Serious as a heart attack

So in my last entry, I wrote about how I was a little worried about my mom, going off on her big road trip to Sin City and waiting for a sign from God on how to run her life…well, she got it. And then some.

Two weekends ago, my mom had a mild heart attack. Technically, we’re told, she had a spasm in an artery, which temporarily blocked blood flow to her heart. Either way, it was scary as hell. It turns out the heart attack was caused by some carelessly prescribed migraine medicine, but there was still some damage to the heart and an increased chance of future problems.

I don’t really know what to say about it. I’d like to say I’ve had some sort of life-changing revelation from the whole thing, a renewed appreciation for the mundane details of my every day existence, but I can’t. It was scary, yes. I’d rather not lose my mom just yet, thanks very much. As far as the big picture goes, though, I can’t take it to mean anything special. She’s very lucky, lots of people have heart attacks and don’t make it. At the same time, lots of people have heart attacks—our situation here isn’t unique, it’s not even particularly dramatic or interesting. She got sick, she got better. We’re glad we have her back and relatively healthy, of course. I’m not heartless. I just expected to feel some sort of profound relief after the massive worry? Am I out of my mind?

Yo Momma

It's Mother's Day, in case you missed the E! Network's Tales of Hollywood Moms special this afternoon. The Remix and I spent the day with her mom, who graduated with her second Master's degree this morning.

My mom is in Las Vegas, spending a month or so with her mom, who is very sick. My mom is afraid to fly, so she decided to drive. In her Mini Cooper. With her DOG. (She tried to rope me into this, by the way, but 30 hours in a clown car with my mom and a flatulent dog did not sound like my idea of a vacation. That, and I'm a little light on cash this month, which would make going to Vegas pure unadulterated torture.)

Anyway, I thought since it was Mother's Day I ought to say something about my mom. She's been good to me, for the most part. Sure, she's overbearing, annoying, needy, and deaf; but she's also kind, generous, well-meaning, and forgiving. She's constantly trying to drag me to church, but I'll forgive her that, too.

I'm a little worried about ma, mostly because she's apparently lost her mind. This trip she's on to Vegas involved quitting her job, and didn't involve taking my dad. Personally, I think it's a religious problem. Like most religious automatons, my mom is constantly looking for guidance from a figment of the world's collective imagination. When things are going well, it's easy to pretend that "God" is guiding you...if, like my mom, you find yourself vaguely unhappy at some point, it becomes a little harder. Now she's looking for something to actually happen, looking for "God" to show her the way somehow. Of course, he won't, and so she's left feeling lost. My mom has committed too much of her life to her ridiculous beliefs to turn back now--turning her back on the whole thing isn't an option. Subconsciously, she probably knows what's missing, and eventually she'll figure it out. When she does, she'll be back to thanking her imaginary friend for the guiding hand, and she'll be right again. Until she's not, anyway.

This is aggravating for me. My mom is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I feel like she's been railroaded by well-meaning zealots into a lie she's too comfortable with to challenge. Religion is perfect for people like my mom--she doesn't want to think objectively about things like premarital sex, gay marriage, or abortion. There's too much to figure out, too many people who know more about it, too many fancy statistics, too many gray areas. No, she'd rather be told what to think, complete with a pat set of reasons that are easy to remember and inarguable by virtue of being totally illogical.

I'm not mad at my mom. I love my mom. I don't want some ludicrous and antiquated religious sham to ruin my parents' relationship or my mom's life, though. She is fortunate to have some time for "God" to help her figure out what she wants--but once she realizes he's not helping, she better get it together quickly, before she follows in all her siblings' footsteps and makes a total train wreck out of her life.

Insert Superlative Here

What the hell? Where has everyone been? I've been sitting here, with all sorts of clever things to say, but no one was here to listen so they've all disappeared into the ether that is the interwebs.

Ok, ok, you caught me...my lazy ass has been notably absent from the blog world for quite some time. (57 days or so, actually, and probably not as notably as I'd like to think.) Anyway, if you're still with me enough to be reading this, you've probably one of the people who's simultaneously reading the Remix, in which case you know most of what's gone on with me in the past two months...but I'll recap anyway.

Remix moved in, and she's wonderful. The new condo is coming along nicely, though improvements have momentarily been suspended on account of funding issues. The cats like the new place, as much as cats have opinions about this sort of thing. Work is busy, but still fun and interesting. We're eating well here, both the Remix and I enjoy cooking, so there's something delicious to be eaten on almost a nightly basis, plus more than occasional cakes. (Both the Remix and I also enjoy cake.) I quit smoking, hoping to take advantage of the climate change to break the habit.

