Yeah, I was a little keyed up back there....

Waiting for a phone call can do that to a person.

The phone call we were waiting for finally came and I'm numb, now.

Comfortably numb, with no chemical assisstance whatsoever. (Yet. *giggle*)

I don't believe this.

One thousand dollars is all it's gonna take to begin the endgame.

A thousand stupid little dollars.

Holy shit.

All they want to recall the warrant, give Eric back his license hence his very LIFE and start the process by which this nightmare is finally ended is a grand.

I'm so blown away, my brain is silent.

I don't know what to think about first.

Half of my mind is celebrating for him.
The other half is busy doing math and working up budgets and shit I didn't even know I knew how to do, actually, I don't but... and thinking of coupons and money saver cards and all that happy crappy.

My whole heart is freakin' out for him, however.
It's not concerned in the least about financial shit.
Thass cool.
*grin*

Okay.
Here's the deal.

Because of all the shit I talked about the other day, the "support issues", Eric's gotten a huge mountain of arrearages.
We were informed by one court that either he pays or goes to jail.
This promtped a flurry of activity from previously "laid back", as it were, individuals.
Including Eric and me, kinda...
*grin*

This, in turn, led us/him to the PG, the Probation Guy.
The cool guy from yesterday... and a different court.

He just called and said that if we give them the grand and somehow manage to just pay the full amount as it was ordered before, $325 a week (notice, please, that they did NOT "adjust" anything to reflect the now substantial arrearages. We did... *grin*), Eric is "free".
No warrant.
No suspended license.
No moratorium on going to Jersey.

Wow.

Well, we can do this. I've mentioned before, a long time ago, how Eric is paid, so I'm not going to go over it again. Suffice it to say, we can do this by sending every dime he makes, plus $75 a week from me, to Jersey.

Everything else, all the bills, the "staying alive" and shit... is on me now.

Whoa.

Hell, maybe I am a real bull.
*grin*
Because, I'm not even nervous.
I can soooo do this.

Minimum, with only three days a week at the restaurant, making minimum tips, I make $200 a week.
Including his support, all the bills, the car insurance and everything, we need $550/$600 a month.
I make 8.
Minimum.
In three days.

So, that leaves a minimum of $200 a month to live on.

BUT... it's just for the summer, mostly.
(Cute, eh?)

By September, at the VERY latest, his divorce should be final, thereby triggering the "good thing I ain't gunna jinx by saying right out loud" and... I get my Fridays back, the "agri-tainment" starts with all the hayrides and that money... so we'll make it.
This can be done.

And, NEXT September, soooomebody turns 18 and then... that whole shit ball dissolves, too.

Yay "time passing"!

Now, Eric just radioed me and said he talked to "Da Boss" and he's gonna lend us the grand.
However, being true to his nature, he's already worrying about how he's gonna get it back.
Bypassing my first thought, which is (God forgive me) "Wrapped around a BRICK", he'll get it back.
God.

Piss on people's parades much, dipwad?
Whattan exasperating individual this guy is.

Aw, hell wit' dat.

Back to the IMPORTANT part...

Eric is on his way to being really free!
For the first time in just about 18 years.

And, I get to be here for it and help it happen.
How FUCKIN' cool is that?

This really is something I can help fix.
I LOVE that.
I love HIM.

This is so cool....
Scary, a little, but cool, nonetheless.

I can still vividly remember his first taste of freedom, too.
Choosing salad dressing.
*tearing up*
*and grinning*

From salad dressing, to this....
wow.

Guess it's time for me to put my balls where my mouth is... and never leave the house again!!!
*lmao*
No, it's just time for me to "cowboy up" and "git'er doooone".

I am sooo suited to this.
I even have the boots, spurs, chaps and hat.
Horse, too, for that matter.

What the fuck is it I'm feeling right now?
Giddy?
Is that it?
Could be... it's something foreign, anyway.
Foreign and wonderful.

Now, I wanna say, "First things first", buuuut...

The first first thing, isn't really the FIRST thing I can do.
That's "taking the grand to Jersey".

That has to be done on Wednesday.
I'M DOING THAT PART ALONE, thanks.

Yes, every bit of this feels real and safe, but... I'm sorry. I've been lied to too many times by "authorities" to completely trust them with him, so, until I get the piece of paper saying the warrant is dead and he's safe, no.

