i'm still here---wherever that may be
Feb. 29th, 2004 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tommygirlIt's been awhile since I updated this journal. I find myself saying that a lot recently. I had surgery on Monday and have been recuperating with lotsa drugs, sleep, and movies (or more precisely, television on dvd--the must for the millenia).
I am working on Part Four of Trouble In My Head. I'm going to try and finish the thing today, I swear, but seeing as I haven't been on my computer for a length of time, I have much email to get through.
Anyway, I posted this right before my surgery on my Yahoo Group List and decided I would post it here as well. A cookie of sorts for Part Four. An olive branch to appease all of you for putting up with my crap. I'm truly sorry and hoping to make Part Four worth the wait (if such a thing is possible).
“What could possibly necessitate a telephone call at four thirty in the morning? Farmers aren’t even up yet!” Her voice echoes through my phone after the fifth ring, half yawn and half screech.
I smile. It’s a force of habit. I’ve learned better than to let her catch me smiling all the time, especially when she’s pissy (talk about a violent act waiting to happen), but it’s one of those things that my body does without even thinking about it. I smile and loop a thread from my seat around my fingers, glancing out the window before replying, “Actually Laney Jane, I’m somewhere in farmer country and I think I see someone moving around.”
“That Superman vision’s kicked in, has it?”
Bump, bump, bump. I don’t notice it. Or wince. Or pee a little. “There are a few dots down below me.”
“Whatever. Please tell me you didn’t call to discuss this.”
Bump, bump, bump. I clutch my seat and sigh, “I don’t plan out topics to talk about with you, smartass. You and I have never had trouble talking.”
“Right. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s four thirty, Justin.”
“I’m still on LA time.”
I hear Laney groan in the background before she says, “If you refuse to tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you.”
“I wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”
“Hit turbulence again?”
“What?”
“The only time you call because you ‘need to hear my voice’ is when you’ve done something inappropriate that you don’t want me to find out about or you’re convinced that you’re going to die.”
“That’s a lie, Laney Jane. I used to love you,” I pout. Who does she think she is to question my motivation and imply that I’m a coward? I mutter, “I have a rule and…and…well, I’m mad at you now.”
“Does that mean I can hang up the phone and go back to sleep?”
”I don’t care.”
“Is that a real ‘I don’t care’ or do you plan to sulk the next time I see you?” she asks. When I don’t answer right away, she yawns in my ear and says, “Seriously, J, I fell asleep about an hour ago and I have to be up at eight. Sleep is not my friend lately.”
“Laney Jane, are we doing the walk of shame from fraternity parties again? Baby, I told you that shit will wear you out.” I know she’s rolling her eyes. I can see it in my head and say, “And what were you up to, young lady?”
“Frankie and I were working on this never-ending presentation and it’s possible that I’ve met my match—“
Yeah, don’t like the sound of that. Frankie is not exactly my favorite person in the world. I met the guy once and well, he freaked me out. He was always saying “Laney and I”, emphasis on the “and I” while he touched her on the arm or shoulder or the back. I bite my tongue though. Now is not the time to have this argument with Laney again. The “something’s not right with that guy” fight is much more suited for my hotel room after we watch a bad movie starring Sharon Stone and when we have plenty of time to make up. As it is now, I won’t be seeing Laney Jane for a couple of days and a couple of days of Laney-stewing-in-anger time is a tactical error to be avoided at all costs.
I can be nice. I can act interested in the freako without my voice dripping with disdain at the prospect of him being around Laney Jane. “Oh? That’s interesting.”
“Not really. Not only is Frankie nearly as annoying as you—“
“Hey—“
“I said nearly, so no need to worry, J. No one can aggravate me like you do.”
“Oh honey, I might cry,” I comment.
“Frankie’s a pest, but that’s not the major problem.”
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve got a lot of work to get done in a short period of time. I’m sick of it. I’ve had about all I can of the political pitfalls that befell the Soviet Union. I’m having dreams where Frankie turns into Gorbachev and chases me around the room with a potato,” she pauses and yawns again. Loudly. For emphasis. Before she adds, “Take that for what it’s worth.”