I'm enjoying the hell out of living with this girl. She makes me laugh, she's great company, and she seems to enjoy the hell out of it right back. She's full of ideas for decorating this place, but still interested in making it our place, not just hers, and she's making it fun for me. She's watching movies from my eclectic Netflix list, and I'm picking up new music from her list. My Tivo is recording reality TV right along with Heroes and UFC fights. Our books live on the same shelves, reenergizing our individual libraries by adding a whole new list of someone else's favorites. Most importantly, though, it feels like home. For both of us, I think. Hell, I know.

Yeah, you're happy for us, I get it. If I were you, I'd be sick of reading this already too. I don't know what else to say, though. We're living together, we're happy, and damn it, it works. We've both seen enough bad relationships lately to know how lucky we are--we could be trying to sell the place less than three months after we bought it. It happens, you know. I know a guy.

I'm on my way, I'm on my waaaaay...Home Sweet Home!

Come on...all you people who read the Remix's blog, did anyone ever suspect she'd end up moving in with a guy who quotes Motley Crue lyrics as blog titles?

Today is closing day. Approximately two hours from now, The Remix and I will own a home. (Technically, I'll have my name on the paperwork, but who's being technical? Besides, she's paying half the mortgage AND picking out the bedskirt, which I think more than qualifies.) We're both really excited, I think, even in the face of hours and hours of packing left to finish before moving on Saturday.

I have nothing enlightening to say...I've been running back and forth to the dumpster all morning throwing away my excess stuff, and my brain is tired. I'm going to go sign a mountain of paperwork now, then come home to my blood-spattered cats* and half-boxed apartment and finish off the packing. Wish me luck, and the next time you hear from me will be from the new joint, tentatively entitled Pant's Labyrinth. (Yet another long story.)

*The cats went to get declawed this week. The fat one is white, and also stubborn, so the day after surgery he busted open all his wounds and now his paws look like he just massacred the Incas. After not seeing the cats for all of three fucking days, I got misty eyed picking them up (the blood didn't help)--I'm a world class loser, you heard it here first.

I'm so sore from laughing, I haven't got the will to fight.

Totally cribbing from the Remix again, stealing her habit of using obscure song lyrics to title blog posts. I'm shameless, what can I say?

It's an interesting counterpoint, this whole friends dumping friends thing. A year ago, I was recently divorced, and the friend in question was one of the people who stood by the whole time. No, he wasn't exactly full of pithy advice, that's not his style. He didn't lend himself to any epiphany type moments, either. But he sat, and he listened until he was sick of hearing about it, and then he listened some more.

So now it's my turn. I know I should be talking to him--once upon a time, when I was younger, my friends looked at me as the one to turn to for advice. (This may have been because even at 17, I was pretty sure I knew everything there was to know about everything, and sold everyone else on it pretty well. I still don't know everything, but sales is sort of what I do best.) Either way, in this case I don't even know that advice is totally necessary. I think it's too far gone at this point, all the strategizing in the world isn't going to get things back to where they were.

Whether or not there's a solution to be found is beside the point. He needs someone to listen, and I'm not doing much of a job. Our relationship is such that I don't know how to start the conversation at all. When it was me having problems, it worked, but only because I talk all the goddamn time, whether someone is listening or not. For him, it's harder--our whole relationship is based on jokes. I play straight man to his ribbing, we have ludicrous arguments about whether you can make a parachute out of a thin sheet of lead (I say yes) or whether it's actually possible to have a 0% chance of rain (I say no.)

We're running out of jokes, though. I can see the strain in his face, and I hear about it thirdhand from the Remix after her nightly talks with the female in question. He's angry, and he's bitter, and I don't know what to do. If anyone else asked me, I'd say he deserves it, based on his actions. Can't say that to him, though. So I'll sit back here, waiting for him to open the door, and hope that he finds a way to bring it up before it's too late.

Migraine, Breakups, and Italian Sodas...Happy Mardi Gras!

Oh sweet Jesus Asshumping Christ, does my head hurt. I don't often get migraines, but on a scale of one to ten, this one is a motherfucker. I missed work today, which is a rare occurrence, mostly on account of the fact that my walk to the shower made me nauseous enough I had to sit down.

