A monster truck painted orange and black passes…
 
Me:  Ugh.
 
ST:  Yeah.
 
Me:  I bet he fucks like a jackhammer.  And it’s either really painful or really boring.
 
ST:  I was wondering why he had his truck painted like a fishing lure.

I was typing an email to someone yesterday with directions to our apartment when ST leaned my way from his side of the office and said, “That’s the most typing I’ve heard you do in weeks!”

Between that and the oh-so-subtle, “You have a blog, you know,” I’ve inferred he feels I should update.

But…update on what?  I’m positive there are funny things happening every day to me.  I’m sure of it because lately I’ve been so stressed and depressed that I would not have the stamina to type if other things weren’t balancing it out.  But…they allude me when I sit down.  Especially when I sit down by myself and the weight of the condo and classes and no job settles into my head.

I was typing directions because I’m hosting dinner for the sanctuary’s interns on Thursday.  We currently have four, and they are a great bunch.  But whenever I have people over, even friends who have known me for ten+ years, I fear they will be bored.  Because, deep in my heart, I’m aware I am boring.  And I LIKE it.  I will chose a book over boozefest.  Or incorporate them like the time my sophomore year that Julianne and I got drunk and recited our favorite poetry to the rest of the dorm.

…Just giving you a moment to let that sink in.

Anyway, in a fit of organization and forward movement that is the Jessica I know (unlike the Jessica typing this right now who would like to skip class to play video games in her leopard-spotted PJs…evidently I take this going-back-to-school very seriously.  You should probably lock up the vodka and Norton’s Anthology.) I called the school health department and got an exam for my girly parts Thursday afternoon because I am out of BC-pills and lord knows ob/gyn is still the one faction of medicine that insists on poking you because handing over a pill.  (Hee.  Poke.)

So, a brief two hours before my apartment is invading by younguns looking for a good night off I will be ankle deep in stirrups and lubricating jelly.

Perhaps I should just set up the shot glasses and copies of Frost beforehand.

I volunteer on Tuesdays.  I’m out the door by seven (hopefully earlier with traffic), and for roughly twelve hours I am picking up poop, giving tours, doing minimal computer work, partipating in both our enrichment and training programs, helping with special projects, and feeding.

To give an hour-to-hour assessment of what I do would be impossible.  It changes every day.  Right now, as daylight savings time is dwindling away, the afternoons get particularly dicey in terms of when things happen.  We could feed as early as five.  I didn’t start yesterday until six.

Last Tuesday, ST had off from work.  He said he’d make dinner, when I would be home?  I said between 6 and 7.

Come 6, he was wondering why he hadn’t heard from me.  I usually call as I wait on the dirt road for the gate to the sanctuary swing shut behind me.

By 6:10, he’d called.  By 6:30, he called and said he was driving over to bang on said gate to find out what had happened to me.  (These messages were on my cell phone, which I keep in the car out there.  I rarely get calls during the day, and part of feeding protocol is to turn your phone off so you can concentrate on the animals.)

I could not have told you for the life of me when I was getting home.  I purposely gave an hours leeway, and didn’t think about it for one more second.  I certainly was unaware I had just sentenced myself to a curfew.

At 7:10, while the gate shut behind me, I got his messages and started dialing his number.  Actually, before I listened to the messages, I naively just started dialing our home number thinking all was well and yes I was late, but I’d had a wonderfully exhausting day and couldn’t wait to come home and be pampered.

Um, yeah.

When I finally reached him, I was cursed and yelled at.  We hung up to finish the conversation in person.

All the way home, I was scared of how this was going to go down.  If he yelled at me, I was pretty sure I was going to yell back.  I wanted to feel in the wrong, that I owed him a phone call and his panic is a manifestation of his love for me.  But that independent little girl me still feels that when she’s demanded something, she wants to do the exact opposite.

It just also was plain weird - a first for me despite working with these big cats for over five years.  My ex-husband was also a volunteer, and we were very aware and accepting of the situation - both in terms of the time suck and the large cat aspect.

Luckily, when I got home, ST didn’t yell.  I think he hated the fact that he yelled earlier because it seemed to weaken his cause.  He’d been so worried, he vomited.  I felt horrible, but not responsible.  I just couldn’t.  I’d been volunteering again since our second date and he was well aware of how many times I’d call around the time I said I’d be home only to say I was just leaving the property.