I'm taking him with me, but he's goin' to the mall first.
If they wanna meet him, fine.
AFTER I'm assured (beyond all reason) that he is well and truly "safe".
Not a moment before.

But, that's Wednesday.

Right now, I have two other "firsts" to choose from.

Clean something or go outside, sit in the yard and watch the Airshow. (I can the Willow Grove Airshow almost completely from here and could if I climb the tall silo. It's over 100' high. Oooohhh... hmmmm....)

What to do, what to do?

Cartwheels.
That's what to do.

I'll be back later.
I have some gymnastics to do.

HE'S GONNA BE FREE!!!!!!
IN MY LIFETIME!!!!!!!

THANK YOU GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. I just spent over an hour trying to find my "salad dressing" post, but now the BIG GUNS are flying over, so it's to the top of the silo for me.

Back later.

I hope...

*grin*

Update @ 5:50pm...
Yeah.
Soo...

I get started up the ladder that's connected to the silo and I realize, a.) they don't seem to be flying anymore, b.) the cage around the ladder is made of the same material as Rice Krispies and c.) I forgot and left the TV on and uncovered, thereby inviting the cat to piss on it.

Oops.

Besides which, once I got up there a bit, the stupid aluminum ladder ya need to get to the silo ladder blew over, like a sign from God, or something.

So, I came down, came back in here and... taDAH!!
I found the "salad dressing" post.

I don't even remember right now why it was so important to me to find it, but since I did, here it is...
(Keep in mind that it was written about a year and a half ago... before Paul clued me about "new paragraphs" and cool shit like that.)

This was the first post I ever wrote that I was told someone kept.
That would be Velociman.
He liked it that much....

I like him even more...

Now, on to the post... from November 2003.

Seeing how trying to do a mulit-link post is pretty much outta the question because I can't check the links because Hosting Matters is tits-up right now and because this guy feels it could be weird to write about salad dressing, I'm reminded of a little story about Eric. And how Goddamned sweet and adorable the man is. And, how badly he used to be treated for no discernable reason whatsoever.

We begin tonights 'Edith Bunker Storytime'* with a bit of background. (*Euphemistic and cute way of saying really long story with a point, if ya ain't asleep by then...lol)

On to the story........

