8/16/11 Bed is more enticing when there is someone else in it.

Mounting lack of rest and good decision makng capability, which probably is impaired because of the lack of rest, abundance of alcohol and captured by various types of electronica, not enough good music and love- a dreadful combo sure to ignite explosive tendencies or just plain exploit, here I sit on my green couch again.
And I swore to myself I was going to sleep,to crawl in my king size bed, sheets amuck, pillows suffocating, and clothes draped all over the place. Nope. Didn't happened again. Here I sit, typing aimlessly, without doing what I need to do one more night- write the damn letter.
Why is it that I can seem to do reciculous things all weekend, I can work my ass off at work even though I am formally as they say, "going through the motions," whatever that means. I can cook a really good dinner, which sad to admit, I am not known for. Laundry even, I can do stinkin laundry. But write the letter? Fuck no. I haven't done it. Haven't even tried to think of it. And the few people that I want to ask me about it- haven't mentioned it.
That would include Mom and Justin. I mean you would think that after dating someone for a long time, and remaining close friends with that person, that he or she would have some vested interest in your well being. But looking back now, I can see why he wouldn't be asking. I was the caretaker in that relationship for the most part. I was the mother, the encourager, the breaker of spririt in efforts to gain what was needed at the time- him to get him established, on task, directionally focused. I guess I should be neither hurt nor surprised on that end.
But Mom? She hasn't mentioned it.I found out everything identifying about the birthmother except her social security number and favorite color, which with a little digging, I could probably do with Debi's help. I bet it's blue, like mine.
She hugged me while I was sitting at the computer last Thursday night gawking at that one ancient picture on Facebook that I found, Incidentally, we were practicaly identical at age 3- both with wildly, thick manes with bangs that forced their way through eyebrows and crushed teensy eyelashes with their weight. Both with squinty little eyes, shrouded by the chubbiest cheeks you'd seen since the Shoney's Big Boy was around hanging outside of the Stuckey's gas station on I85 in 1984, where we stopped to get DQ ice cream on the way to visit my grandparents who lived in High Point, NC until they got too old to take care of themselves and were moved to Charlotte when I was in college.
I sat there at Dad's ancient computer, rocking incessantly back and forth in the comfy, brown, reclining leather chair, and because the box is so damn outdated, it takes months to download anything,and then freezes, which inevitably happened later, and right when I was in stalker mode. Crap. Murphy's law is true.
I called Mom in, "look at her, Mom. She looks just like me." The picture was black and white, faded, and surreal. I had to pinch myself. Was that really her? Thirty-five years, and that's her at age 3. Funny thing, my daughter looks nothing like either of us.
My bff, and practically everyone else who has seen her, says that Sarah looks like her Dad. Oh God. That's only the worst possible thing you can say to a mother who is both a wonderful mother and the absent father. But if that's all she gets from him, that would be ok, because I guess he is not that bad looking. I was physically attracted to him at some point. I have mentally blocked that aspect out though, and the thought is vomitous now, repulsive.
At any rate, we looked alike.
What else might we have in common? Would we share the same mostly messy handwriting, occasionally steady and with ts overlapping ls? Would she be as blind as a bat, needing some form of vision correction at all times, or having to squint harder than your grandfather doing his crossword puzzle without his handy dandy magnifying glass he temporarily lost, but was later found on the back of the toilet. Is she funny? Does she find humor in gross things like I do? Does she hate housework? Most likely she does- I mean really, show me someone who enjoys cleaning. On second thought, please don't. Those people are scary. They need to chill out.
Does she like writing? Does she sing in the shower and make people feel uncomfortable with her blatant disregard for all things modest, peppering inappropriate jokes and suggestions at inopportune times?
I hope so. It will make things so much easier if she's like me. I won't have to suppress my words of unwisdom, although most likely, I will because of nervousness and jitters. I'll be quiet and reserved like I always am around people I just meet. After all, I don't want to scare them away until they love me already, and then it's easier to win them back.
I have a feeling she's just like me. Poor thing, but at least she's had all this time to figure out who she is, learn to live with herself, and embrace the silliness that is her true being.
Maybe Mom is scared of those things. Maybe she recognizes our extreme differences, and is afraid that my birthmother will have one up on her, which would not be the case at all. I love who my Mom is. Sure, she annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me as the punk adolescent that I once was, sometimes still might be, but you can't put a pricetag on love. You can't buy it in a store, have it sent to you wrapped up in a Carolina blue bow with yellow polka-dots, and open it like it was Christmas morning. You can't steal it from third base at the top of the ninth when you are down one base, and it's the Cubs at the World Series. I don't think we'll ever have to wory about that happening, but I don't know. They are having a good season so far.
Love is not something that can be replaced in a flash, by the click of a mouse, by a firm handshake or a bearhug. It's not written on paper or bought with paper. I couldn't build a relationship with someone that I've known for a small amount of time based on the fact that we have the same O positive blood running through our veins that quickly, even if I was told I would be rich by doing so.

It could not happen.
It would not happen.
I would not love you more if you said you had a boat.
I could not love you more if written in a note.

The point is this. No matter what the outcome, I will be me, and you will be you. And I am fully aware of the situation, the risk, and the reward.