A Moppy Sunday

I keep having these dreams that my teeth are falling out, or I'm mopping the floor. Sometimes my teeth are falling out while I'm mopping the floor. Or that I'm so busy mopping the floor that I don't realize my teeth are falling out. Very unsettling.

In the dream dictionary, tooth loss symbolizes powerlessness, working with the teeth as a symbol of power. Your teeth are what people see when you let your guard down and smile. They are a symbol of power, but only when you combine confidence and self-image.

Well, maybe the confidence thing is right on the money. I'm not very gung-ho about myself lately. I feel like a knick-knack. You know those antique, nicotine-stained old things your grandmother's grandmother had when she was a little girl? Some of them had actual uses that mattered in their hayday, like a washboard or a burner cover. Now that they've been rendered obsolete by the washing machine and electric stoves, there will come a day, probably soon, where no one is left who remembers their purpose. I feel kind of like that.

My confidence and self-image are falling out, I suppose. I'm sure you can't trust those books anyway. Maybe all it means is a glimpse into eternity; this is my lot, this is what I deserve. Sentenced to forever remember what I gave up for mediocrity's sake; for the ability to mop the floor until my teeth fall out.

Hey, Mushrooms Have to Grow Too.

On a bored day, I tend to rearrange things obsessively. I really enjoy getting the most out of this small space I have, and trying to make it feel cozy rather than tiny is part of that. I've come to love my dilapidated "garage apartment" (as the landlady calls it), and all its quirks. Signing the lease was agreeing to fix problems as they arise, and I understood even though it remained unsaid as I left her house.

Not big problems, like the time a tree fell on my bathroom during hurricane Gustave. Little things, like the giant crack in the tank of the toilet. The lack of a P-trap entirely on the bathroom sink. The window unit pissing water all over the hard-wood floor. Truly, this place has forced me to become acquainted with the use of power tools and caulk, hammer and nails, and weather stripping. I'm almost happy about that; it's gotten me out of the habit of letting problems get infinitely worse before I get off my ass to fix them. The difference? It's my home, and I've never thought of it as "just an apartment".

Here's a secret that could have been the worst thing I've ever done: I didn't even look inside this place before I signed the lease. At $375 a month, located in a nice Mid-City neighborhood where most people have families and pay more than $800 for one bedroom, I really should have looked at the place. But I didn't.

And when I got the key, I came here immediately, no power or water or heat. I put votives on the windowsills and set up camp in my future bedroom, and slept on the freezing wood floor. The only thought in my head was that I'd never, ever had this much space to call my own, and I thought it was fake. I thought it would be taken away from me because it was too good to be true, so I wanted to get as much time in it as I possibly could. It felt like a vacation.

Growing up, if I wanted alone time, I had to go to the bathroom or wait until everyone was asleep to take over the living room. I'm not sure if it's because I've always had to share a room, but I now require periods of time behind a closed door to retain sanity. It has to be that way, and I don't often come across people who understand that. Sure, everyone feels anti-social every once in awhile, but I want to kill people if I don't have a night to myself once a week. I'm a textbook introvert.

("But wait, doesn't she wait tables?"

Yes, and I had to force myself to do so. It was a conscious effort to be more outgoing. It didn't work.)

But even when the bills rolled in and didn't stop and got bigger, it still felt like a vacation. And on nights like these, when Tommy's at work and no one is bombarding me with stimuli or beer, that I remember what release I felt years ago upon walking through the door. I realize how vastly I have changed as a person within these walls, and how much of it is due to these walls.

I've become more assertive and insistent; decisive, both confident and stubborn. I've coached myself through issues and conflicts, and learned to compromise when my selfishness wants everything my way. I have become more myself than I ever have been, no matter how many times I've thought I was losing it because my sisters weren't around. I've fallen on my face a lot in the 3 years I've lived here (literally and figuratively), but if someone is always there to pick you up, you continue to get too drunk. Growth can be painful, but it's necessary. Also necessary: a few walls to keep your emotional insides contained while it happens; a place where you can let them splatter all over the floor if you need to, and the ability to say, "fuck it, I'll clean it up later." They might need the air anyway.

And aside from the occasional mushroom growing in the bathroom, no quirk has been too much. At least my apartment has less quirks and more structural integrity than I do.

The mushroom was close, though.

Tired

I've been running so hard this week that I have blood blisters on my feet. Just about burned my fingerprints off yesterday holding a plate for a jackass who wouldn't get his damn hand off the table so I could put it down. I've never consciously swallowed pain before--I just took a big gulp and hid the searing in my throat until I had a chance to run cold water over it.

When that shift finally ended (still can't believe it did, actually), my friends were drunk and wanted to get drunker. Tommy had to meet someone at a bar, and wanted me to come. I wanted A Beer, as in one, because I knew I had to get up at 9 to endure more abuse all over again.

We ended up at a different bar, having shots forced upon us from a drunk ex co-worker. He just kept buying them, and they were awful. Things like "espresso tequila" and Jager. So all in all, I had 1.5 pints of beer, 2 gin and tonics, a shot of Jager and that fucking espresso tequila...in that order. It wasn't like your standard "aww I can't take shots.... well, OKAY." It was more like "I can't do that shit tonight dude. No, really, I have to fucking get up in the morning and I'm already way drunker than I wanted to be" and he just stared at me like I'd offended him. Tommy was of no help. I've never been more pissed off about having to take a shot, and NO ONE else at the bar wanted it.

So, I had to stay up and chug water until 4am, sleep until 9, wake up with the worst goddamn hangover I've had since freshman year of college, and sling meatloaf and lasagna in hellfire-temperature skillets for 4 hours.

Bad days.

Personals

I'm chipping away at my grand to-do list. Friends, I will soon be employed by two newspapers and a restaurant. I keep telling myself, this has to work, this has to work. As long as I'm doing something about this planet-sized boulder on my back, I don't mind having it there for another few months.

And then, there's my living situation. I currently share a one-bedroom apartment with my boyfriend of almost three years. A few months ago, I told him I wanted him out. Not mean like that, but more of an "I need my space" deal, as in "our relationship won't make it much further if I continue to live with you".

Well, I must not have explained it very well. He's still here, tossing his laundry about, clipping his beard in my sink.

Sunday night, I reminded him by asking if he'd been looking for a place. He said no, and that he didn't understand why this was happening; all his other friends were getting married or engaged, and moving in with each other. In his mind, he feels us stepping backwards.

Maybe we are, who am I to tell? All I know is that I need, NEED, a place where I can do what I want to do all day. And with Tommy living here, I can't do that. If I can't do that now, what happens when he pops the question? If we continue doing this to each other (i.e. me yelling at him incessantly when he doesn't pick up after himself, or his telling me to stop reading books and writing all the time), then there will be no future. It might sound like a step backwards, but it's a healthy step, whatever direction it may be.

I admit, sometimes I wonder what the hell we're doing with each other. Sometimes it seems like we don't have anything in common anymore; I'm bored with his interests and he's bored with mine.

I know living apart will aid some of this, but the only thing I have hope for is that it will be okay no matter what happens. And no matter what happens, this was the right decision, and I did it for myself--against social norms and expectations, against what people tell me about my relationship ("you two are so right for each other!"), and against my own weak desire to stay in constant comfort. Fuck constant comfort. Nothing good, valuable, or important ever came from such an environment. How will I pay the bills? If I want to live alone badly enough, I will pay the bills by any means necessary. If I want to be a freelance writer badly enough, I will find a way. I just need space to know that these things I say are true; that I can pay the bills, freelance for a living, etc. I just don't know those things for sure yet.

I know I can, but I haven't. Makes all the difference.