I attempt to overlook the fact that she’s dreaming about Frankie when she should be dreaming about me and laugh at the rest of it. I say, “You’re a little bit strange, Laney Jane.”
“If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Stop stressing so much. Do we need to have the talk again?”
“God no.”
“I’m serious, Laney Jane,” I state, balling my hand into a fist until I realize she can’t see my determined stance. I take a deep breath and add, “I don’t want you to have another panic attack—“
“Justin, I’m fine.”
“Like you’d tell me if you weren’t.”
“It’s four thirty in the morning, Justin,” she replies in exasperation.
“So you’ve said.”
“Hint, hint. Subtle, subtle.”
“Subtle is not the word I’d use to describe you.”
“I’ve got a word for you,” she mumbles. She takes a long, deep breath, one of those calculated types that people use when trying to avoid the subject, and says, “Can I please go back to bed?”
“Yeah,” I say. I lean back in my chair and say, “Laney?”
“Hhhm?”
“I still love you.”
“I know.”
“And I worry about you.”
“You worry about everything and then I worry that you worry too much and then we’re both worrying ourselves into anxiety attacks and maybe we need to stop worrying so much and have a little faith in each other.”
That is so not a Laney thing to say. It’s true and makes sense, but Laney would never admit that she worries about me. I try to play it off to her lack of sleep, but a small prick keeps jabbing at my head. Those are Frankie’s words and that means that Laney Jane has talked to the freako about us.
Yuck. How come I get in trouble for mentioning how much I admire my girlfriend in an article (not even using her name!!!) and she can discuss us with friends? Isn’t it bad enough that Steph comes up to me all the time and asks, “Hey Justin, perused any interesting Xena websites lately?” (Long story that would only humiliate me and isn’t that what I keep Laney Jane around for?)
“Justin? Are you still there?” I don’t respond and she’s growls, “So help me God if you’ve fallen asleep on me—“
“I’m not asleep.”
“I’m gonna go. Are you sure that you’re okay?”
**
If you have any questions, or need to reach me for some reason, drop me an email (storydivagirl@hotmail.com). I'm waaaaay behind on emails due to pneumonia and then surgery, so I apologize, but I will respond as soon as humanly possible.
Take care and enjoy the Oscars this evening!
I am working on Part Four of Trouble In My Head. I'm going to try and finish the thing today, I swear, but seeing as I haven't been on my computer for a length of time, I have much email to get through.
Anyway, I posted this right before my surgery on my Yahoo Group List and decided I would post it here as well. A cookie of sorts for Part Four. An olive branch to appease all of you for putting up with my crap. I'm truly sorry and hoping to make Part Four worth the wait (if such a thing is possible).
“What could possibly necessitate a telephone call at four thirty in the morning? Farmers aren’t even up yet!” Her voice echoes through my phone after the fifth ring, half yawn and half screech.
I smile. It’s a force of habit. I’ve learned better than to let her catch me smiling all the time, especially when she’s pissy (talk about a violent act waiting to happen), but it’s one of those things that my body does without even thinking about it. I smile and loop a thread from my seat around my fingers, glancing out the window before replying, “Actually Laney Jane, I’m somewhere in farmer country and I think I see someone moving around.”
“That Superman vision’s kicked in, has it?”
Bump, bump, bump. I don’t notice it. Or wince. Or pee a little. “There are a few dots down below me.”
“Whatever. Please tell me you didn’t call to discuss this.”
Bump, bump, bump. I clutch my seat and sigh, “I don’t plan out topics to talk about with you, smartass. You and I have never had trouble talking.”
“Right. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s four thirty, Justin.”
“I’m still on LA time.”
I hear Laney groan in the background before she says, “If you refuse to tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you.”
“I wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”
“Hit turbulence again?”
“What?”
“The only time you call because you ‘need to hear my voice’ is when you’ve done something inappropriate that you don’t want me to find out about or you’re convinced that you’re going to die.”
“That’s a lie, Laney Jane. I used to love you,” I pout. Who does she think she is to question my motivation and imply that I’m a coward? I mutter, “I have a rule and…and…well, I’m mad at you now.”
“Does that mean I can hang up the phone and go back to sleep?”
