I'm so fucking tired...
Called 911 for a woman last night who had become locked in a third-floor bathroom at 1:30 AM, and I stood there watching as three enormous firemen carried boxes of tools and equipment up the stairs to hack the door down. They even brought an axe. Yeah, I guess it's standard procedure to have an axe, if you're a fireman, in case there's a FIRE and you need to get somebody out of a locked third-story bathroom... But cripes, I didn't know those fuckers were like, four feet high...
Secretly, I really wished they would have chopped down the door. That would have been so fucking cool.
Spent the day with Neil the other day... We sat on a little dock looking at the city, and I asked him, "do you ever feel like you own the whole world, but nobody knows it?"
(Personally, I think if anybody were to actually own the world without being suspected of owning the world, that person would have to be Neil... It is for this reason that Neil has a pseudonym in this journal.)
"More often than people would like to think," he replied.
"Well," I said, "I feel like I own it right now. And nobody else knows it."
Feeling like I own the world is quite an infrequent feeling for me. I'm slightly more used to feeling like the world is imminently going to kick the shit out of me. But sometimes, like when I'm sitting on a little dock with Neil, watching cars and little fish go by, I think that maybe the world really is nearly perfect, but that I could kick its ass if I had to.
Once, I lost an arm-wrestling match to a twelve-year-old child with one paralyzed arm, who was having a giggling fit. I have won two games of chess in my entire life, and I'm pretty sure the second time was because my opponent let me win. I couldn't even win at thumb-wrestling with Peter, even though he was missing a joint in his thumbs and had these mutant hands. I STILL cannot open a butterfly knife and look cool doing it. And a fireman's axe reaches the middle of my chest if it's standing on its end. I am not, you see, an ass-kicking sort.
But I could kick the world's ass. If I had to.
You know those itty-bitty delicate ladies who always end up on TV for having lifted an eighteen-wheeler off of their beloved who had been trapped underneath? Sometimes I feel like that.
I have never, ever been in love like this.
My mom told me once that cocaine makes you feel like that. Invincible. Like you could walk down the street and cars wouldn't hit you. And if they did, you'd probably stand up and swear at the drivers.
That is exactly how I feel with Neil.
It sort of tingles.
Some things that apparently happen when one is pregnant:
1.) Really, really good moods. Almost all the time.
2.) Weeping spells over the dumbest shit in the universe. On the 4th of July, I cried because nobody was clapping for the little crappy fireworks; only for the big ones. I felt bad for the little piddly fireworks. Of course, although I was weeping, I was simultaneously in a really, really good mood, so I sort of laughed at myself while I was crying.
3.) Nausea. Weird gastric sensations that are neither hunger nor fullness, but some combination thereof.
4.) The desire to eat the most bizarre crap you could possibly imagine. My crowning glory, until last night, was a breakfast of hot cocoa and mashed potatoes with gravy. I mostly just ate the gravy, anyway. There was another morning when I ate a bowl of cream of broccoli soup, and then a can of cold spaghettios. Once, I ate a half a box of ice cream sandwiches and a couple of pieces of baked chicken. That was interesting because I ate them at a bus stop. Last night, at 4 AM, however, I simply HAD to have a baked potato. With sour cream. So I ate that. At 4 AM. With about half a carton of orange juice. And really, that's pretty gross.
5.) A late period (naturally)...
6.) Acne, adolescence-style, that waxes and wanes but never goes away no matter what I do. Furthermore, my skin manages to secrete about half a Crisco-canister's worth of grease per day, but any attempt to clean it off me results in such dry skin that I get all flaky. Shit, my skin wasn't this bad when I actually WAS a teenager...
7.) Weight gain. To my great pride, I have gained four pounds since I became pregnant. Three of them were in the past week, because I've been teaching myself to eat all the time, instead of just eating "meals," like regular people.
8.) Compulsions to do stuff that's slightly too weird even for ME to do in public. Like singing Latin church hymns. If, twenty years from now, Helena is sighing and putting her child through seminary school, this is probably why. I only sing in Latin in the shower. The rest of the time, I sing trash-rock and oldies; that's wholesome enough, right? This baby is just going to have to deal with that.
