Kristy, the rightful baby of the family, moved out about 2 years ago. Last Fall, she moved back home amidst much personal turmoil.
In the intervening time, we had (with Kristy's permission) given her old room to my niece, Vicky, who has stayed with us 5 nights a week over the last school year. During this whole time, Stacy's old room sat empty as a shrine to her, full of her cast-off paintings (she's an artist) and cast-off clothing (she's a clothes horse). When Kristy moved home, she got Stacy's old room.
Sort of.
One weekend following Kristy's return, we attempted to move Stacy's stuff out of her old room; we packed it all in boxes and when Stacy came home, asked her to go through it, take what she wanted to back to her own apartment, and the rest we would store in the basement. Notice that at no point did we say we would toss her shit onto the street or give it to the Salvation Army.
Still, as soon as Stacy was faced with having to clean out her old room, she burst into hysterical, gasping sobs at "being thrown out" of her room. How could we do this to her? she cried. My mom, as usual, rushed to comfort her. Kristy's feelings at not having a room in her own home while Stacy had a whole apartment of her own were ignored. My Aunt Mary, who was witness to the whole commotion, commented to me something along the lines of, "Boy, I guess if Stacy gets upset enough she gets what she wants."
Which is Stacy in a nutshell.
So now nine months later, Stacy's shit still isn't moved out of Kristy's room, and every time Stacy comes home to visit, Kristy gets booted so Stacy can have "her room" back. Whenever Kristy makes a comment like, "I'll go put this in my room," Stacy says, "You mean my room." Kristy confided in me over this last weekend how much all this bothers her, and I have to say I understand.
So Stacy came home today for the next few days with her boyfriend. Kristy got bumped to Vicky's room (Kristy's old room), and Vicky got bumped to the living room. Vicky gave Kristy trouble about being pushed out of "her room," which upset Kristy since she of course has been feeling like she doesn't even have a room. So Kristy called my mom and I in to mediate this dispute, at which point Stacy popped in. Here was Kristy upset at not having a place in the house that belonged to her, here was Vicky upset at feeling that she was losing her own space, and here was Stacy not upset in the least, looking on with no clue that she was the cause of all this when you get right down to it.
So I said so.
I said that Vicky had every right to feel upset about having to stay in the living room, that Kristy had every right to feel that she didn't have a place in this house, and that Stacy didn't help matters by refusing to move her crap out of the room and insisting that it was still "her room."
That went over like a lead balloon.
Crying ensued everywhere. Vicky cried louder; Kristy, who had been doing her best to not cry, began bawling. Stacy didn't immediately cry. First she denied, at which point I pointed out that she threw a fit when we asked her initially to remove her shit. She denied again. I replied that even our Aunt Mary had commented on the fit she threw. So then Stacy cried and ran away. My mom cried and ran after Kristy to yell at her to stop crying. She cried that Kristy and I were upsetting Stacy. Who cares if Kristy is legitimately upset? Stacy cannot be upset. Kristy ran out of the house. Mom followed. Vicky started crying because she didn't mean to upset everyone.
I stood in the middle, not crying, wondering which of these four girls to try to calm first. It was a mess and in the end I was crying too. I feel like this is getting long so I'll stop here and pick up again tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Stacy Part I
My eyes are tired. My brain is tired. I need to be up early tomorrow morning but I just can't rest my mind yet.
I grew up in a perpetual state of hurt, anger, and disbelief at the way my younger sister, Stacy, was treated and the way she acted. You expect there to be a baby in the family, but that baby is usually not the middle child. You expect that in multi child homes, the kids will always think their parents play favorites. You don't expect that what the kids think is so blatantly true as to be commented on by outsiders.
I came to an understanding in recent years, and with that developed a peacefulness about the way things are with Stacy. She is so fragile that she will never be able to deal with the world as most people know it. She is the boy in the bubble, emotionally speaking. She loses it about everything; I am not exaggerating here--about everything. She backed over a rock with her car--hysterical for an hour. She got lost driving--you'd think that someone died.
My parents--in particular my mother--shelter her and help her as much as possible. She (Stacy) is a grown woman--27 years old--with a career as a teacher and yet she cannot do her job without my mother there 2 days a week to help her do it. I am not joking. My mother goes to school with Stacy and acts as her unpaid aid. And the truth is, Stacy couldn't do her job without my mother there like that.
