{ Friday, December 13, 2002 }

No Good, Very Bad Day.

It's noon. And I'm already ready to consign this day to shitty.

Last night, we're hanging out at home and watching the Must See TV and having a nice quiet evening. At seven thirty began "I want to call Writer Guy. No, he'll call me if he wants to make plans for tomorrow night. Let the poor guy alone." At eight began "He's probably already asleep. He probably came home and crashed and so I shouldn't call him."

At ten I caved. I poured myself a big fat shot of tequila to help give me the nerve to call (after all that time spent not calling, there was some buildup). I called. He was up. He was "packing". Packing? For what? I quickly gleaned that he's going on that job interview this weekend. He kept telling me to check my e mail. So, I thought the explaination must have been sent to me and I just haven't gotten it yet.

I was wrong. There was an e-mail from Writer Guy. Just not having anything to do with answering the "where's he going? what's going on? how did I miss the memo on this one? he told me in advance the last time he went out of town... i hope no one's sick or dying?" questions.

So then I cried. I'm rocking the PMS right now and I was pretty drunk and whatever. I don't have to explain myself. I cried. Right there, in a heap on my living room floor.

Then I got angry. Very angry. And I left him a voice mail communicating that anger. Which was not the fair thing to do. Really. I shouldn't have unloaded at him like that when he was leaving. I think I even mentioned that in the voice mail. But, an angry girl's gotta behave inappropriately sometimes.

I passed out pretty early with a phone by my head. It was all I could do to get to the bed before I lost consciousness. He never called. The caller-id, the roommates and the sleeping soundly through the night confirm he never called.

I woke up this morning and puked while brushing my teeth. Thus causing me to cry because I had to start over. Then I went downstairs to get some water. Where I learned that while my cat was trapped in the back of the house last night (for seven hours), he chose to use one of Emma's pillows as a litterbox.

Except it was presented to me like "Your cat's food and water need to be moved closer to his litterbox. Upstairs." and there was much tense discussion (this was between Ellie and I. I haven't seen Emma yet today.). I'm having visions of this dream I had that apparently I didn't write about at the time... in which I have to move out of this house because they want me to get rid of my cat. Or to not let him in the house.

I'm really about to lose it on the cat front. I'm really about to yell at Ellie about it. She doesn't seem to get it. That my cat is a cat. That means he's a bit annoying sometimes. That he's helpless. That most of what he does is not his fault. He's a cat. It's what they do. They want nothing else more than to get into the rooms where they're not supposed to be. They want to bat the fuzzy mice all over the house. The next time I see her pick him up and put him outside I am going to snap and it is not going to be pretty.

You know, I haven't gotten angry at anyone I live with in the last five months. I haven't actually said anything at more than a statement level. But this cat thing has got to stop. It has to. I can't handle it. I hate conflict, but I can't handle it. I love Isis and it's my "duty" to defend him and make sure his home is a happy place.

So, I was trying to check my e mail. While smoking what turns out is my last cigarette in the pack and it's cold and wet out there. And Emma's computer freezes.

I take my phone cord and plod on upstairs. Where there's an e mail from Waste telling me that he missed our normal Thursday Night post-ER debriefing because his Gramps is in the hospital with lots of problems. I really like his grampa. So, I bet you can guess what I did? 10 points to anyone who guessed that I cried.

Also an e mail from Writer Guy. Not an apology really. Well, the words "I'm sorry" are contained in it and I ought to know enough by now to know that boys tend to think that the use of the words "I'm sorry" anywhere in the statement make it count as an apology. I did my best to write back without letting the anger control me.

And now I think I'm out of tears and out of patience and out of smokes and busy having a much overdue conversation with Nikki.

posted by mary ann 10:54 AM