in medias res

People who need people...

First, an explanation for my girl in Charlotte. The rats were a gift from my aunt post-Target trauma. (See “It’s Raining Rats!”) She sent me my first rat “from Target”, complete with a signed note from the all of the rats – they were relocating to Florida. Unfortunately, she sent it to the wrong address. Since it was a surprise, my aunt had to call the front office of my apartment complex to have them hunt down the missing box. She told them, “I really hope they didn’t open the box. They might get freaked out. But it’s just a joke.”

When I went to the office to get the box, the office managers were looking at me strangely. I had to explain the store and the falling rats, and then my aunt’s sense of humor and the present. They were curious about the true brown-headed girl in 1256. I don’t have a seedy past and strange fetishes, much to their bored dismay.

For Christmas, I got two more rats (I should post a picture – yes?). Their bodies are a foot long, rubbery, and pitch black. They have a beady-eyed sneer and blood on their bared teeth. It’s hot. One of the rats I got for Christmas proudly stands upright to display its five rows of teats.

Since our last report, there has been a death in the family. Lucky H. (aka “Pooch”) passed away two weeks ago. He was found by Mrs. H. on her way to church. Despite her 12-year ambivalence towards the dog, she mourned heavily for an hour. Mr. H. and his son put Pooch to rest on the family property. Not satisfied with the service, Mrs. H. fashioned a cross out of sticks and read a nice eulogy. (Perhaps she has seen too many reruns of the Cosby Show when Rudy’s fish dies.) Pooch is survived by Lindsay H., his feline sidekick.

I have (selfishly) started a search for a rebound dog for my mom. She wants something that “keeps the deer and the thieves away.” Dad wants something that wouldn’t dare be put into a sweater. My yorkie dreams have been dashed.

However, Pooch’s death has sparked the soul-searching of my 3 year old cousin (and substitute grandchild for my parents, since their children have failed them thus far.) His parents explained that Pooch has gone to heaven, just like Grandma, and they gave a lovely description of the accommodations. My cousin has opted not to go. There’s “no good stuff in heaven. It’s just pretty stuff. South Carolina has da ‘quarium and beach. I wanna stay here.” He asked his mother how long he would have to stay in heaven. She told him it would be forever. “Forever. I hate that stupid word.” When his mother told him that there were no cars in heaven, he said, “I wish I was a car…Jesus should just be happy he gets to see us all the time anyway.” Ah, someone get this kid a Psalty tape and some glue and yarn, stat.

I miss home.

I don’t think it was Pooch’s death, but something has sparked my own little soul-search. It might’ve been the second Friday night in a row that my most appealing activities involved disc 2 of Entourage from Netflix, online library research, bunny slippers, and a big blanket. I couldn’t even muster the energy for any of it. I realized that I miss people. I feel too guilty about my work to play, but I need to play. But I’ve completely lost the art of asking friends out. I realized that instead of asking people to do stuff, I ask if they’re already doing something. I can’t initiate the plans, but I can drop in. If I ever do try to plan something, I feel like I’m becoming vulnerable to the world. I know, it’s weird.

I took baby-steps last Friday night. I got in touch with a friend who was already out at a bar. I traded my comfy clothes for cute jeans and some earrings, and headed out to Ali Baba’s. (I feel like I can mention that by name, because I’d love to drum up business for ALI BABA’S ON PENSACOLA RIGHT ON THE CUSP OF CAMPUS.) Ali Baba’s was socially safe because I knew people from school would be there, and it’s a home-y and quirk-y environment. I’m addicted to the food. Everything is homemade, and the owners will occasionally bring out some fresh pita and hummus or some other spicy, tasty concoction for us to try. I feel at home. The bartender/owner knows when I’m ready for another drink – I think he reads minds. While I hovered on the edge for the first fifteen minutes and then had some napkin-tearing awkward moments, I finally found a place to rest. I became less acquaintance-y with a few people and left feeling good. I stopped by another friend’s place on the way home. They were in an intense discussion on religion. I wrapped up in a blanket and occasionally opined. I was happy just to be there. We played cards and then I went home and crashed in the same blanket and clothes that were supposed to be my evening companions. I think they had missed me. But there will be other Friday nights for us to catch up. For now, I’ve realized (again) that as independent as I might fancy myself to be, I need the kind of quality people in my life that feel like home no matter where I go. Independent women need some lovin’, too.

posted by tara @ 12:29 AM