Man that well, so I don’t know why I got the invite.
But it doesn’t matter how I got there, what matters is that as weird as it all was I really enjoyed those times. It wasn’t like a party, it was more like a family. People would be all over the house. Maybe a couple of people playing crib at the kitchen table. Somebody would be cooking the turkey dinner, that I never recall eating. I was usually curled up on the couch wrapped in a quilt with the dog beside me watching a video with one of the other guys. Nothing too heavy, something funny. People might be napping upstairs, or flipping through magazines on the porch, or just having a say in the sitting room. There’d be lots of beer drunk and lots of drugs passing through, but it was all very low-key and relaxed. Simple times, but good times. We’d stay up all night, eventually all end up in the kitchen around the big table talking. I would never realise just how on edge I was all the time until these kinds of relaxing moments when I didn’t have to be on guard anymore. Especially during the bar years, these were some of the only times when I felt safe, like I had a whole lot of big brothers looking out for me. I think it would’ve been cool to have had a big brother or even an older sister. Sometimes it’s hard to be the oldest child.
Need to eat something, getting all sentimental and lost in memory. Had planned veggie pork stir-fry with one of my many curious sauces . . . but dunno, can’t seem to get to the doing of it. I swear it’s not even that I try to eat healthier it’s just that salad is always so much easier . . . I need a chef. Or more money so I can eat out every night. Stacy and I have been thinking of going to Sassafraz while in TO . . . perhaps it is the place maxing out credit cards was made for.
Listening To: someone playing with a puppy in the main house
Hair: soft and fluffy