Cluck, Cluck, Cluck

20 April 2009

Done. Just. Let. It. Be. Done.

So, back two months and five days ago I wrote a post about looking at a house. Two months and three days ago we made an offer on a different house. Yada yada you SERIOUSLY do not want the details, but we are still in the process of buying said house, two weeks past the closing date, no end in sight, and I, well I am still LIVING WITH MY MOTHER.


My mother is also the REALTOR!

And the whole thing is a mess! AND I LIVE WITH MY MOTHER, THE REALTOR.

I seem to spend a lot of time SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS TOO.

My coworkers notice. Which is undeniably embarassing.

I have given my coworker very specific instructions about which mental hospital hospital to send me to if I have a visible nervous breakdown while at work. And which one to make sure I DO NOT WIND UP IN NO MATTER WHAT.

I think she thought I was joking.

I hope she was paying attention.

Today really iced the damn cake. Today Boyfriend was im-ing with me while talking to the loan processor, loan officer, back to the loan processor who was setting the closing date for later this week when BING we get an email from the realtor announcing the sellers have YET ANOTHER DAMN PROBLEM and we are delayed. AT LEAST TWENTY DAYS. The fuckers.

Anyway. Boo. Boohoo. Blah blah blah.
I haven't listened to Leonard Cohen in a long time. I didn't even know who Leonard Cohen was when Boyfriend and I got together.

We dubbed the 'apartment' where he lived then the Chelsea Hotel. Because it would drive someone to do heroin if they lived there long enough I think.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet,

Because it was old and small and we had a lot of sex there.

And drank tequila. And other stuff. And cooked dinner on hot plates.

A friend called me in the middle of the night there once. She is better now.

I smoked cigarettes inside for the only time in my life there.

I quit being a vegetarian there. By roasting a chicken for Thanksgiving dinner. In a toaster oven.

For a few weeks, when we were just getting together, I slept there. Like a normal person. Who sleeps. For multiple hours on end and then wakes up with enough energy to have sex, go running, and then go to work.

And that was called love for the workers in song
probably still is for those of them left.

That was a LONG time ago.

We talked a lot then. We didn't make our relationship public for a long time and we didn't go out and there was no space or furniture or television, so we talked. And we like each other. And we like talking to one another. We would fall asleep and wake up at four just to start talking again.

It was different then.

Although we still eat sushi more than is fiscally practicable.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.*

Tomorrow I have to write a statement of professional objectives.

That is intimidating.

My objective is mostly to have a profession. Because I need one. I am pretty convinced that I will have one of those professions that wind up being sucessful and yield a reasonably sizeable 401k. I am ambitious. I am competitive. I like being able to buy stuff and I am tired of stressing out about money. I'll just do it. Whatever "it" is.

Breaking rocks out here on the chain gang
Breaking rocks and serving my time
I will undoubtably spend a large part of that time wishing I could be living a whole different life. I wouldn't much mind a trust fund. Or a rich husband. Or my own winery in the fall with a small cafe that serves gorgeous food out indoors but with big open window walls where you can feel warm fresh air all the time.

I heard the judge say five years
On chain-gang you gonna go
I heard the judge say five years labor

Yeah, but I don't live in Southern California. And I don't go outside that much where I do live. And you can't make wine here or have resturants where window open.
working and working
but I still got so terribly far to go**
I resent faith. I resent people who have faith. Not just in Jesus. Just Faith. Blind belief of good in the universe, that it comes out in the wash, that the right thing happens in the end. 

I wish I had that I guess. 

Maybe not.

Maybe I used to know how to do that. To let go. 

Now I fret and spend my nights memorizing the ceiling, or the insides of my eyelids, or listening to my baby sleep when I am so privalidged to be able to hear her snores. Or some combination of the three. Or I read. Or I crack out on the internet or Jon and Kate Plus 8 or bad television in general. Or I just lay in bed because I'm so tired that my whole body aches all the time and laying down is better than sitting up. 

Maybe its because I still don't understand the how or the why.
You had and lost the one thing
you kept in a safe place

Maybe its the guilt.
remember the face, the girl who had made you her own
and how you left her alone

Maybe its the fear.
and if you burn the road that'll lead you back to her in time
I'll watch you turn to stone

I really hate three a.m.

*Leonard Cohen, Chelsea Hotel #2
**Nina Simone, Work Song
***Joshua Radin, Star Mile

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