I just haven't felt much like writing on this blog lately. I know some of you visit daily looking for an update, but I just don't have it in me right now. Some of the things I woudl write about, I'm not going to because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings who does read this. So, although this is not my last post ever (I don't think it is at least), I probably won't be updating very often. Just so you know….
There is a website called futureme.org. Basically, you write an email to yourself and it's delivered at a predetermined date of your choosing sometime in the future. OK, so, back in October I sent myself an email to be delivered on my birthday this year. I received said email and it said to me:
"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday so you would have at least one birthday wish. Oh, and if you haven't already tell [the boy] that you love him."
It said a few other things, but those were a few of the more important ones. I had forgotten I sent this to myself. It was pretty neat to get though. I recommend sending yourself an email. I have another one set to be delivered in 2008. I had also forgotten about it until I logged in and saw it (note: you can't read your future emails as far as I can tell. Instead you can just see when you will be getting one). I have a feeling I know what it says. As I should, since I wrote it.
Some small children have imaginary friends. When I was little, I was one of those kids. There are a lot of different theories on what makes an imaginary friend. Some say only the most intelligent children make up imaginary friends. Some say kids who need some sort of security make up imaginary friends. Others claim an imaginary friend is actually a ghost who attaches to a child.
When I was small, my imaginary friend was named Mickey (yes, kind of like the mouse, but a real girl, or so I thought). I drove my entire family insane over this friend. Mom had to set an additional place at the table for her (she didn’t have to put food on the plate though, if Mickey were hungry, she’d get it herself); when we watched TV, Mickey had her own spot on the couch; mom had to kiss Mickey goodnight when she tucked us (ok, me) into bed; and Mickey got the swing next to me on my grandma’s swing set.
Mickey annoyed my cousins to no end. There was a group of 6 of us, ranging in age from 3 (me) to 14. I may have made up Mickey because I was the youngest (the next closest in age was my sister, who was 6) and they never liked letting me play with them. Of course, my mom made them and when she did, Mickey also got to play.
That girl was one good hide and seek player. I was the only one who ever found her.
Finally, my cousins had enough. They spent every waking moment near me trying to get rid of Mickey. I would always laugh and tell them “Nope, she’s moved over here!” when they would claim to grab her. Then one day, when I was almost 4 (and Mickey had been a part of the family’s life for 2 years), my cousin Tina grabbed Mickey. I screamed at the top of my lungs and started bawling “No, Tina! Let her go! Leave her alone!” Tina took off running down the hall, holding this imaginary child in her arms. My mom and uncle came RUNNING to see what was going on. I was screaming in terror while the rest of the cousins cheered 12 year old Tina on.
Tina ran into the bathroom and shoved my imaginary friend in the toilet. Yes, you read that right. And then she flushed her. I fell to the ground sobbing that Mickey was dead and Tina had killed her.
Mom took Tina into the other room with all the cousins and yelled at them all, while I lay crumpled on the floor in my Uncle James’s arms. Uncle James told me, “It’s ok my little Monkey. Mickey will come back when you least expect it.”
She never came back.
I rarely spoke to Tina after that day. And last Saturday night, I saw her at a bar. It had been 7 years since I had last really spoken to her. And I’m still pissed about her killing Mickey.
Ok, I’m home. I had the longest 63 hours ever. I spent approximately 13 of those 63 hours in a car driving and another 13 of those 63 sitting in a car while my daddy drove. Here’s the deal:
One month ago yesterday, my grandmother was in a car accident. She’s pretty beat up. She’s 80 years old and simply isn’t healing like she would if she were 27 (or 37 or even 67). On the 24th of February, my parents drove to her home in Florida and on the 27th my dad drove home so he could work last week. On Thursday night/Friday morning at 3:30 am, daddy and I loaded up the Escalade and drove to Florida to do a few things. The most important being to pick up my mom. Also we needed to fix my grandmother’s house (read: clean it…it was HORRIBLE and my mom had cleaned most of it before we got there), dad changed some door locks so my crazy aunt can’t get in and kill my grandmother (she wants to probate the will, even though my grandmother isn’t dead…did I mention she’s crazy?), we fixed finances and put my mom’s name and my name on everything in the event something does happen to my grandmother, and my mom wanted me to see my grandmother one more time, just in case. She really isn’t healing well. She can only walk about 10 feet at a time without screaming in pain, she can’t stand on her own, she can’t cook or bathe, she has a broken wrist, a cracked sternum, a bruised heart (and a bruised ego since she caused the car accident), and a possible lawsuit coming that could cause her a lot of trouble. Anyway, we took care of all of that in 37 hours and I’m not sure if I slept the entire time.
And today, it’s back to work for me.
I once had a section on my old blog called “Happy Little M Bites” which gave small tidbits and funny stories about myself. I’ve decided to reinstate that category. I’ll get back to the Enemy story soon. I just don’t feel like writing it right now. So, let’s talk about Mr. Olibe.
Mr. Olibe was not his name. IN fact, his last name was Martin. When I was little, for as far back as I can remember, and even before I can remember, my parents had a boat and a house on a lake. We would go to the lake every weekend (or as often as possible in the warm season). When I was very little I loved olives.
Yes, you read that correctly. I was 2 and I loved to eat olives. Couldn’t get enough of them. (I wonder why mom didn’t see my martini addiction sooner?)
When we would go to the lake, our neighbor, Mr. Martin, was my very best friend. He was an alcoholic who drank many martinis filled with…you guessed it, Olives! I was 2 and had a hard time saying Vs so I called them “Olibes.” I would go to Mr. Martin (mom said I would normally disappear, they’d go search for me, and there I would be at Mr. Martin’s) and ask him, “May I have an olibe?” He was the highlight of my lake trips.
Most parents would worry about their 2 year old taking up a friendship with a drunk alcoholic divorced man, but my parents honestly couldn’t stop me, and if they could, they didn’t want to because they knew Mr. Martin was a nice man.
Today I ran into Mr. Martin’s son, who is now 34ish. He told me that his dad had died of liver disease awhile back. He then told me “You know, you were the highlight of dad’s week, showing up asking for olibes. He talked about you until he died. Probably still tells the story of the Olibe Girl in Heaven right now.”
That made me smile.