Sox, what?

So in case you didn't hear, the fucking Sox won the fucking World Series last night!!!!

(If you're a Boston fan, you're automatically required to say fuck at any possible juncture. I mean, fuck.)

I would write a whole fucking lot about the fucking amazing win but am frankly still too distracted by the absolute fucking charm that is Jacoby Ellsbury.

Him, I'd like to fuck.

Last week gone, A new week to come

You know when you really have to pee?

No, I mean, when you really have to pee. Like, when you're on a road trip, and someone else is driving... maybe someone you don't know all that well? And you start to have to pee, but you don't know the driver that well, so you wait another twenty miles before you say anything? And then because they don't know you that well, they assume you can probably hold it? And then it's another 40 minutes before you finally stop and by then it's all you can do to not take off your seatbelt and spread-eagle your legs, just to take any and all pressure off your bladder?

And so the driver finally stops, and you leap out of the car with renewed energy and do that sort of half-walk-half-run that always ends up looking like a weird-skip towards the door, because you know, you don't know this driver that well, and you want to look cool, but really there are beads of sweat starting to break out on your hairline. And you know what? That sweat is probably urine. Because it has been that long.

And so you finally make it into the bathroom, and then into the stall, and the beat of your heart is already calming with the anticipation of the sweetest release known to man-kind: that is, peeing after such horrible torture, and you sit down and suddenly you realize...

...THE SEAT IS WET.

And then there's no way you can even enjoy that you finally get to pee, and in fact, you probably don't even pee all of what you have to pee, and you probably get back into the car still having to pee. Because the fucking seat was wet.

You know when that happens?

That's sort of how my week went.

It started out with such promise. The doctors told Erin she could come home this Thursday and with that said, we were in the home stretch. The home stretch of me being too scared to sleep, and her being bored out of her fucking mind.

Eric made plans to come up and visit and after a month of not seeing him, I was more than excited.

Matt the Veteran filled me in on a big event Friday night and included me in the tabling plans without asking, which some might have construed as rude, but I took as a compliment. I really felt like I was part of something important.

And then little by little, things kind of went to shit.

First the doctors decided that Erin could not come home. And more frustrating than their news, was their reasoning. Let's just say it was based on test results which had no comparison.

So here's to another week of hours camped out at Fletcher Allen. Another week of wanting so badly to do something to make my best friend feel better, and another week of realizing that no amount of cards, flowers, games, dvds, and other electronic devices, will change the fact that she's stuck in the hosptial.

Then Eric's plans to come visit fell through. And somehow, this lead to a fight. A pretty frickin' huge fight. And for the record, I do not fight with my friends. Like... ever. Talk about upsetting.

And then the Friday night event kind of pancaked. Is that an expression? I don't think it is, but it's the word that immediately came to mind. And what I mean is... it was good. It was fun. But it fell... flat.

There were people. But there weren't a whole lot of people. And there weren't a whole lot of tee-shirt sales. And Matt the Veteran's posse of groupies (ie infatuated college girls clad in super-cute going out outfits) were there, and while I find them adoreable in some respects, in other respects they just make me feel like the chump in the Cause tee-shirt and chucks, who buys the Veterans drinks and tucks them in at night, and let's face it, is past her cute-college-girl days, and somehow unwillingly merged into 'neurotic den mother'.

And then, after three encounters with a rude bartender, and four defensive plays against aggressive Veteran-groupies, I ventured to the bathroom where I was met with a crowd of college girls who, too ditsy to be aware of my presense, were talking shit about Veterans who speak out against the war, and in the middle of rolling my eyes, and sighing loudly, and saying quite audibly, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME," I literally unzipped my pants and sat down onto a wet toilet seat.

Yeah.

The fucking seat was wet.

And to be quite frank, it was all I could do to not just plant myself there for the rest of the night. In some downtown club's bathroom, dressed in activist garb, beaten down by the bartender's bad words, and with some other person's urine smeared all over my own ass.

Matt the Veteran was in a bad mood, too, and told me so on the way home.

"You know what?" I told him. "I can't wait for Monday. This whole fucking week has just been... off. Monday things will be fresh. Monday things will be good."

And I think it might be the first time I've awaited Monday with the anticipation of a birthday or a vacation, but at least it will be a new start. A new countdown until Erin comes home. A new countdown to yet another Veteran event. And maybe Monday will even bring some sort of resolution with Eric. Because I miss him. And as much as his words hurt my feelings (like, whoa, SO BADLY hurt my feelings) I just want to see him.