I agreed I did owe him a phone call, and that I would slip the phone (on vibrate) into my pocket come the afternoon so that if he tried to get in touch, at least I’d know.  He also has the numbers of a few people who will always be there with me. 

Ironically, this Tuesday I was also held up.  At ten to seven, I tried to put several calls through so he’d know the deal.  No dice.  I got home to one passed-out tired man.  Who immediately thought I would be mad at him.  (I wasn’t.)

I don’t know the moral or end to this story.  I am stuck between feeling like I act single way too much and that I am grown-ass woman who can do as she pleases. 

We went away to Georgia for the weekend, to see grandparents (stopped in on mine on the way), pick some pears, and hear, “So when’s the wedding?” six thousand times.

I’ve been having bad dreams.  I can’t remember them specifically although I know Monday night’s involved protists.  Other than that, I just know I am not sleeping through the night and generally exhausted.

ST and I had what could probably be considered our first fight yesterday.  I’m not ready to go over the details because it would probably be a very nice post in itself if I could just get my brain to focus for a second.  But it started with him yelling at me on the phone.  Not because he was mad, but because he had been scared and that made him mad.  I spent the drive home wondering how I would cope with that and get us to actually talk face-to-face.  But I got home and he felt like a jerk for yelling and we resolved the issue.

The sanctuary’s biggest fund-raising event is this Friday and I feel like a third leg - not only not useful, but possibly in the way.  I’ve only worked this once before and I have no idea what to expect.  I’m also despairing over what to wear because I do not own anything animal-themed and I can’t justify buying anything new.  I’m trying to justify a trip to a stylist for an updo but I don’t know of anyone on this side of town and I’m beginning to think it’s a bad idea.

You know I am seriously stressed when I cannot get my shit together over a haircut.

There are times I think I can’t do this.

I used to say that maybe it was me.  I meant it.  But what I meant more was, prove me wrong.  Be the one.  The one that changes everything.

He’s the one.  He has changed everything.  And I still have times I think I can’t do this.  It really is me.

And yet…I know that I will.  In part because I know he can read that and understand.  He knows me better than anyone in the world, he knows that too.

Today was one of those days.  Such silly shit.  Chores and money, time tables and to-do lists.  What to have for dinner.  When to take a nap.  How long to study.

But then, I’m taking a break watching TV and he’s already in bed and at the end of the show, I have to go to him.  I have to.  I would feel empty otherwise.

We giggle and stroke, sigh and climax.  He calls me perfect, forgetting that he once told me I could never be perfect (no one could), but that I was perfect for him.

It is these times that I think, how can anyone not do this?

I got an offer on the condo last week.  I got the voicemail on Thursday after class, before I got to read the actual offer.  It sucks to get excited and then face reality.  It was way too low. 

ST can tell you, I am not good at bartering.  I am able to get away with it during car purchases because I am very, very aware the whole car industry is so confusing that it’s possible the dealership cost involved imaginary numbers multipled by pi.  But otherwise?  Give me a sticker.  I won’t even complain that it has .99 at the end.  I just want to know how many paper strips and shiny disks I should hand over in return for said object.

But thankfully, ST’s around to stop me from doing things like selling the condo for six dollars and a goat.  We countered, but so far no further interest.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I hear from the guy again.  But I won’t be surprised if I don’t either.

Strangely, the fact that I got an offer, even a low one, made me a bit more relaxed about the whole situation.

Jinx-me-not-the-second:  I had a job interview today.  For, of all things, PR work.  Sadly, I think my lack of experience will edge me out.  It would have been interesting and challenging, but to be honest perhaps a little more commitment than I could make with my school load.  It’s hard to say since they seemed very unsure of exactly what I’d be doing.  I’ll know for sure by the end of the week.

Other items of interest: The cat (Zulu) continues to thrive; my camera cable continues to roam free; and I got a ‘B’ on my organic chem test which I am guiltily proud of (I know I should be shooting for an ‘A’, but have you SEEN organic chemistry??).

Update!  Camera cable located!  In a desk drawer.  Not the freezer.  Not the litter box.  How the hell was I supposed to know to look for it there?

Presenting…the ‘Lu.