Stacy calls my mother to find out what she should do with every major and minor decision in her life, from where she should apply for jobs to what brand of cereal she should get. It would be a slight exaggeration to say she needs my mother to tell her to wipe her ass after she shits. A slight one.
Sorry-began to go off on a rant there. My point is that it is a vicious circle. My parents favor Stacy because she needs the extra attention and protection. She needs the extra attention and protection from the real world because she has always been babied. It's a chicken and the egg situation and now it just is what it is. I've been okay with that for a long time but this last week I've gotten mad. Mad mostly at Stacy and a bit at my mother.
I'm going for a walk to cool off a bit. I'll finish in a bit.
I grew up in a perpetual state of hurt, anger, and disbelief at the way my younger sister, Stacy, was treated and the way she acted. You expect there to be a baby in the family, but that baby is usually not the middle child. You expect that in multi child homes, the kids will always think their parents play favorites. You don't expect that what the kids think is so blatantly true as to be commented on by outsiders.
I came to an understanding in recent years, and with that developed a peacefulness about the way things are with Stacy. She is so fragile that she will never be able to deal with the world as most people know it. She is the boy in the bubble, emotionally speaking. She loses it about everything; I am not exaggerating here--about everything. She backed over a rock with her car--hysterical for an hour. She got lost driving--you'd think that someone died.
My parents--in particular my mother--shelter her and help her as much as possible. She (Stacy) is a grown woman--27 years old--with a career as a teacher and yet she cannot do her job without my mother there 2 days a week to help her do it. I am not joking. My mother goes to school with Stacy and acts as her unpaid aid. And the truth is, Stacy couldn't do her job without my mother there like that.
Stacy calls my mother to find out what she should do with every major and minor decision in her life, from where she should apply for jobs to what brand of cereal she should get. It would be a slight exaggeration to say she needs my mother to tell her to wipe her ass after she shits. A slight one.
Sorry-began to go off on a rant there. My point is that it is a vicious circle. My parents favor Stacy because she needs the extra attention and protection. She needs the extra attention and protection from the real world because she has always been babied. It's a chicken and the egg situation and now it just is what it is. I've been okay with that for a long time but this last week I've gotten mad. Mad mostly at Stacy and a bit at my mother.
I'm going for a walk to cool off a bit. I'll finish in a bit.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Does Size Matter?
Most of the time--no. Sometimes--yes.
I'm not Ms. Been Around a Million and One Times but I've been with enough men to have developed an answer to this question based on experience. There is a whole range of size and shape when it comes to men; almost all fall somewhere in the, say, 5 to 8 inch range with average . . . girth. So most of the time, size does not matter. Give or take a couple of inches, it all feels about the same when you get right down to it. It matters much more what you do with what you have.
But there are extremes. I have come across two examples of the teeny, tiny extreme. In the first case, I am embarrassed now at the way I acted then. I was only 18 and when I realized that a guy's schlong could be the size of my pinkie (I'm not exaggerating here) when standing at attention. I was so shocked that I promptly removed my hand from his pants and ended our little session.
The second time, I knew ahead of time that what was going to be revealed to me would be on the small side. He actually told me over dinner. Yeah, and I still slept with him. Why? He was my first after the Big X, and I was determined to get the obstacle of sleeping with someone new out of the way. When we got back to the hotel (we were both on a vacation in Seattle), I was shocked again at the insignificance of his one-eyed trouser snake but was still determined to go through with things.
Here is what I discovered: 1. There is such a thing as so small you can't even feel it. 2. A guy can make up for this fact. Without going into complete x-rated description, let's just say that this guy gave me beard burn on my vajayjay that was well worth getting. Best oral I had ever had. He most definitely compensated. Lesson: Yes, there is such a thing as too small but give the guy a chance. It might still be worth it.
What about the other end of the scale? Large to the extreme? Yup, had that. It's quite something. A guy whose blue-veined custard-chucker is so large that it's like losing your virginity all over again. Remember that? It takes a bit of work to make things fit right. It's almost painful at first. But then once they do fit right, it's still just eye-popping with every thrust. I can't describe the feeling. Just . . . wow. You can still feel it hours later. (Okay, days.)
