Ills

painting I'm working on to depict the fact that we all have many versions of ourselves

Today is Friday, the honorable Veterans' Day, and while I did work half of the day, despite that Shawmut honors it as a Floating Holiday, I was in my jammers so life was laid back.

I have now stepped away from the work scene to take care of KB items: eating bacon (check), ...well, I guess that's about all of the KB accomplishments for today. Heat has come on spotty in our apartment (old pipes) so the bedroom is a frigid Arctic Zone whereas the living room is somewhat warm-ish. So here I am in my rather semi-warm living room typing away my feelings.

(I can hear my work phone buzzing in the other room but again, I'm going to limit my access to those who are trying to reach me.)

Without further ado, I'll launch into Today's Me.

I woke at 6AM from a terrifying dream:

I was working on a construction site deep into the mountains. The site was highly dangerous: broken tree limbs everywhere, no safety walk ways in place, I was clambering through quite spiky territory. There was, in fact, a pillow covering a broken branch that would have impaled someone were the pillow not in place.

I noticed that there were two tall black bears on their hind legs and one wolf and two grizzly looking men eyeing me from across what appeared to be a canyon.

I feared my life, and dove into this "trailer" that was the temporary job site office, where I found my Dad and Mom, also hovering for safety, and in a moment there was a scene where my Dad and I were in the front room of this trailer and the bears and wolf and men were immediately at the front storm door.

My Dad swung open the door and shot a gun right at one of the bears, and the bear immediately fell backward to its death.

Then one of the Grizzly Creepy Men pulled a gun and shot himself in the head, turned, and shot the other Grizzly Creepy Man in the head. The remaining bear and wolf seemed confused, and the guy that first shot himself in the head dove through the storm door and aimed the gun at my Dad.

He didn't shoot, but turned toward me (where I cowered in the corner of the room) and as he was about to shoot me, he passed out dead cold.

I woke this morning with a slamming heart beat, terrified that I was about to be shot.

SO VERY CLEARLY this is a direct result of the violent shootings in our Nation happening all too frequently these days. I mean. There could be underlying other nuances to that dream, but really.

I'm so tired.

Sometimes I don't know what it takes to be alive and thriving.

Yesterday:

Woke up and walked fast to catch an 8:25 AM Long Island Rail Road Train to Penn Station. Barely made it, got to Penn, which is at 34th and 8th (give or take) and hauled ass to 30th and 10th to grab my hard hat from our Hudson Yards Curtain Wall Site Office. Walked back up 10th to 30th, said hello to the Estimator who was gathering a group to tour a new potential KB APM space called Bouchon Bakery.

I have an Escort Badge for Hudson Yards which means I have the ability to go grab Day Passes for Visitors and walk them through construction spaces. But that means going up into the building, finding my contact, retrieving the badges, going back out to 10th Ave, handing out Day Passes, and escorting them back up into the space.

I mean? I signed up for this? I did?

Oh good lawd, it was a long fucking day, and I walked my WEEK'S worth of miles just yesterday and so today sitting here with bacon in my belly and my fat guy exploding from said bacon: I'm good.

I need to do things this weekend, like winterize my wardrobe, go to therapy, fucking clip my nails. I am so exhausted, I want nothing to do with any of it. I'd rather wear tank tops in 30 degrees and have my nails just fall off naturally.

Bah. Why.

Memories

desktop circa 2017: paintbrushes, paint cup, lamp and more

I don't know. 

Is that a fair assessment for today?

My Dad was in town this weekend - he arrived Thursday, and you'd think that with me living in this fine town called New York City that I'd whirl him around: museums, restaurants, ferry rides, World Trade Center tour: maybe we'd visit my various construction projects, maybe we'd hit the coffee shops and bars I frequent in Manhattan?

But we didn't. I couldn't do it. I wanted to keep us safely limited to my safe haven of Forest Hills, the new place I have grown to call home (which, to many, is a respectably comfortable place to live.)

I probably had one of the best weekends I've had in a very long time.

You see, my Dad is my best friend.

Having a best friend (owning the honor of having one) is a major life pleasure. 

I've probably always "had" a "best friend" (?) but have never, to the full extent, acknowledged and understood the meaning of that, until realizing (in my later years) that my Dad is the Real Deal.

My Dad just gets me. Okay Internet? He doesn't balk if I don't shower. He doesn't trash talk at me for the amount of wine I drink (although we admittedly know it's an issue, and one I'm working to curb.) He doesn't tell me to take out the overflowing trash if that becomes an issue in the apartment, he doesn't ask me to shut off the numerous Beirut videos I play on repeat for the 8 year-old who is rapidly becoming my (cough) "step-son." (Cough, and explosive expletives.) (And smiles.)

He holds my hand. He plays board games with me. He confides in me. We joke, and laugh, and high five and mock things that are mock-worthy.

I have never known a soul as close to mine. He's perfectly arranged, chemically, to be my best friend. Well, and biologically, since he's my Dad. :)

He got to spend a lot of quality time with Jon (and Fitz.) I hold that sacred. 

I realize life carries various figurative sidewalks and off beaten paths and currents: ebbs, flows, waxes and wanes: navigation points we don't always cherish or realize or even want to travel.

But what I do know after this weekend? I can't be more blessed to have that father in my life. And I know he won't live forever - but he will in my soul.