In the Light of Day

I awakened this morning a new woman.  Well, not entirely…but it was different.

After the morning hijinx, Katie, Biscuit and I set out on our Sunday morning walk.  It was eight a.m., early enough to miss the church crowds.  A hazy mist sat suspended in crisp, pre-autumn air.  My hair stuck out in all directions, pointing to the birds who lazily chirped the only sounds of that time of morning.  The dogs were focused on the task at hand, which was the exercise and marking of the neighborhood.

There were no neighbors outside to say Good Morning, no traffic to speak of.  The downtown businesses were not open, and the smells were decidedly natural, all dewey grass and blooming flowers.  I couldn’t help thinking how lovely Hoosick Falls is when there are no people around.  The few stray cats we encountered reminded us where we were.

A brisk, focused walk brings me back to myself.  The dogs let me know that no matter what occurs in my life, the day will move forward and the next will come, and another walk will be made.  It is perhaps the one comfort upon which I can rely.  (That, and Willie’s sleepy face in my armpit when I wake up.)

The Colombian called me last night.  My heart was immediately, again, smitten.  My tearful and strange outbursts, and my outrageous demands, do not frighten him or turn him away from me.  “Eet ees a part of you, and I will know this, too.”  My emotion, he says, is not irrational, and is indeed filled with reason and thought.  So he chooses to experience it with me, in hopes of learning more about me.

I am not sure what I have done to deserve such a tender romance.  I don’t know that it will last–I still need more attention, more affection, more togetherness–but in those rare moments of real communication, it is beautiful and strange.  It is like a walk about town.  It is brief, and not always perfect; but the act of it changes my perceptions, and keeps me moving forward.

Back to Basics…in Lonesuckiness.

Today is Saturday.  I worked hard, after over-sleeping this morning.  They day was long, and lonely.

I raced home from work, after staying late.  I realized I should have stayed later, but my mind had become cloudy with the stresses and exhaustion of the week.  I checked my email–there was none–and rested for a little while.  I ate a cookie.  I realized I am out of sirloins.

When they showed they could stand it no longer, I took the dogs for a walk.  We walked the familiar loop, past the downtown businesses, past the houses with dogs, past the churches with their stained glass windows, and back home again.  I sat.  I considered the rest of my evening.  Wine-in-a-box, sans steak; British comedies on PBS; falling asleep in my pajamas on the couch before retiring early to bed alone.

I let The Colombian go by email.  It seemed the right thing.  He is too busy to talk on the phone.  He is too far removed from me to come over.  God knows when I could see him again.  I thought it best not to wait.

It may seem wrong to have returned to Lonesuckiness.  Only you must understand this:  the night I was picturing, the same old Saturday night routine that has gotten me through the last year in pieces, was the night I was picturing with him as The Boyfriend.  Alone felt less lonely before he came along.

Waiting for Paint to Dry

Outside, the sky is opening in cool evening air. The drizzle taps on my living room windows, adding texture to an otherwise bland Friday night.

I have wrapped my paintbrush and put it aside for a time. A dinner for one of comfort foods–frozen taquitos and chile con queso, followed by greasy chocolate chip cookies–has long been put away, leaving me with nothing to do but wait. A coat of ordinary antique white glistens on china shelves, standing against the blank wall of an unfinished room. Wiry black hairs attach themselves before I can shoo them away, making Katie a permanent part of Ina Hall’s decor.

Heart of (Blown) Glass

I imagine God as a grand artisan–or, technically I guess He would be The Grand Artisan–with every tool imaginable, crafting each of us by hand for our special purpose, and with just the right contents.

I imagine God crafting me for my own special purpose, which at some point will be revealed…I hope. I imagine that God crafted my heart from glass.

Dark and Light

Regular readers will know that I wrestle with insecurities in relationships, and that I have difficulty maintaining happiness for any length of time. I live for the small happy moments, like my morning cuddles with Katie, or those rare occasions when Little Willie actually sits still for me to pet him. I live for great walks with the dogs (which are more and more rare, as they pick up on my frazzled mood) and for the satisfaction of the occasional completed home improvement project. But positive thinking, hopefulness, and general warm fuzzies are not a part of my routine outside of work.

The Influence of Old Friends

Today is my friend Shawny Mac’s birthday.  I won’t reveal her age, but will only say that she will, forever, be older than I.

Shawny Mac was one of the first people I met at Big Overpriced Fancypants (not the real name), a national chain of designer specialty/department stores.  That was more than ten years ago.  She was an administrative associate in my department, and taught me all the ins-and-outs of overpriced, fancy pants.  And jackets.  For rich women.

We worked together for a short time before she moved along to greener pastures.  Shawny was always smarter than your average bear, and had a talent for planning and organization.  BOF was too institutionally stupid to recognize her talent, so she went on to a management position with They.Blew.

A year and a half later I went looking for my own greener pastures.  She thought I’d fit in at They.Blew.  She was promoted to Store Manager, and I was hired to be one of her assistants.  It was a tough time, and she was a tough boss.  She is probably the toughest boss I ever had.  She made me cry a record 136 times.  (To be fair, I’m just estimating, based on my best recollection.)  But I quickly noticed her reputation building within the company as one of the best operational managers out there.