Girls, if you ever have the chance, take it.
Having said that, the average Captain Slappy, giggle stick, guided muscle, Hardy Boy, heat seeking missle, inseminator, Jack the Ripper, knee knocker, meat popsicle, notary public, one-eyed wonder weasel, purple-headed warrior, Rumple Foreskin, tallywhacker, tonsil tickler, trouser lizard, Vlad the Impaler, W.A.D. (which I will not spell out the meaning of here), warrior of love (and so many more that really are too dirty to print here)--really is just super and I'd take it any day.
Size doesn't matter . . . mostly.
I'm not Ms. Been Around a Million and One Times but I've been with enough men to have developed an answer to this question based on experience. There is a whole range of size and shape when it comes to men; almost all fall somewhere in the, say, 5 to 8 inch range with average . . . girth. So most of the time, size does not matter. Give or take a couple of inches, it all feels about the same when you get right down to it. It matters much more what you do with what you have.
But there are extremes. I have come across two examples of the teeny, tiny extreme. In the first case, I am embarrassed now at the way I acted then. I was only 18 and when I realized that a guy's schlong could be the size of my pinkie (I'm not exaggerating here) when standing at attention. I was so shocked that I promptly removed my hand from his pants and ended our little session.
The second time, I knew ahead of time that what was going to be revealed to me would be on the small side. He actually told me over dinner. Yeah, and I still slept with him. Why? He was my first after the Big X, and I was determined to get the obstacle of sleeping with someone new out of the way. When we got back to the hotel (we were both on a vacation in Seattle), I was shocked again at the insignificance of his one-eyed trouser snake but was still determined to go through with things.
Here is what I discovered: 1. There is such a thing as so small you can't even feel it. 2. A guy can make up for this fact. Without going into complete x-rated description, let's just say that this guy gave me beard burn on my vajayjay that was well worth getting. Best oral I had ever had. He most definitely compensated. Lesson: Yes, there is such a thing as too small but give the guy a chance. It might still be worth it.
What about the other end of the scale? Large to the extreme? Yup, had that. It's quite something. A guy whose blue-veined custard-chucker is so large that it's like losing your virginity all over again. Remember that? It takes a bit of work to make things fit right. It's almost painful at first. But then once they do fit right, it's still just eye-popping with every thrust. I can't describe the feeling. Just . . . wow. You can still feel it hours later. (Okay, days.)
Girls, if you ever have the chance, take it.
Having said that, the average Captain Slappy, giggle stick, guided muscle, Hardy Boy, heat seeking missle, inseminator, Jack the Ripper, knee knocker, meat popsicle, notary public, one-eyed wonder weasel, purple-headed warrior, Rumple Foreskin, tallywhacker, tonsil tickler, trouser lizard, Vlad the Impaler, W.A.D. (which I will not spell out the meaning of here), warrior of love (and so many more that really are too dirty to print here)--really is just super and I'd take it any day.
Size doesn't matter . . . mostly.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
I'm a Bottler
I'm a bottler. I bottle things up. I try to let most things roll off my back but the things that don't, I bottle up. Everything's cool with me. Want to yell and scream at me for something that I have nothing to do with? That's okay. No problem. I know you didn't mean it. The online payroll system crashes at work and I'm not going to be able to pay the whole damn campaign on time now? Oh well, out of my control. I can deal with everyone getting mad. Want to make plans with me and then just never call and never apologize for not following through? It's okay, really. I know we are both busy.
Want to give my sister a strand of gorgeous, priceless pearls for her birthday when I get a check for $25, Grandmonster? Want to casually mention that you gave me a strand years ago that belonged to my great-grandmother that you don't think is worth much of anything if it's even real? Want to talk about how you had Stacy's restrung (but didn't change the clasp since that shows the name of the famous designer who made them) and bought her a gorgeous set of earrings to match as well? Have her put it on and see how it looks in front of Kristy (who never received any pearls, real or fake) and me? Want us to ooh and ah, even? It's okay, really. I understand. I don't take it personally.