I have nothing productive to say, really. I'm not tired, so I can't possibly sleep anymore today. My head hurts if I watch TV, play video games, or stare at the interwebs too long. Reading isn't going to happen, period. So I'm sitting here doing nothing.

Recent developments in the Breakup (it gets capital letters now) between Boy and Girl, some friends of the Remix and I's, have got me thinking, though. Boy (the one I'm friends with) is clearly in the wrong. I won't say why, because it's not my story to tell, but suffice it to say he's not garnering much in the way of sympathy from me--and that doesn't absolve me from my duties as a friend.

As I told the Remix the other day, the dilemma for me is simple: I know what's wrong, at least superficially. I could give Boy a laundry list of things to say, even things to do, which might convince her to consider taking him back. I can't, though. Girl is my friend too, and I'm not sure that taking him back would be very good for either of them. So when he asks my advice, what do I do? It's like being a public defender--I know he's guilty, but I also feel like he deserves the best defense I can give him. So I've decided to lead the witness. I won't tell him what to do or say, and I'm certainly not going to pat his hand reassuringly and tell him everything is alright. If he starts down the right path, though, I'll prod him in the right direction.

For this to work, for Girl to consider any possibility of getting back together with Boy, Boy needs to undergo some wholesale changes. The old Boy, the one who screwed this up in the first place, isn't getting back together with anyone. If there's a possibilty of a new Boy, he still may not be able to make up for this one--but if there's a new Boy, he'll be better off with the next girl, too. He may be an asshole, and he may deserve every bit of misery he's got right now, but my own personal experience makes me a firm believer in second chances. I don't believe they'll get back together, even if he says all the right things and means them. I think it's too far gone. It'll be easier for me to look him in the eye and respect him, though, if he gives it his best shot. Girl is the best thing that ever happened to Boy--unfortunately for him, he doesn't realize it, and Girl could do a whole lot better for herself anyway. If he can figure out what he did wrong, there's a chance he could turn out alright, whatever happens with Girl. If not, well, I'll just keep preparing myself for this same dog and pony show every four to six years, and hope I don't get tired of him before he stops needing a friend.

Eesh. That's depressing. I'm going to go back to laying on my couch trying to keep my left eye from popping out of my head. Any advice here is welcome, folks, whether it pertains to migraines, disastrous break-ups, or recommendations on a good, cheap place to get Italian soda. (I'm sort of hooked on Target's private lable brands of Italian soda...orange passionfruit mango is the favorite so far, but I'm looking forward to trying the blueberry pomegranate in about three minutes...)

Honestly, is there anything gayer for a straight man to drink than Italian soda? Ok, maybe Jagerbombs or Amaretto Sours, but in the non-alcoholic category, it's gotta be tops.

Moving On Up

So I'm sitting here having my first cigarette of the day at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday, wondering what the hell I'm doing awake in the first place. The Remix went out to play wingman for a single friend last night, and I was going to take the opportunity to go get a little tipsy and sing karaoke with some of my friends, but somehow instead I wound up laying down to take a twenty minute nap at 9pm and didn't wake up until this morning. That's ok, I probably needed it, but now I'm up early with nothing to do, so I feel like I ought to be productive.

I signed my mortgage application this week, and did the home inspection, and everything seems to be going along swimmingly. Since it's yet to debut, why don't y'all take a look:

That's the living room, it's a good size, with maybe another 10-12 feet behind the camera in the connected dining room. What really got me on this one, though, was the kitchen:

I've got an island. I'm so excited about this place, I've gone a little goofy. I close in less than a month, move that weekend, and the Remix will move in the weekend after that. I can't wait. We're already mentally redecorating rooms and placing mannequins (you'd have to see her place to understand), and it should be a lot of fun.

I think we're doing this the right way. One, I'm the only one on the mortgage. Neither of us expect anything to go horribly wrong between us, but if it does, there's no complications caused by the living arrangements. Two, I can afford this place all by myself--it'd be a little bit tighter on the budget than it should be now, but totally doable. Instead of taking our combined rents and adding a couple hundred bucks so we could get a palatial condo we can barely afford, we've set it up so that we'll each save some money every month over what we've been paying. Even better, in a year when I get my next raise, we'll have all kinds of extra money to play with, because we're not living paycheck to paycheck now. I feel all grown up, and it's a little scary to see how naturally I'm taking to the responsibility. Who'd have thought?

Now, I'm going to go do some laundry, maybe even run the dishwasher, and then settle in and watch a movie or something off the Tivo before the Remix gets here. She said she wasn't going to be hungover...