But not as much as I want Erin home.

Because if this past week has taught me anything at all, it is that Erin is my family here. Yeah we might have our stretches of time where we barely see each other because we're both so absorbed with our separate social circles, but at the end of the day we come home to the same home, and that's really all that matters. She's my closest relation within 230 miles, she's my designated emergency contact person, and she's the only person in this whole state I can completely confide everything and anything in, without judgement. In a relatively short friendship, we have faced broken engagements, anticipated weddings, murder, and soon, new babies. We've seen each other at our lowest, and we've seen each other at our highest. And, frankly, we've seen each other really fucking high.

Erin, you bitch, don't make my mascara run. Dropkick those fucking Fletcher Allen nurses and COME HOME. Me and Kathy Lee, we need you here.

Without you, it's just one big wet toilet seat waiting to happen.

Greenbean.

I’ve lately been trying to be more consciously green. And by green, I do mean environmentally friendly. Not… green-colored.

I guess it’s that whole ‘practice what you preach’ idea. I talk the talk, so I gotta walk the walk. I… shit… ran out of cheesy motivational slogans after only two. I’m so bad at this.

Anyway.

The Veterans and I recently went to see "The 11th Hour", Leonardo DiCaprio’s answer to Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth”.

Mmmm, Leo.

I’ll never let go, Jack! I’ll never let go!

It was a good film but one line from it has stuck with me more than any other message it tried to impart. That is, use your vote. And remember, your dollar is your vote. So only buy things that you feel ok about buying. Meaning, if you don’t like sweatshops, don’t buy sweatshop clothes. If you don’t like corporations, don’t buy from them. If you don’t like fast food chains, you really shouldn’t drink their strawberry shakes. And if you don’t like cigarette companies, you gotta stop getting drunk and bumming those Parliament Lights.

As we left the theatre I told Matt the Veteran how that was the line that stayed with me, and how I was going to make an effort to really start buying only products I felt ok about. And not just clothes, but all products.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I mean, Christ, your shower is full of Suave bottles. Suave!”

“HEY!” I countered. “Suave is only 99 cents!”

I swear to God that’s the last time I let that dirty-ass hippie use my low budget shower.

So with a fresh paycheck in my pocket, I stopped downtown on my way to the hospital to check out the latest at American Apparel and The Body Shop.

Using my vote at American Apparel is a debatable choice. After all, they don't support unions and their CEO has more than once been accused of sexual harrassment. But in the end I let the fact that the clothes are American-made override my dislike for all that, and for their pedophilia induced advertising campaign. I needed a couple solid colored shirts, and decided that the six or seven times I have cringed at one of their model’s crotches spread over the back page of the Weekly was not quite enough to cancel out the fact that there would be no sweat shop guilt upon leaving the store.

[At least not until 2009, when I strongly believe a scandal will break and we will all discover we paid $75 for leggings stitched together by blind grannies in the ghettos of Bagdhad. Or some shit.]

I dropped about two thirds of my paycheck there, and then traveled on to the Body Shop where I dropped over $20 on shampoo and conditioner ALONE. Yup. You heard me. From $2 on Suave to last me a month, to over $20 on little bottles that will force me to wash my hair only every three days. I clearly should have skipped the Body Shop and simply gone to City Market. No wonder hippies dread their hair. Green products are just too expensive.

And so at the end of my green shopping trip I found myself with one cute outfit, four or five showers worth of hair-washing, some face wash, and about four dollars left in my pocket.

Thank god Erin is in the hospital this week. Because if I didn’t have her patient room service to mooch off of, I’d be living on ramen.

I would end this by saying ‘it ain’t easy being green’ but that seems way too cliché.

And oh wait, I guess I just ended this by saying that.

hey! hey! Hospital Stay!

Erin was admitted to the hospital this week. Crack cocaine overdose combined with a raging infection of VD apparently lands you there. But they’re just calling it ‘exhaustion’.

No, I’m kidding.

Maybe.

In any case, she’s living at Fletcher Allen for a while, and so am I by default. After all, my anxiety certainly can’t handle staying at my apartment by myself! At least not for more than the few hours required sleep time! As it is, I had a very realistic dream about Michelle last night, and SWEAR TO GOD I heard a construction guy on a walkie-talkie in my living room yesterday morning.

