Entry #688281, added on 02-22-10 @ 9:40 am EST
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| fickle finger | Entry #688281 |
I have read about six books in the last two weeks which is something of a record for me. When I'm at home, I get distracted, but at school, once I've read whichever chapter in my textbook I allow myself to read, I dive into my bag for the paperback I've brought along for company and for however many hours of uninterrupted time I have, I lose myself in the words. I find it impressive that I have read this much, mostly because it doesn't happen at home as I said, and it tells me that if my television suddenly died and my computer developed a flu, I'd probably be smarter, because as much as I learn from television and the computer, nothing will ever teach as well as a book and that's a fact.
It's my five year birthday at this site, apparently. I received a nifty little calendar in the mail, and I've inched up in merit points, although I can't remember how many I had before today. I know that I don't have many, and I wonder if this reflects badly on me, but most of the time I don't even notice how many I have, nor do I take inventory of ribbons in my port, mostly because I lost most of them when I inadvertantly failed to pay for my upgrade two years ago. I decided not to fixate too much on it, because there really is nothing one can do about these things, and try to focus on the trickling of reviews as they come in. I appreciate them all, even if they're not always positive.
My uncle Jimmy had a stroke yesterday. Apparently, he's doing okay and is in the hospital just so they can monitor him. He lives with my aunt Rosie in Virginia, and for a moment, I thought about whether or not I would go with my dad should my uncle not survive it, but according to my aunt, he's stable. My mother, of course, has him dead and buried, 'he's seventy-nine after all!', and I had to hold my tongue as she went on about it, like it were predetermined that he was going to die. She talked about all the 'funny feelings' she'd had all day, how she was sure this was her intuition telling her that my uncle was going to have a stroke, and I remained silent, waiting for her to tire herself out, because my mother always has funny feelings, always recognizes someone on television or senses disease spreading in other people, but she gets one in forty thousand right and suddenly she's a mystic. So, I tried not to think too much about it, because he's talking, though he is slurring his words, and the family to the south is mostly optimistic about it, so there's no point in assuming the worst. He still has his sense of humour, laughs at all the jokes my cousins have been making about updating his will, and can move his arms and legs. This is not a dire situation, right?
It would upset me if he were to die, though I know he will at some point like everyone else. He is the Irish version of Ricky Gervais, both in temperament and physical appearance, though his hair is silver. He laughs at everything, is the one people lean on when they need to forget something horrid in their lives, and when his own daughter was killed in a car accident twenty-six years ago, it was the first time I realized that he was capable of grief. Everyone said his hair turned white overnight when she died, and because I'd been accustomed to seeing him with darker hair, his new silvery-white look took me by surprise and I assumed the story was true. M. says it's a physical impossibility, but I like to think it happened. I don't know why. He was one of the people closest to my grandfather when he was alive, though he wasn't related by blood, and I like to hear him tell stories about him and my grandmother because he is one of the only living links to them I have. Nearly every story he tells about my grandparents is punctuated by roars of laughter, and I like to think of them this way because it is a sharp contrast to the image one gets of them from photos; serious, pious, stony. When I think of uncle Jimmy I think of leprechauns, Guinness, practical jokes and laughter. He's the sort of person you never want to be without in your life, even if the visits are every ten years.
My weepiness from yesterday has not abated so I'm just taking time to myself and trying not to infect those around me. I say 'weepiness' as though I've actually been dabbing at my eyes with tissue, but I haven't. I just feel like weeping, and would rather not try to pretend I'm happy when I'm not. I am tired, and am annoyed that I am, because I've had enough sleep and shouldn't need more. I feel a heaviness in me and it upsets me because I don't believe it's physical. On the way to the wee one's school this morning, we passed several joggers and dog-walkers and all of them looked overjoyed to be out on this gleaming winter morning, and I had to wonder if I'll ever be like them in my life. Those spandexed people with clouds of breath coming from their mouths as they run down city streets baffle me. They have taken three things I can't stand, cold weather, morning and running, and combine them all, looking downright ecstatic to be doing so. Baffling.
And so, school today. I'm not looking forward to it. Friday was a weird one, I have to say. First, the flirty girl and the French guy who I assumed to have become somewhat intimate at some point over the last few months, are clearly on the 'outs'. He left, and then she went into the lounge area, which is doorless and has remarkable acoustics, and began a forty-minute tirade on her cell phone with someone I can only assume was French Guy. The girl is supposed to be in her twenties, but if one didn't know better, they'd think it was someone in her teens who was shrieking expletives into her phone. The facilitators repeatedly asked her to quiet down, and she would, for a second or two, before launching into another long verbal assault, accusing the listener of ruining her life, and so on. Normally, I take this kind of thing in stride, but after a good ten minutes of it, I began to get annoyed at the drama. It was obvious she wanted everyone to hear what she was saying, probably because the use of the name 'Dave' would lead us to deduce that she was indeed speaking to 'French Guy', and in this way, she could embarrass him as well as antagonize him. If I were him, I would have hung up, but for some reason, the conversation went on forever, until either she ran out of curse words or her phone battery died. When she came out of the lounge area, she actually looked proud of herself, and the whole time I was thinking about what a little fool she is, how very small and stupid she had shown herself to be. Then, J., who is someone I regularly chat with, came in. I knew straight away that something wasn't quite right with her as soon as she came in. Normally, she's the stereotypical flaky girl, the one who touches your hair as she tells you how beautiful it is, or the one who sits down at your table to involve herself in your conversation, eventually taking control of it and leading you on a mindbending ride of abstract images and emotions. I like her, but I have always felt she has 'issues'. Anyway, Friday, she was clearly not in a good mood, and while she normally greets everyone by name and floats through the room, this day she went directly to her desk and silently went about readying for her exam. Then, during the exam, she called the facilitator over to point out that the wording of one of the questions irked her, that it was misleading, and when that facilitator couldn't convince her that the wording was fine, a second facilitator showed up and tried to explain it again. J. wasn't having that, and she said that if she got the question wrong, she was writing a letter of complaint to the school administration, and if that didn't work, she was going to sue. It was so astoundingly out-of-character for her that the facilitators stood there, open-mouthed and silent, while the rest of us pretended we weren't listening. At some point, J. got up and went to the lounge to 'regroup', leaving her exam half-finished, and I gave my friend C. a sidelong look that begged the question 'What the hell is up with her?'. C. returned my unspoken question with the look that answered 'I don't have a clue, but obviously she's bonkers.' J. once told me that she used to suffer from depression, but I am thinking she might want to look into seeing someone or at least getting a proper diagnosis, because she sure smelled bipolar to me. Not that I'm an expert, mind you, but this behaviour was extremely intense, enough so that no one spoke or even coughed for about fifteen minutes after it happened. I have said before that I think bipolar disorder is grossly overdiagnosed, but believe me when I say that J.'s problem is not just a case of the blues. I suddenly began to understand why she's forty-six and single, something she is really bitter about. When she's feeling great, she's the life of the party, but when she's down, like Friday, she's almost frightening.
I packed up my books and headed for the door where B. the main facilitator was standing. She mumbled something about needing chocolate right away, and I smiled and said 'Wow, either there's going to be a full moon tonight or everyone collectively decided to forego their meds this morning.' She seemed to find this hilarious and I could still hear her laughing as I unlocked my car door and got in.
And here we are, back at Monday, where a whole week begins to laugh at me, taunting me with its size.
Something good could happen, though. Hope pokes a finger through.
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Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
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