Prior to September 24, 2001, Eric was living with his BC ex-wife. He'd been doing this for 14 years. How, I'll never understand. I'd rather be alone than be treated badly every damn day, myself, but...anyway...
This woman is, was and probably always will be just a mean, mean person. Anything she can say or do to hurt, manipulate, abuse, degrade or control a person, she does. Really. Honestly, the only good thing about her is that she's not a twin.
She did things to Eric that I can barely stand to think about. Things like not letting him shower before work. Or after. Yes, he worked on a dairy farm, but she wouldn't let him get a shower without 2 days worth of
"Who you showering for?" shit. Ragged him unmercifly. Shaving too. And, God forbid she catch him brushing his teeth. He did it, but at work. No aftershave, cologne or any of that. He kept his deodorant behind the seat in his truck...which she would frequently search more thoroughly than any cop ever, looking for incriminating 'evidence' that was never there. (I on the other hand cleaned out behind the seat in his truck the first chance I got and took 5 five-gallon buckets of crap out of it and got it all organized back there.) She also wound up making him lose his truck to the repo-assho' by not making the payments and not letting him have enough of HIS OWN MONEY to do it either. And, she refused to get a job for 'medical reasons'-of which there are none, because if even half of what she said was wrong with her was, she'd be dead by now. Going hunting with Joe? Well, fine. She'll be driving across the dead corn field before too long, station-wagon goin' about 40 mph, to make sure his ass is in that deer stand. My hand to God, she did that and everything else I'll be relating. I do not need to make shit up. She did plenty all on her own. There were the 'coming home from anywhere out of her sight searches'. She'd put him against a wall and sniff him head to toe, smelling for females. Especially his moustach. She'd, of course, accuse him of wanting to or having already fucked every female he even so much as looked at. She came to his place of employment (again yes, the farm, but still...) screaming and raving about other people who worked there trying to fuck him (primarily me), reading his time card, taking his check, forging his signature on it and cashing it, then would turn around and give him $20.00 for the entire week-gas, lunches, Cope and all. His own fuckin' money....She'd leave a 10 year old home along with a toddler to go to Atlantic City, leaving Eric uncooked spaghetti and tomato soup to make the two boys and himself dinner with when he got home from a back-breaking 14 or 15 hour day at the farm. She never cleaned anything. When clothes would pile up, she'd throw them in trash bags and run off to Goodwill for more. Eric wasn't 'allowed' (more about this concept later-I promise you that) to do anything without her. Unless she ran off to A.C. Then she'd make it so he had no money or gas to do anything anyway. He needed an alarm clock to get up mornings, right? He's a freakin' adult and she bought him a Playskool alarm clock that played "It's a Small World After All" to wake you up. Not only is that nauseating, think of the psychological implications of that for a second. It's a small world...You're never gonna get out of BWAHAHAHAHA. Scary, ain't it?
This woman is friggin' certifiable. She deprived Eric of every vestige of humanity that she could conceive of. He was allowed NOTHING except a few articles of clothes, enough food to stay alive and to ride bulls every week because he won loads of money and there was always that possibility he'd end up like Lane Frost-DEAD. How the hell he lived like that....no...survived that-who could possibly call that 'living'? That's existing, not living...I'll never understand. I only know I could not have done it. One of us would have been killed long before the 14th year and I'd have probably offed myself just to get it over with.
She did not 'allow' him to do anything. Yep, there's that word again. (I'm gettin' to the salad dressing, but bear with me a few more minutes, because this 'allow' shit ties in...) How the hell does someone (I hate to say this, but it's really how I am) especially A WOMAN not ALLOW an adult MAN to do stuff? What da fuck is that?! I wish someone would try laying that trip on me. Ever. Once, even. Let alone for 14 years. Man, I'd get myself outta there and I don't care how many limbs I'd have to chew off to do it. (I can see myself lookin' like the Black Knight in Monty Python, with no arms or legs, but I'd be freeeee to roll my ass outta there. And, I would.) I mean, okay, there are a few things you might hope people won't do, but to establish autocratic rule over someone? Nah. Can't really wrap my mind around that one. Or, to let someone establish autocratic rule? Nope, again. I don't work that way, either. (The way I've always handled that, which has NEVER really worked until Eric, is to just try to be nice enough that the other person doesn't want to do bad shit.)
Not her, though. She went with the 'tear them down mentally and emotionally until there's not much left' train of thought. Called him ugly, useless, stupid (which, btw, he is the polar opposite of), said he has a big nose (which he doesn't), a flat ass (wrong again), and a needle dick. Sure to her, with that garage door hole she calls a crotch. (I'm serious....she weighs over 300 lbs. and has had numerous kids. Besides, he is rather large and he told me it was like stirring paint, screwing her.) She had him convinced no one else would ever want him and that no one would ever love him because he was such a piece of shit. The lying bitch.