We’ve been spending our time in the hospital folding paper cranes for a public art display we are planning for early November. I have to wonder when the nurses pop in, though, if they think we are folding them for Erin’s health. Like if we fold 1000, we might miraculously cure her tendency to sell herself on the corner by the OP. Or to do lines in the bathroom before watching the kids at the Y.

No, I’m really kidding.

The nurses are actually pretty awesome. And some are pretty adorable to boot. None are able to hook up our borrowed DVD player, though, and in that capacity, they suck.

And so we are watching episode after episode of EVERY CRAPPY TV SHOW EVER PRODUCED. With short blips of the Sox during commercial breaks, because Erin knows that I can only keep her company so long as I know how my boys are holding up, and I know that watching a baseball playoff game in entirety while already on an IV, might just be the thing that would kill her.

In any case, we are now accepting donations. Of… pretty much anything you want to give us. Whether it be more paper for cranes, or a laptop for Erin, or a sizeable monetary donation to the hospital itself so they can set themselves up with some wireless internet. Mmmm, Internet.

And maybe a flask of scotch while you’re at it? Erin’s got this crazy sci-fi anterior veina-cava tube set up, and we want to do some experimenting.

No, I really am kidding.

Seriously.

The Anniversary

This past Sunday was the one-year anniversary of the day Michelle was murdered.

It was also the one-year anniversary of the day we realized she was missing. Of the day Erin's friend assured me she was "totally fine". Of the day I curled up on my bed with my cell phone clutched closely, waiting for a phone call with any news, good or bad. Of the day I put all of Dorsey's birthday party supplies back in the fridge, only to stare at the veggie dip every time I opened the door until it finally went bad and I threw it out, unable to eat what had been meant for that night's planned celebration.

This past Saturday was the one-year anniversary of the day she disappeared.

It was also the one-year anniversary of my first time eating at Koto, and my first time doing sake-bombs. It was the one-year anniversary of my first time meeting Julia, and laughing at her tendency to eat raw miso paste. Of showing Dorsey's parents the O.P. Of assuring them, even if only with a locking of the eyes, and quick nod of my head, that I would keep an eye out for her, make sure she was safe. It was the one-year anniversary of introducing Michelle to James. Of silently thinking to myself that they would make a great couple. Of meeting Tommy and Mike for the first time. Of saving Michelle's phone number in my own cell phone, the official mark of becoming real friends.

This past Friday was the one-year anniversary of the event at Higher Ground. Of waiting until midnight to do birthday shots with Michelle and Dorsey. Of not having quite enough room in my car to get us all to the bar. Of making Michelle ride with an overhead projector on her lap, a memory that seems strangely surreal in comparison to the next night's events. Of later on allowing Dorsey to walk away from me towards another party in town, even though I could tell she was blacked out. The anniversary of the last time I would ever let that happen.

A week ago Sunday was the one year anniversary of the first time we lost Michelle. Of the first time she decided to walk alone back to campus. Of the party on Green Street, where Dorsey, Michelle, Erin and I all swigged cheap whiskey from the bottle Erin's friend had brought along. Of Dorsey, Michelle and I officially deciding to all move in together once Erin finally graduated and moved away. Of us deciding that if nothing else, our apartment would be awesome. Yes, it would have to be awesome.

Today was the anniversary of the day we took over Kinko’s. Of me setting up the kids I nannied with coloring books on the floor, so I could help Julia and Hannah run copy after copy of the Missing Person flyer.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we formed the search party. Of me not being able to focus on the seriousness of what we were doing. Of me instead worrying that my mother would have a fit when the news showed a shot of me wearing denim on denim.

Next Saturday will be the anniversary of finding her. The anniversary of leaving the staring people in the press conference and instead watching the news from the Channel 5 van outside City Hall. The anniversary of Tommy's anguished cry as he pushed by me, out of the van and into the arms of his mother who held him, and cried with him, for the girl he had grown up with side by side. The anniversary of buying out Like Cola's entire stock of red wine and piling everyone into my living room for our own non-denominational version of sitting Shiva.

Next Sunday will be the anniversary of Dorsey's parents returning to town. Of them buying us a hotel room to allow us a chance to hide out from everything. Of my old boss wanting to help so bad that she leant me a TV on which we watched endless episodes of Friends in that hotel. Of my first ever panic attack upon finding myself disoriented in the dark. Of our big trip to the Pennycluse, and Outdoor Gear Exchange to buy everyone pepper spray.

The anniversary of the official start to the winter spent under the influence.

The anniversary of the official start of Dorsey moving in.

The anniversary of the official start of the rest of lives, with every last bit of us changed.