Ode to Potheads

I yearn for your attitude
I relish you demeanor
I envy your tolerance,
redefined by your outlook

"It's not tolerance, man,
I just don't dwell
Why waste my time?"

Indeed.  And yet,
I have no control
One judgement from another
with hostile implications
and I internalize
my paranoia escalates
I take offense
worry, worry, worry

I long for hippie ease
"It's cool, he's just trying
to do his thing
best he can
We'll work it out"
Focus elsewhere

Thing is
this is your instinct
that makes you this way
not weed

You're perfectly efficient
accountable
respected
responsible

Can I train to be like you?
I have a feeling
that very idea
reflects
what holds me back

Top 6 People I Would Render Mute, If Possible

Rush Limbaugh

Glenn Beck
Bill O'Reilly
Dick Cheney
Ann Coulter
Lou Dobbs

Notice how nobody from the Bush family is on the list?  I've decided that they're irrelevant to current conversations about future politics.  Plus they're not talking, given that no one wants to listen.  Just a guess.

Tears in my eyes. Gah.

I've written here before about the silly banter between my granparents on my dad's side.  Typically, it involves Grandpa telling Grandma how lucky she is, vocally considering trading her in for a better model, etc.  And of course, she usually giggles and says, "Yes, dear . . . I'm very lucky."

 

I just learned that Grandpa, after much medical crap going on this year including a stroke, had to head into the hospital again, this time for an infection.  He's not as, well, with-it any more.  He gets confused.  And he's used to being both independent and in charge, so having to take so many orders has made him cranky, and sometimes downright impossible.

 

He'll be in the hospital for a few days, and he's stable and alert, but not always as sharp as we want him to be.  The following story comes courtesy of Uncle Bill, one of the Best Men I've Ever Met Ever.  Last night, Grandma and Grandpa were sitting next to each other on the edge of the hospital bed, chatting quietly, as they often do.  Grandpa said, "You know, there's only one thing I would have done differently with my life."  Grandma's heart sank, because she can't imagine ANY different kind of life.  She truly feels like the luckiest girl in the world with him by her side, so she's disappointed that he might have some serious life regret weighing on his conscience.  He continued, "I should have married you sooner."

 

Enter tears.

 

First of all, they married when he was 18 and she was 17.  Second, given his tendency for silly, disrespectful jokes, this was the last thing anyone expected him to say.  Sure, sometimes he'll joke in a self-depricating way and tell her she's crazy for marrying him (instead of the typical other way around), but I never hear him get mushy.  Third, (and Uncle Bill didn't comment on this, but I'll assume), I bet Grandma's heart almost burst. 

 

I love them SO much.

Chicagoan. Chicagan. Chicagaga. Chicagette.

I'm officially moved.  I am a Chicago resident, and I think I like it.  I've moved in with my oldest brother, who's a couple of years younger than me.  At first I thought maybe I was making a sacrifice doing that.  I'd planned on living on my own.  And now I have to share decorating decisions and a bathroom with a smelly boy.

However, in addition to the large space we can afford together and having a man around the house to kill gross things and lift heavy ones, I also get a bit of a companion.  The first two days of work weren't, well, fun.  They were fine, but it's a shaking experience, immersing oneself into something that new and all-encompassing.  Last night, after getting lost and taking 2 hours to drive home, I teared up and took a bubble bath.  Much better.  Tonight when I got home I just felt weird.  Uncomfortable weird.  Vulnerable weird.  Geno wasn't here, but knowing that I wasn't alone in this place, that he'd be here later, that somebody would find me in less than 24 hours if I were viciously attacked by rats, well it all just calmed me down.  Maybe I should be more independent than that, but fuck it.  That's not who I am.  It's scary, but I like needing people.  (Sure, ask me again right after I fall in the toilet from the seat being left up and have to clean his beard hair out of my toothbrush on the sink.)

BTW, our apartment is super-cool, and the owners (who live upstairs) are just plain wonderful.  My only current concern is whether or not I can live with a 1-hour commute.  Time will tell, imaginary readers..... time will tell.

ps - I miss Kurt.  Move to Chicago, selfish!