”I don’t care.”
“Is that a real ‘I don’t care’ or do you plan to sulk the next time I see you?” she asks. When I don’t answer right away, she yawns in my ear and says, “Seriously, J, I fell asleep about an hour ago and I have to be up at eight. Sleep is not my friend lately.”
“Laney Jane, are we doing the walk of shame from fraternity parties again? Baby, I told you that shit will wear you out.” I know she’s rolling her eyes. I can see it in my head and say, “And what were you up to, young lady?”
“Frankie and I were working on this never-ending presentation and it’s possible that I’ve met my match—“
Yeah, don’t like the sound of that. Frankie is not exactly my favorite person in the world. I met the guy once and well, he freaked me out. He was always saying “Laney and I”, emphasis on the “and I” while he touched her on the arm or shoulder or the back. I bite my tongue though. Now is not the time to have this argument with Laney again. The “something’s not right with that guy” fight is much more suited for my hotel room after we watch a bad movie starring Sharon Stone and when we have plenty of time to make up. As it is now, I won’t be seeing Laney Jane for a couple of days and a couple of days of Laney-stewing-in-anger time is a tactical error to be avoided at all costs.
I can be nice. I can act interested in the freako without my voice dripping with disdain at the prospect of him being around Laney Jane. “Oh? That’s interesting.”
“Not really. Not only is Frankie nearly as annoying as you—“
“Hey—“
“I said nearly, so no need to worry, J. No one can aggravate me like you do.”
“Oh honey, I might cry,” I comment.
“Frankie’s a pest, but that’s not the major problem.”
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve got a lot of work to get done in a short period of time. I’m sick of it. I’ve had about all I can of the political pitfalls that befell the Soviet Union. I’m having dreams where Frankie turns into Gorbachev and chases me around the room with a potato,” she pauses and yawns again. Loudly. For emphasis. Before she adds, “Take that for what it’s worth.”
I attempt to overlook the fact that she’s dreaming about Frankie when she should be dreaming about me and laugh at the rest of it. I say, “You’re a little bit strange, Laney Jane.”
“If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Stop stressing so much. Do we need to have the talk again?”
“God no.”
“I’m serious, Laney Jane,” I state, balling my hand into a fist until I realize she can’t see my determined stance. I take a deep breath and add, “I don’t want you to have another panic attack—“
“Justin, I’m fine.”
“Like you’d tell me if you weren’t.”
“It’s four thirty in the morning, Justin,” she replies in exasperation.
“So you’ve said.”
“Hint, hint. Subtle, subtle.”
“Subtle is not the word I’d use to describe you.”
“I’ve got a word for you,” she mumbles. She takes a long, deep breath, one of those calculated types that people use when trying to avoid the subject, and says, “Can I please go back to bed?”
“Yeah,” I say. I lean back in my chair and say, “Laney?”
“Hhhm?”
“I still love you.”
“I know.”
“And I worry about you.”
“You worry about everything and then I worry that you worry too much and then we’re both worrying ourselves into anxiety attacks and maybe we need to stop worrying so much and have a little faith in each other.”
That is so not a Laney thing to say. It’s true and makes sense, but Laney would never admit that she worries about me. I try to play it off to her lack of sleep, but a small prick keeps jabbing at my head. Those are Frankie’s words and that means that Laney Jane has talked to the freako about us.
Yuck. How come I get in trouble for mentioning how much I admire my girlfriend in an article (not even using her name!!!) and she can discuss us with friends? Isn’t it bad enough that Steph comes up to me all the time and asks, “Hey Justin, perused any interesting Xena websites lately?” (Long story that would only humiliate me and isn’t that what I keep Laney Jane around for?)
“Justin? Are you still there?” I don’t respond and she’s growls, “So help me God if you’ve fallen asleep on me—“
“I’m not asleep.”
“I’m gonna go. Are you sure that you’re okay?”
**
If you have any questions, or need to reach me for some reason, drop me an email (storydivagirl@hotmail.com). I'm waaaaay behind on emails due to pneumonia and then surgery, so I apologize, but I will respond as soon as humanly possible.
Take care and enjoy the Oscars this evening!