Eric worked 7 days a week, 12 to 15 hours a day. (Yes-and still lost his truck, thanks to her...) He never got to spend any of his money. Not even at the grocery store. She didn't shop in real grocery stores anyway. When she bought life sustaining substances (I dare not call it actual food...), she'd find the cheapest, sub-dollar store shit on the entire Goddamned planet. Shit like 'Chock-full-o-nuts' coffee. Ever had that shit? Merciful GAWD. You can make better coffee outta ground dog poop. She'd buy generic stuff I'd never even heard of. (Two quick points here....I have nothing against generic food, but I prefer a label to have someone's name on it somewhere. That plain white label shit all tastes like it was scraped off the bottom of a bar mat somewhere. And, I knew a little about this aspect because of the things I saw Eric bringing in for lunch.) God forbid this chick ever spent any of HIS MONEY on HIM...then she'd have less to take to the casinos and LOSE.
This is the kind of crap the poor man was trying to 'live' through every day. Why didn't he run screaming, you might ask? The usual steel-jawed leg-hold trap. Young kids. His son and her daughter's rugrat. And, he's just not like that. He couldn't leave those boys alone with her. They were too young at first. After a while, I guess he got as used to it as one could get. I've heard of that before. And, all those men in Viet Nam POW camps survived torture, too. You do what you have to do, til you can do something different I guess. (And, please...don't anyone blast me for comparing Eric's life to that of a soldier's in a prison camp. Especially the Nam Vets. I love those guys and do everything I can to remind people of what they did and went through and that they are NOT ALL ACCOUNTED FOR YET. I only mean to give you as clear a picture as possible what it must have been like for Eric every day. One we can relate to, now that we know a little of it. I support our Nam Vets like I do no others. I do support 'em all, but the Nam guys are special to me. Every one of you guys. In case there are any reading this: Thank you very much for what you did and I am sorrier than I could ever say for the way the people of this country treated you when you came home and the way the Government has ever since. If I ever saw anyone spit at any of you....whew. There just are no words...but there would be plenty of action on my part. Bless all of our Service men and women, but especially the Viet Nam Vets.)
Back to Eric...sorry, but I love my guys.
So, this is what Eric was dealing with every day, all day long. For 14 years.
I met him at Wellacrest when he first got hired. I learned pretty quickly that the guy had a hellacious home life and that the little wifey was a raging fucknoodle and all I really knew of him was what I saw at work. Which was mostly just the results of her work. A jittery, skinny guy so tightly wound he shook. The look in his eyes varied from dead to 'kill me, please'. He acted kinda different. Not bad, just different. None of us could understand how he could even stand her, but we really had no idea it was like that. The best lesson in understanding what it was really like for him that I got, besides his telling me the stories after we got together and he was safe for a change, was at the grocery store, the first time we went there together.
We went in, cruised the aisles and I was just doing some standard stocking up. I had next to no food in the house-I'd just lost 75 lbs. and wasn't eating much, but I wanted stuff to be there for him. I was havin' a hell of a time, getting him to say what kinda stuff he liked. I think he'd forgotten. Besides, he was so used to not being allowed (!!!) an opinion or any say...damn. We were gettin' there, even though he really had a hard time understanding that I really did want his imput. His opinion was wanted. His tastes did matter. What he wanted could definitely be had. I asked him "Oh, hey...you like salad?" Because that was one of the things I would still eat. And, he said "Yeah" with a non-commital shrug. "Okay, then, go get your kind of salad dressing. I'll get the lettuce." I went and got the lettuce and a coupla other things on the way and when I got back to the dressing aisle, he was just standing there, staring. He'd reach toward one and bring his hand back. Reach toward another and bring his hand back. I asked "What's wrong, Sweetheart? Can't find the one you like?" He says "I don't KNOW which one I like. I've never SEEN so many different kinds before." I almost cried. It hit me in a way that has not lost one bit of impact-to this DAY-what he'd been going through. The poor man didn't even know about fuckin' salad dressing. Jesus. That was yet another of those times I felt myself fall another million feet into love with him. (It's happened about another million times since then.) I just stood there, with my eyes fulla tears, letting him choose. I swear it took him about a half an hour. I was in no hurry. It was so incredible to see him making his choice. What HE wanted. HIS choice. For the first time in forever.
I have loved, do love and will continue to love to do this with him. Nearly every silly little thing we decide for ourselves every single day, taking for granted the fact that we're even ALLOWED to choose...he never got to do before. I take vast amounts of pleasure in giving him his freedom. He's like a horse that someone has always ridden with the reins three inches long from the bit to their hands and his head pulled in way too fuckin' tight. And, here he doesn't need 'reins' at all. Hell, I won't even use a hackamore on this particular 'horse'...If he was, in fact, a horse, he'd be the kinda horse that reponds to leg pressure or subtle cues. Almost like magic. If you ever get to watch a calf-cutting competition, take a look at the reins. They should be swinging in the breeze and you won't see the rider give a cue, but that horse won't let that calf past. He does the job beautifly with no interference. Just like Eric. This man does not need to be told every step to take, every move to make. He's just wonderful being who he is, exactly the way he is. The way he is NOW, that is. Now that he's ALLOWED to be himself. Hell, ALLOWED to be, period.
And, friggin' salad dressing showed me that. Salad dressing.
So, see, Velociman? Writing about salad dressing can be a good thing. Thank you for reminding me to...

Posted by: Stevie at 04:39 PM

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Posted by: Terry Reynolds at May 27, 2005 06:40 PM (OPRCz)

Posted by: dee at May 28, 2005 12:00 PM (OGfeN)

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