Then I'm at a stupid summer planning committee meeting for school. There is a contentious issue which has everyone's nerves a bit raw to begin with. I feel like I'm being personally called out by Ryan, and after hearing what he is saying, end up agreeing with him but I just don't feel like he's listening to what I'm saying. Even though I'm agreeing with him over and over, he won't stop arguing his point. Finally I get mad.
Finally I get mad. At Ryan, at a yelling coworker, at the payroll administration company, at the guy that pushed payroll off onto me even though I already do two--count them TWO-- full-time jobs for the campaign, at the friend who blew me off, at the Grandmonster, at Stacy for being everyone's favorite, at my mom for spending over half the week with Stacy every week (during the only time I have off to actually be around her no less), at my asshole brother and sister-in-law for generally making everyone's lives hell, at my entire fucking family for guilting me into living home for six more months . . . at so much more . . .
But Ryan is the one in front of me. And Ryan is the one I lose it on. I started screaming at him and clapping my hands like a mad woman, and then when he yells back I nearly cried. It was all I could do for the remaining excruciating half hour of the meeting to remain seated at the table and not let a tear slip down my cheek. Blink, blink, open my eyes wide so they evaporate. Breathe deep. Swallow.
Now I'm home crying and letting the remaining contents of the bottle pour out. Gotta empty it out nice and good so that I have someplace to store all this shit for the next month or so.
I'm a bottler.
Want to give my sister a strand of gorgeous, priceless pearls for her birthday when I get a check for $25, Grandmonster? Want to casually mention that you gave me a strand years ago that belonged to my great-grandmother that you don't think is worth much of anything if it's even real? Want to talk about how you had Stacy's restrung (but didn't change the clasp since that shows the name of the famous designer who made them) and bought her a gorgeous set of earrings to match as well? Have her put it on and see how it looks in front of Kristy (who never received any pearls, real or fake) and me? Want us to ooh and ah, even? It's okay, really. I understand. I don't take it personally.
Then I'm at a stupid summer planning committee meeting for school. There is a contentious issue which has everyone's nerves a bit raw to begin with. I feel like I'm being personally called out by Ryan, and after hearing what he is saying, end up agreeing with him but I just don't feel like he's listening to what I'm saying. Even though I'm agreeing with him over and over, he won't stop arguing his point. Finally I get mad.
Finally I get mad. At Ryan, at a yelling coworker, at the payroll administration company, at the guy that pushed payroll off onto me even though I already do two--count them TWO-- full-time jobs for the campaign, at the friend who blew me off, at the Grandmonster, at Stacy for being everyone's favorite, at my mom for spending over half the week with Stacy every week (during the only time I have off to actually be around her no less), at my asshole brother and sister-in-law for generally making everyone's lives hell, at my entire fucking family for guilting me into living home for six more months . . . at so much more . . .
But Ryan is the one in front of me. And Ryan is the one I lose it on. I started screaming at him and clapping my hands like a mad woman, and then when he yells back I nearly cried. It was all I could do for the remaining excruciating half hour of the meeting to remain seated at the table and not let a tear slip down my cheek. Blink, blink, open my eyes wide so they evaporate. Breathe deep. Swallow.
Now I'm home crying and letting the remaining contents of the bottle pour out. Gotta empty it out nice and good so that I have someplace to store all this shit for the next month or so.
I'm a bottler.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Better Off Dead
So I'm realizing that when at the start of my last post I said "2 good things" that you all might not have realized that I meant it as in 2 good things to write about, not 2 good things about my life. Because neither are good. Clearly, the root canal was not good.
The other good thing to write about that is not in reality good? The reason I'm going to hell? I know someone that I think would be better off dead. I'm not exaggerating; I'm not being melodramatic. This man spreads hatred like a virus through everyone he knows. He would be better off dead and the rest of the world would be better off if he were dead.
Mostly, the rest of the world is my concern. He has partially ruined my life (no, it's not the Big X; even though I still give him caps, he didn't have the power to ruin my life). He has ruined completely one other person's life, and has partially ruined at least three other people's lives besides my own.
How do you completely ruin someone's life? You must be a black hole for all good and rational thought. You must radiate messiness, fight, darkness. You must suck someone into the complete and utter ruin you have made of your very own life and act like quicksand, or like tar, and force them to stay there, to become so entrenched in your own evil life that they give up any good part of their soul and ultimately decide to become just like you. Yes, this person whose life was ruined by him had some level of choice in the matter. It can't be entirely contributed to him that this other person's life was ruined; eventually they stopped fighting their way out of the black hole.
