outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- with a name like that, he must have been asking for it What was I talking about last time I was here. Flowers? Right, we did the flowers thing, it was long and tedious and involved a lot of gape-mouthed yawns from Rob (who did not see how such a thing could be rude, despite having a pet peeve about others doing it). But it's done now. We've got bouquets of larkspurs, delphinia and mini roses. Light pink, bright blue, and maroon. I am pleased, I can't complain. I might complain when I get the estimate, but that won't be for a few weeks, so for now let's just bask in a complaint-free Jessie. So that was Saturday morning. Saturday night one of my two remaining highschool friends came out and went dancing with me at Manray. I enjoyed it heartily, except for a few things: it cost ten bucks because of some special crappy DJ they had in one room we hardly even went in, my feet hurt because of my damn sexy boots, and there were several obnoxious people who felt they deserved three acres of dance floor apiece. I tell you, goth kids, say what you want on their behalf, dance like they've got heebies and jeebies, and convulsions to boot. Is there any reason you need to kick at the shins of innocent by-standers when you dance? Is there something peculiar about your elbows that make you have to lead with them in every move you make? Ok, the flailing elbows girl wasn't goth, she was punk, but jesus christ did she have a serious problem. Who the hell dances with their elbows poking out at eyeball height? And then there were the "pros", or whoever they were. These four or five kids thought they were the freaking shiznit; they had an erotic dance routine or some crap. These are the people whose limbs come shooting out at you at mach five in some Swayze-esque dirty dance move, and who feel that even though you were happily dancing on your two square feet of dance floor while they have seven, they need your spot, and they will claim it by kneecapping you with a treacherous spin. Incidentally, they are also the people who "accidentally" nearly burn you with their floating cigarettes because they're too freaking self-centered for it to occur to them that floating cigarettes might upset people who used to be dancing in the spot they just commandeered. You know. Believe me, it takes a lot to get me to threaten a person with violence, out loud, and mean it. I told one of these people that if she hit me again (oh yes, I was hit more than once!) I was going to punch her. She was such a twit. Anyway. Honest to Buddha, it was lots of fun except for this. On Sunday, Rob and I cooked salmon and watched Amelie. It was a lovely little escapist movie, good but not at all true to life. Nice, but not real. I liked it. I'm still thinking about it. Ok, and then there was yesterday. Ahem. There was this thing I used to do when I was little, or younger rather, because I still did it through college when I got the chance. At night before I fell asleep, I had to rock myself back and forth. It's called "rolling" but I don't know why; I suspect my mother dubbed it as such and so it's named. It consisted of my lying on my side and rolling myself frontward and backward, sometimes for just a few minutes, when I was tired, and sometimes for an hour or more, when I couldn't get to sleep. It was a nighttime ritual, something that I did every night, like the way I now turn on my fan just before going to bed. Something to signify sleepy time. It also helped me when I was afraid, kept me moving so I couldn't lie still and let panic take over, gave me something to do when I had had a nightmare, or was awoken by an earthquake or car alarm, or was imagining horrific hands reaching up from under the bed. It was not just a ritual, but a distraction. Let's move on. Last night, Rob called me from work. Right away, he told me to hold on because a customer had come in. I stayed on the line. In reality, this customer was a robber come to empty out the register. I heard everything that happened, all the yelling the swearing the demands the threats After the fact, it seemed strange to me that I didn't hang up and call the police immediately. It did not automatically sink in that this was real and not the tv or the radio...when it did, I had to know what would happen, had to know that the man was gone, that Rob was safe. Then I called 911. I didn't hear anything for about 45 minutes after I hung up with them. I sat and stared, I said "it's ok. Everything's fine. It's all right," over and over in my best kindergarten-teacher-during-a-bomb-scare voice to myself. I made my lunch and concentrated on spreading the hummus carefully. I talked to the bird and told it not to worry. I dug out my paper diaries and read through Rob's and my early days (this is around the time we first starting dating. Five years ago!). Rob finally called me to tell me everything was ok, and he was on his way to the police station. I was rattled, but not freaking out. Rob was ok...but I don't know how he was feeling. I remember the sound of his voice when the man was yelling at him to show him the register drawer. Lest the connection not be obvious, I rolled myself to sleep last night. 2:38 p.m. - 2002-09-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||