Progress, and Regress

It was lately pointed out to me that, for a woman of action, I spend an awful lot of time pondering what might be, instead of actually doing anything to bring it about. (The boxes in the hall bear witness with their not yet installed ceiling fans and pedestal sinks.) In many ways, my life is not so much a life, but a series of theories.

When it comes to Graples (or any job, really) I am somewhat efficient, tidy, and proactive. My reputation has been one of a woman who can “get shit done.” As an Operations Manager, I’ve mastered the art of problem-solving by anticipating and heading off concerns. I direct my worries into pre-emptive strikes aimed at making my own life and experience easier. I hate surprises. I do whatever I have to do to avoid them, and am rarely caught off guard.

The Long Way Around

As I walked the Terrible Twosome around the village of Hoosick Falls today, I was struck by how the simplest things can bring back waves of long-buried emotions, releasing cobwebs from the heart and replacing them with billowing dustclouds of painful nostalgia. Today it was the slightest crispness in the air–not our usual coat weather, but the first hintings of spring that signal a real change in season. While I know it was only a tease, a pre-cursor to tonight’s snow, it poked at my aching heart just a little.

Manifesting Destiny

My luck has been greatly decreased by my habit of rushing into relationships with my bleeding heart held firmly out in front of me, chasing emotionally unavailable men who cannot escape quickly enough. Somehow, the fact that their backs are turned as they move away quickly in the other direction has escaped my notice, each and every time. I’ve begun to question my grip on reality, especially after seeing the smiling photos of one recent non-boyfriend with his MUCH older ladyfriend, with whom he re-entered into a relationship while I was still under the impression we were dating. He seems truly happy–if he is indeed capable of a positive emotion–and that really pisses me off.

Saint Patrick

I’ve met plenty of people who have managed not only civil, but friendly relationships with their ex-spouses. Perfect strangers have told me their stories, including one woman who let her ex live with her for years after he lost everything in a fire; and a man just the other day who has become “roommates” with his ex-wife–his best friend–for the financial benefits of couplehood. Unfortunately, these stories are not the norm. We speak in hushed tones, eyes wide, amazed to have found kindred spirits.

E-Z Rockin’

The E-Z Rockin’ Ranch was miles from town, and surrounded by other small farms and ranches. The goldenrod house had sprung from the earth as just a few rooms, and had been added onto over the years, centering around the dining room. That dining room contained a big, old wooden table that had more leaves in it than exist in any other farm table in creation. Even when it was just the two of them, Grandma kept a couple leaves in place. It made the room feel cozy, and mealtimes feel big.

Walking on Empty–Wait, Have I Done This One Before??

The most consistent presence in my life these days has to be Ina Hall’s Queen Bitch. Miss Katie goes to bed the same way every night, and wakes the same way every morning: cuddly. Whenever I enter the Hall, she wiggles and squirms. When I sit on the couch, she double-pumps to hop on the couch and sit with me. Whenever a cat walks by, her ears perk up. When a bus or truck drives by, she lunges. And whenever I cry, she just looks at me. Looks at me, square in the face, and stares.

Special Message for a New “Friend”

Here’s a tip:  when it’s bugging you that a total stranger is writing about “you” on her public blog, don’t let her know it directly.  In most cases, it’s a sure bet that the total stranger enjoys that you’re bugged.  And now she may have found a new hobby.  Hey, thanks for that!

The Bitter Taste of da Feet

I’ve heard a lot of people compare heartbreak to getting kicked in the teeth. I don’t know about all that. In my estimation, the pain is more like being hit with a spinning fly-kick to the gut.

To me, the worst part of being a dumpee is that moment, mere hours into a breakup, when the man predictably says, “Why don’t you just get over it.” It’s not so much a question, either. If he’d inflect at the end just a little bit, and turn it into a conversation starter, I’d answer him. I want to answer him. But it’s just a statement, akin to “oh, silly girl, you and your invalid feelings might as well walk away and follow my feelings right out the door. I’m soooooooo over you.”

Lonesuckiness and the Art of Biding Time

I spent the day alone. Aloneness is something to which I’ve grown accustomed over the past few years. Sure, I’ve had so-called “romances,” which largely consisted of my doting on selfish men who lacked any interest in my wellbeing; but for the most part, I’ve spent my time alone with my furry friends, contemplating life and wishing I had a better handle on it. Most times, I was alone, but not lonely.

When today began, I was lonely. By midday, I was as lonely as I’d ever been. And that was while I still had a boyfriend.

Trash, and Re-Trash

One of the great “joys” of dog parenting is the wacky way they mess with your stuff every time you turn your back. Beds get unmade, laundry piles get “re-sorted,” and disgusting cast-offs make their way out of the trash can and into the unlikeliest of places. Things that otherwise wouldn’t be eaten, such as banana peels and eggshells, are made attractive by their placement in a trash receptacle. I’ve even found traces of dog-vomit stains on sofas, containing pieces of bubble wrap.

Dogs are wacky and dirty, yes, but there is a certain air of predictability in their destructive antics.

Heart: Healthy. Brain: Fried.

Graples has never been a job requiring the full engagement of my mind. For nearly a year, I sailed into work five minutes late for every shift, and most days, I hit the door again at the end of the day right on time. In between, I sweated, hollered, catered, coddled, and hustled; but rarely did a brainwave register. I was merely passing time, attempting to look busy enough to earn the respect of my townspeople. I hated my boss, and I hated my job, and I hated my company. My brain cells were reserved for living my life.

The Hunt for Green

There is a certain, special comfort that comes with living in a land of regular seasons. While my Midwestern friends enjoy their cold winter days interspersed with tee-shirt weather, slaves to the unpredictability of temperature change and unable to put away shorts for the winter, I enjoy the consistency of one cold day after another, chains of chilly or sticky or downright freezing nights all linked by weeks and months upon the calendar.
Along with the comfort, however, there comes a nagging brand of monotony.