9.) A nearly-insatiable desire for sex and cuddling. Unfortunately, this is ALL the time. Cold showers don't help. I frequently have to sit on the floor and contemplate things that are blatantly unsexual. Insects. Santa Fe. Bisquick pancake mix. Cow shit. The time my mom put her contacts in without washing the soap out first. Mullets. West Nile Virus. That sort of helps. Sort of. Along these same lines, apparently I give off some sort of "fuck-me" hormone that encourages all persons of the male persuasion to hit on me. All the time. Interestingly enough, while I'm flattered, I'm completely uninterested. I have the same mental and physical reaction to the idea of sleeping with some random cute guy from a bus, as I have to mullets and cow shit. I have no real explanation for this.
10.) Fatigue, all the time, not necessarily related to spending one's night awake and watching firemen chop down doors.
Now, what's funny about these things is that every person who spends time in my presence -- not even necessarily a significant amount of time -- seems to come down with one or more of the above symptoms. One woman I know started eating Twinkies in bed EVERY night. And throwing up in the mornings. Furthermore, she was SIX WEEKS late for her period, and had gained five pounds in four weeks. It is significant to note that this woman probably spends more time with me than most other people. Another woman I know went to her doctor because she was late for her period and was pretty sure she was "going through The Change." I barely spend ANY time with her. Etc., etc., etc...
Now, I know that women -- and probably men too -- give off hormones. Women who live together or work together end up on synchronized cycles. (It has been said that this is the Goddess' gift to lesbians...) But apparently, my hormones are kicking the asses of everybody else's. Everybody's getting dosed with Helena-juice, I guess. It's not like I take off my shirt and rub my armpits on people or anything. I don't quite understand HOW I've managed to fuck up so many people, but I've SEEN it. Pimples, crying spells, weird sleeping habits, barfing, Twinkies... I kind of feel bad, because not everybody is taking it as well as I am. Some people don't get the really, really good mood to go along with the cravings and the falling asleep at seven PM. Actually, I think the good mood is less about hormones than it's about the fact that I've got a generally awesome life.
I should mention, too, that apparently men are not immune...
Weird.
So, if you know me, and you're feeling a little out of whack, that's probably why.
I used the term "K-turn" a couple of days ago, and didn't get a strange look. As a nearly-bicoastal person, I've adapted a lot of my speech and so forth to accommodate those West Coast folks who fail to comprehend certain phrases and behaviors.
A "K-turn" is the East Coast synonym for the West Coast's "three-point turn." As in: "I can drive pretty well, but I have a lot of trouble with parallel parking and K-turns."
Native Washingtonians have no idea what that means.
They sort of look at you like you're stupid. Almost defective sometimes.
But I have a real problem saying "three-point turn." It's not because I'm a stuck-up New York bitch or whatever... It's just that, hey man, I've got to preserve a little bit of my heritage. Even if it's just in little silly ways.
I said "K-turn" the other day. Neil didn't bat an eye. He knew exactly what I was talking about. It probably didn't even occur to him that I was using our native language. So then I said: "which way, E.J.?" That really has no West Coast translation. Actually, you can't really translate it out of Broome Countyish. Neil and I grinned at that. He said: "Did you Boscov today?" I replied: "See you at the Giant." I debated singing the Brozetti's theme song, but that seemed a bit much.
I suppose I understand why people from other countries flock together in little herds to speak with each other in their native tongues. Even folks who can speak English like any Americans (only usually better), always manage to seek out speakers of their first language and speak it. It feels like home. Not in the "fuck-I-hate-my-hometown" way, but in a nice, wholesome way... The word "K-turn," if it had a taste, would taste like homemade sugar cookies and milk.
I should mention, too, that my native language involves a lot of gesture and body language. Washingtonians think that most gesturing is a sign of aggression and it makes them angry or uncomfortable sometimes. Apparently, Tennesseeans think it's a nervous twitch, and will repeatedly touch your hands in some sort of attempt to settle you down. Californians think it's cute, but I think it freaks them out, too. I find it impossible to communicate anything really important without gesture, however. It's one of the only ways in which the written word is wholly inadequate.
It is good to speak my mother tongue and actually have somebody GET it. It feels wonderful not to be misinterpreted all the damned time. Oy.
(It's NOT a fucking twitch.)
That's all.
Beware of fire axes.
Love,
~Helena*