I keep telling myself that I’m going to get around to blogging about my sister’s pregnancy, specifically the situation surrounding how she ended up pregnant. I’ve been hesitant because it’s a story we’ve only shared with very close family and friends. She wanted it that way, and I ultimately have to respect her decision. And, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about anonymous blogging is that there is no such thing as anonymous blogging.
Still. There are so many things I’ve wanted to say about the reactions we’ve encountered, about blame, cause, effect and how difficult it all is, but not in the big, in-your-face way you’d expect. It’s all about a thousand little things that changed in one instant, and what it means to constantly deal with these things.
One day, I will blog about this all. Today, though, I’m going to tell you about one of those thousand little changes:
switching rooms with Vyelit.
I know, I know. In the grand scheme of things, a room switch is just not a big freakin’ deal... until you are knee deep in personal belongings, trying to figure out what to get rid of, because circumstances way, way beyond your control have equaled this bit of sacrifice.
My parents, of course, said that I didn’t have to switch, because it wasn’t fair to me. My mother also sighed a lot and said that if she could switch rooms with Vye, she would. But, of course, I'd feel like a big time jerk if I was enjoying my big room while Vye was changing her baby on top of a hamper or something.
I considered, as I often do, finally packing up and getting a place of my own. I mean, this needs to happen sooner rather than later, but I promised Vye I would help her with the baby. When she sat in front of us crying about how her whole life felt like it was over, I told her I would take the baby and raise it myself, if I had to. Leaving now, when the most trying times are still ahead, seems wrong. Even if I'd still be there for her, there is a certain solidarity in actually being there.
So, I’m switching rooms. I’m throwing stuff away, which is amazing considering that I’m already an anti-hoarder, I'm looking at paint swatches and really expensive bedding.
And so, on Saturday, I had a mile long list of things that I need to get done as I condense my stuff and slowly but surely settle into my new working-girl-schedule. (Does working girl refer to hookers? I'd double check, but I'm, you know, working.)
At some point after waking up and before accomplishing anything at all, I tore up my to-do list very dramatically and decided to go to the zoo. Jungle Island, specifically, which I'd been approximately zero times in 21 years of living in south Florida, but have now visited twice this year. Mostly: it was free.
Despite a slightly overcast day, it was a nice trip with Pink, Cheese Cream, Vyelit, Gailey-bird and Ellie-bug, who had the sweetest deal, because we pushed her in her stroller all day long.
Gailey has taken to calling me "best friend" mostly because I brain washed her. This has back fired amazingly, however, as she now mostly addresses me this way when she wants something.
"Best friend, will you carry me?" she asks blinking her big brown eyes.
Obviously, I'm a total sucker, and she owns me.
The first time I went to Jungle Island this year, I was all about feeding the birds and kangaroos and touching things. Then this mother freakin' PMS'ing parrot bit the crap out of me and I learned my lesson. And there are some things I just refused to touch outright.
"Want to take your picture with the snake wrapped around you?" a khaki-clad worker asked me. I LOL'd in his face and said no, absolutely not.
"C'mon," he prodded.
"Yeah, no. Not happening."
"You're being a chicken."
And at that moment, the most helpful passer-byer of all time explained better than I ever could:
"I'd rather touch my ex-wife."
I'm sure if I had an ex-wife, those would be my sentiments exactly.
The whole event was a company picnic for Cheese's company. After some wandering around and a lot of staring at a liger going, "ooooh. A liiiiger," we sat down for lunch. I was one bite into my hot dog when Vye stage whispered at me that the women in front of us were talking "Fifty Shades of Grey."
"I just think I wouldn't have the stamina to have that much sex," one woman was saying and I threw up in my mouth a little. Seriously, I witnessed several animals pooping that day, but old ladies talking erotic novel was the point where I tasted a little bile.
Otherwise, though, it was a really good day. Gailey-bird seemed to think so too.
"Best friend, why are you leaving? You have to stay here with me," she said as I tried to kiss her goodbye.
"But I have to take a shower. I smell like outside and animals."
"Ummm, it's okay. I don't mind."
I had to insist on this point though and finally headed home.
I did end up doing a bit of organizing and cleaning and compromising. I'm keeping my Childhood Trauma books, but I threw away a number of Biology and Organic Chemistry books. I kept my old dissection kit and threw away some fabric paint. I also just put a ton of little knickknacks in the kitchen catch-all drawer. Does everyone have one of those? I'm wondering how long before someone opens it and realizes what I've done...
I hope you all had great weekends though I'm pretty sure none of you was followed by a billy goat.
(Note: I was.)