962 Jeanne Ave (from my other blog on 11/27/07)

Home is where the heart is. It's where you can take off your cardigan and hang it up in the closet behind the front door; all the while a toy trolley train comes whizzing by, nearly flying off its tracks from the sheer velocity at which it turned the corner. 962 Jeanne Ave was not a neighborhood of make believe and I did not wear cardigans. Instead, it was the source of anger, anxiety and abandonment among other demons.

From early 1991 thru late 1999, 962 Jeanne [jee-nee] Ave was my "home". I know this because I was in second grade when we moved in and ninth grade when we left. It's located in East San Jose, zip code 95116. That's nearly downtown. You can googlemap it. It's two hundred feet from the tragic epicenter that is public housing apartments. Kids living down the street chastised me for being rich and living in a house. We were far from rich. We lived in the ghetto.

When I think of this house and the memories attached to it, I remember all the times my parents weren't there. I remember when my older brother became an authority figure and a violent one at that. I remember creating a refuge by barricading my bedroom door with furniture. I remember wanting to hear the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

There were some good parts to the house, mostly on the outside. On the property there stood approximately one lime, one fuji apple, two pear and four persimmon fruit-bearing trees. There was also John. John shared a fence with us. John was a 7-foot something retired old white man who traded me his homegrown quamquats and heirloom tomatoes for beers. There was also that camper trailer in the back that became my fort. And there was also the neighbor's great mulberry tree that made foder for my fatty silk worms. This is how 962 Jeanne Ave should be remembered.

I don't want to remember all the bad shit that happened in my childhood, but there's a lot of bad shit to block out. And I've tried explaining my past to some people, particularly my physciatrist, and my boyfriend. I just get emotional and cry. My physciatrist put me on suicide watch during our first session because all I did was cry. Now that I don't have a physciatrist anymore, I'll try to spill my guts here.

Why not?

I'm really upset that he doesn't want to try to work it out. I'm willing to change to be a better girlfriend, I'm willing to make sacrifices. It's really heartbreaking to discover that your significant other of two years refuses to do the same. Do I mean nothing to him?

I want him to be the one who sweeps me off my feet.
I want to wake up next to him every morning.

But if he's not willing to change, then he can kick it with his lone misanthropic self while I travel the seven seas. I was fine before him, and I'll be fine without him. I deserve more than that.

Something Sandy can't do

It may come as no surprise to those of you reading this, but I don't see children in my future. Not now, not in ten years, not ever. I enjoy my life the way it is and I want it to myself. I don't want to share it with some pinsky little dipshits.

I don't want to rush home from work because Junior decided to pee his pants.
I don't want to waste tickets to the play because we couldn't find a nanny.
I don't want to worry about whether the kid is going to college and who's going to foot the bill.
I don't want to postpone my life and aspirations.

It's a bit of a shame too. I feel like as a woman I've got this great ability to make life, but because I've decided not to have children that I'm wasting it. Granted, it's not like I've got an IUD (Peaches is the best teacher), but I've made this choice and I will do what it takes to prevent becoming pregnant.

To the cutest little buckethead

I received a slick little MP3 player.

I can finally listen to Joanna Newsom at work without having my coworkers think I'm a total freak. And you know what else I can do? I can listen to Danse Macabre and no one in the gym can criticize my appreciation for the Faint.

This is a pretty awesome gift. When I first got the package, I was ready to write in big bold letters on the box: RETURN TO SENDER. I didn't want this piece of $%^&. I am perfectly content and I don't need these material objects to complicate my life. But when I heard Joanna Newsom's voice come in loud and clear through the earbuds, I convinced myself that I really did want-no, need this.

Thanks for all you've done with you know, complicating my life.