The others? The ones like me? Who have been partially ruined? We fight and sometimes break free of the horrid mess; I did. But then I looked back and saw these others who maybe didn't have the fight in them to get away, these others who still have a chance at breaking free, of not having a completely ruined life. I want to help them. They each are not breaking free for their own reasons.
Person #1: Is too young to be able to break free. Cannot even admit how horrible this man is just yet. May, by the time this person is ready to see it, be too late. May have their life already ruined beyond repair.
Person #2: Loves him too much. Why? I don't fucking know, that's for sure. But can't bring themself to shut the door on him, and as long as it's open, he will creep in like carbon monoxide in the night while you sleep and smother the life out of you.
Person #3: Recognizes him for what he is; hates him so much for it that the hate continues to ruin their life. Won't let go, won't shut that door, because the hate is too much. This person does not understand how, after all that I've been put through, I have let go of the hate. (I was put through worse, through the most of anyone who knows him.) The door can't be closed until the hate is let go.
Because I love these three people very much and want to save them, I have opened the door again and am forced to deal with him. But even if we all make it out alive, we will be permanently damaged. If we wore our emotional damage like physical, #2 and #3 would have repulsive gashes swerving across their faces. #1? The damage is not complete yet. #1 would still be oozing puss and blood.
Me? I have a scar. It's big. I am able to hide it well though.
There is no one he touches that makes it away without at least a bruise. He should die. This is evil of me to think, I know. I should probably go to hell.
But everyone would be better off if he would just die.
The other good thing to write about that is not in reality good? The reason I'm going to hell? I know someone that I think would be better off dead. I'm not exaggerating; I'm not being melodramatic. This man spreads hatred like a virus through everyone he knows. He would be better off dead and the rest of the world would be better off if he were dead.
Mostly, the rest of the world is my concern. He has partially ruined my life (no, it's not the Big X; even though I still give him caps, he didn't have the power to ruin my life). He has ruined completely one other person's life, and has partially ruined at least three other people's lives besides my own.
How do you completely ruin someone's life? You must be a black hole for all good and rational thought. You must radiate messiness, fight, darkness. You must suck someone into the complete and utter ruin you have made of your very own life and act like quicksand, or like tar, and force them to stay there, to become so entrenched in your own evil life that they give up any good part of their soul and ultimately decide to become just like you. Yes, this person whose life was ruined by him had some level of choice in the matter. It can't be entirely contributed to him that this other person's life was ruined; eventually they stopped fighting their way out of the black hole.
The others? The ones like me? Who have been partially ruined? We fight and sometimes break free of the horrid mess; I did. But then I looked back and saw these others who maybe didn't have the fight in them to get away, these others who still have a chance at breaking free, of not having a completely ruined life. I want to help them. They each are not breaking free for their own reasons.
Person #1: Is too young to be able to break free. Cannot even admit how horrible this man is just yet. May, by the time this person is ready to see it, be too late. May have their life already ruined beyond repair.
Person #2: Loves him too much. Why? I don't fucking know, that's for sure. But can't bring themself to shut the door on him, and as long as it's open, he will creep in like carbon monoxide in the night while you sleep and smother the life out of you.
Person #3: Recognizes him for what he is; hates him so much for it that the hate continues to ruin their life. Won't let go, won't shut that door, because the hate is too much. This person does not understand how, after all that I've been put through, I have let go of the hate. (I was put through worse, through the most of anyone who knows him.) The door can't be closed until the hate is let go.
Because I love these three people very much and want to save them, I have opened the door again and am forced to deal with him. But even if we all make it out alive, we will be permanently damaged. If we wore our emotional damage like physical, #2 and #3 would have repulsive gashes swerving across their faces. #1? The damage is not complete yet. #1 would still be oozing puss and blood.
Me? I have a scar. It's big. I am able to hide it well though.
There is no one he touches that makes it away without at least a bruise. He should die. This is evil of me to think, I know. I should probably go to hell.
But everyone would be better off if he would just die.
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