I would have followed Shawny Mac anywhere, and eventually I followed her to another store.  Her approach softened a little when she fell in love with one of our former associates, Tony the Tiger, and even though she was still known as a tough-as-nails boss within the company, she became rather enjoyable to work for.  I started to enjoy it so much that I decided I wanted to be a Store Manager, too.

For a little more than a year, we were peers and rivals.  From a bit of a distance, I got to watch her life grow and change–she had a baby with Tony the Tiger, and built a life with him–as her priorities changed along they way.  It was inspiring to watch.  I began to understand how difficult her job had always been, and how much she shielded me and the rest of the team from the pressure that was put on her.  I grew to respect her in new ways.

Eventually, our mutual priorities changed enough that we both left the company.  But we continued to be friends, even doing “couple” things together when time and life permitted.  Shawny and Tony were “cool” parents whose kid was cute enough to be around, even for two happily childless freaks like us.  When we lost our house in the fire and were set to leave Kansas City, Shawny and Tony came to see us off at our favorite Mexican restaurant.  (Shawny is still one of my favorite people to enjoy Mexican with.  It’s sort of a prerequisite to being a friend of mine.)  They brought us a bag of “there’s no place like home” presents to take on the journey.

I think Shawny Mac is still probably one of the best bosses around.  Her focus is on her family these days, which is a far cry from the way things began ten years ago.  She’s learned to lace her management technique with a lot of humanity, which is why associates love her.  But she’d still kick your ass for breaking the rules.  I try to channel her whenever possible, though I will never match her talent for planning and execution.

I hope I can be like Shawny someday.  Happy birthday!  I would have sent you a They.Blew gift card, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t because I’m broke.  (grin.)

Togetherjoyfulness

When Saturday morning began in exactly the same way as Friday at the Zoo, with the Ass Menagerie playing virtually the same script, I immediately began to dread the Saturday night that would follow. In my mind, the only thing more pathetic than the usual routine would have been to repeat it after seeing it in print.

…And thus begins the story of The Colombian and Me.

The Ass Menagerie

This morning was the quintessential waking of the Zoo.

The sun snuck through the curtain as it was blown slightly open by my window fan. With the curtain touching him, Biscuit began to stir, and to itch. He seated himself near the foot of the bed so he could bump the frame with the top of his butt, using it to scratch the worst of his spots. As he shook the bed, I awoke from a restful dream about the Colombian.

Warm Latin Rain

My brain has been driven to distraction by this beautiful, dark-skinned man.

He inhabits my mind, conscious and unconscious, in all hours of the day.  Time passes slowly as I wait for his business to lull–a horrible thing to wish on a potential lover, I’ll admit–so I can spend the time with him I crave so much.  Please, don’t tell him I’m so smitten.

But he knows.  I think he knows.  How could anyone not know?  It’s right here on the internet, for the whole world to see.  The world would see it anyway, I’m afraid.  My smile is bigger than the sky, stretching across the canvas of the universe, blanketing it in warmth and in hope.  His smile rains down on me, covering me in a dizzy joy I haven’t felt…I don’t know when.

If his smile can do all this, I have to wonder what a hug could do?

It’s Raining Men…Hallelujah?

I had begun to doubt my connection with the Latin Hottie. He’d been on my mind nonstop since last Wednesday, when I’d seen him twice in the same day. He didn’t ask me out, exactly–he had only hinted at when he would next have free time, and he’d expressed the desire to show me around his inn and “share some coffee and scones.”

Lonesuckiness

I have a Saturday night routine. The routine is pretty static, whether I have a weekend visitor, two dogs or one. Sometimes I work late, but it is a rare occasion these days. (The company has a particular view on who should close on ad nights. It’s not me.) Katie and I are doing the routine right now, in fact.

Why I Haven’t Written.

I don’t know what’s kicking my ass worse:  the dining room project; or the nearly-twenty-four-seven Olympics coverage, which sucks my soul and speeds up the clock until I finally fall asleep on the couch at four a.m. or so, watching fencing or water polo or lawn darts or whatever–on a school night, no less.  But today, it is both.  Hundreds of bits of torn paper (which looked so much cooler on the roll than it does on the walls) and paste, and archery and beach volleyball and swimming heats.

Oh, but there is so much to report!  There’s Biscuit’s skin irritation, and Willie’s incessant crying and dog-sniffing, and Carter’s new boldness–which was ended by a tooth-contact disaster with Katie–and excellent walks with my buddy Katie, and the impending six-day work weeks at Graples, my awesome new Jukey, and, lest I forget, my obsessive new crush with the Latin Hottie.  Each time I see him, he grows more beautiful and more accessible.  I wish I trusted my own ability to detect the reverse flirt.  I cannot tell whether he is trying to sell me a room at his B&B, or sell me on HIM.  On one of those points, he has already been successful.

My eyes burn, my ass is sore, I smell from the afternoon sun beating through the dining room windows, and the exhaustion is taking it’s toll–like, I’m using way too many commas, right?  I need to wrap up the dining room for the night.  Stick a fork in me.  I’ll catch you on the flipside.