Sinister: back in the u.s.s.a

[stacey dahling]

  I woke up this morning with the biggest reality hangover. I am no longer 
in Greece. I am not even in London. I am in my tiny, constricting childhood 
bedroom in Johnston, Rhode Island. It is 6 a.m. and my dad can be heard 
quietly getting ready for work and his pre-work daily church visit. My mom 
is still snoring, but within minutes will be up fluttering around the house, 
cleaning things that are not dirty, making my waking hours miserable.
  I don’t think living at home has ever been worse. It’s a combination of 
things, really. First off, I haven’t lived at home in... years. Secondly, 
I’ve just returned from the most free, independent living situation ever. 
And I’m acutely aware at all times that I should still be in this situation, 
if it were not for overzealous customs officials and possibly Fate, who has 
a sick sense of humor.
  In addition to this, I believe my mother has gotten more anal, if this is 
in fact possible. This is a woman who rushes over to the kitchen sink after 
you have used it so she can wipe it dry; it’s stainless steel and must be 
preserved so it maintains its gleam, see. No sooner had I set foot off the 
bus and hopped into her car than she was matter-of-factly informing me that 
I am not allowed to leave the house unless my room is immaculately clean. 
And there has already been an inspection. An INSPECTION! I was home a total 
of two days before I had to escape to western Massachusetts to visit my old 
stomping grounds. Before I left, my mom came into my room and almost had a 
heart attack when she saw the disarray of my SHOES in the CLOSET. 
Apparently, each pair should be lined up perfectly and symmetrically. You’ve 
got to be kidding. No. When I returned last night I discovered she hadn’t 
stopped there. After I left, she came in my room and rearranged things. She 
even took the bath towel I had draped over the door handle for drying and 
quick access and hung it in the closet, on a hanger, like a nice pair of 
trousers.
  Ack!
  My reality hangover is especially horrid because I fell asleep last night 
after spending hours getting gloriously giddy looking at trip photos and 
giving them silly captions. (These photos are, incidentally, online and 
ready for your perusal at two locations: http://photos.yahoo.com/dahling007 
under the album labelled sinister - also includes previous sini photos, so 
forgive me if you’ve seen em. Or www.geocities.com/dahling007/photos10.htm 
has silly captions, but may take awhile to load and sometimes is down I got 
a little tear in my eye seeing Ken’s graceful bowling release and Nick’s 
hip-swaying Elvis karaoke number.
  Don’t fret. I don’t intend to make this an enormous trip wrap-up reporting 
back post like last time I was in the UK. Because now that I am back in the 
land of isolated listees with no picnic potentials, I can again sympathize 
with the jealousy and misery these posts can produce. Suffice it to say, I 
had a fantastic time and met loads of wonderful people who have truly become 
my friends. And I miss them terribly. It was especially nice because it was 
a UK visit I was not exactly planning. I had eight days to pack all my 
things and reassemble my life after learning I was being forced to leave 
Greece. So each activity was unexpected and none disappointed. Karaoke, 
bowling, ice skating, beach huddles, arcade games and lots and lots of 
drinking - all did wonders taking my mind off the not-so-pleasant realities 
of my situation.
  But of course, now I can no longer avoid them. I managed to, for the 
weekend. I talked my mom into letting me borrow my dad’s brand new car - 
even though I am not insured and haven’t been behind the wheel for 10 
months; quite a feat, eh? - and sped away to Northampton. Seeing old work 
colleagues and sources was more gratifying than I thought possible. No one 
was expecting to see me. They were all shocked. And thrilled! People jumped 
out of their seats and ran up to hug me. I was pulled in every which way; 
everyone wanted to hear what had happened to me. I felt so loved. Really. It 
was touching. I went to the police station and courthouse, where I had spent 
so much time hobnobbing with cops and criminals alike, and was met with a 
similar reception. I almost cried. We like to think the relationships we 
make on the job are real ones, but are often disappointed to learn that they 
disintegrate almost as soon as we leave. But this was not the case at all. 
Even the waitress at the lunch place across the street remembered my order.
  Also awaiting me at the newspaper was a letter from a man who had been the 
subject of an article I had written shortly before leaving. He was a brain 
injury patient who had been struggling for five years to leave a 
rehabilitation center where he had been placed for a temporary visit. All he 
wanted was to come home. But the government wouldn’t let him. It was a sad 
story, because the guy had so much hope, and I had to dash it all by 
contacting the government and finding out he had absolutely no chance of 
ever getting out. Well, turns out my article changed that. Apparently, some 
senator read the thing and got so upset he advocated on this guy’s behalf, 
and he has now been released. He wrote my editor, saying: “It is recommended 
that Stacey Shackford receives a substantial raise in pay. She did a 
wonderful job writing a story about my struggles with the state. It worked 
and I’ll be moving to Pittsfield. I’m a happy man. Thank you, Stacey.” Aww! 
There is no greater reward than that, really.
  The short trip did wonders cheering me up about being back home. I saw old 
friends, went to our old bar and laughed until my sides hurt as a sports boy 
with an overpowering Boston accent ranted about how he’d rather have sex 
with chicken than a man. I went ice skating, shopping and gossiping with a 
girlfriend. I had breakfast at an authentic sugar shack, where my pancakes 
were smothered with maple syrup ladled directly out of the cauldron boiling 
with sap dripping in from the trees. I had coffee with my favorite professor 
and idol, who gushed over me and suggested we collaborate for an article on 
comparative media ethics for an academic journal. (I also had a mini 
Sinister meet-up, with the lovely Andreea, and spent nearly three hours 
talking non-stop about the bunch of you! Ha.)
  And then I returned here. And what awaits me but a week that promises to 
be full of stress and anxiety as I do laundry, run errands, begin the job 
and loan search and try not to kill my parents. Sigh.
  I guess I shouldn’t complain too terribly because at least there is an end 
in sight. In August, I shall be returning to Glasgow, and there I will stay 
for at least a year. I will be reunited with all my wonderful new friends. I 
will once again be free. But until then.. oh, it will be torture. And 
motivation to get my ass in gear and make sure it all happens. Oh yes.
  Anyway.. that’s about it on this front. Thanks to everyone who was so 
spectacularly supportive during my difficult time. And to those who 
entertained me/put up with me while I was in Sinisterland. Huge hugs and 
kisses and ghetto shout-outs to y’all.

MWAH!
~dahling

ps: I seem to remember Ms. Kara Jean putting a call out for any Boston-area 
listees who might fancy a pre-show meet-up. I’m not sure if there’s been a 
response (I haven’t actually read the list in a month, admittedly) but there 
should be! I’m game. And there’s a UMass-Dartmouth boy who better be getting 
his ass there as well. And I bet there are more. Anyway.. if Kara Jean 
hasn’t volunteered her services as picnic mummy, I will.
pps: apologies to all those to whom I owe email. eventually.

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