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.

A Visit to the Zoo

Tall Boy was my boyfriend when I graduated high school. A whimsical search on Racebook brought him back into my life (after the disastrous affair with The Colombian turned positively James-Patterson-awful) by long-distance phone line, and now he was about to enter my reality at Ina Hall. I could not have been more excited. I suppose one could also say I was nervous. While our conversations had been easy and somewhat magical, I worried that our chemistry might have evolved enough over the years to have simply disappeared.

Cold Motives

I am not a fan of snow, and I am certainly not a fan of these cold New England winters. (Though I live in New York, which is technically not New England, I do live a mere stone’s throw from the edge of it, and therefore get the full benefit of those harsh winters.) The price of propane at Ina Hall is literally breaking me as I struggle to keep my nose from running inside my house. My moon boots occupy a permanent spot at the front door. It has been many weeks since I ventured outside without them.

Katie has gone walk-less, and Biscuit must wear a sweater. But perhaps most affected in my household is Carter, who has spent many nights alone and cold atop his refrigerator cabinet. The thermostat is set to drop at bedtime, which affects the dogs and Willie and I not at all as we chill together under our electric blanket. Carter freezes solo downstairs as the heat rises up to my bedroom.

The Face of My Avatar

I have missed my Carter. As everyone knows, he has banished himself to the cabinet over the fridge for the past 9 months, coming down only use the facilities in the night, or when the dog is out walking. Frightened of Katie, he leaves himself out of family cuddle time. Instead, he watches from the fridge in the evening, peeking through doorways to stare at me on the couch with my pile of dogs.

The Importance of Being Ernest…and Libby

They were in it for life, from the very beginning. Though they would sometimes grouse and grumble, we all knew that their love was the ideal to which we aspired. Unfortunately for most of us, it was an impossible standard to meet. Finding that kind of love is rare, and recognizing it when it comes is downright miraculous. No one gets that kind of love. But Grandma and Granddaddy had it. And when his life ended, hers ended along with it.

Ghosts of Holidays Past

Today’s travels took me to the Troylet, the armpit of the Capital Region, to have lunch with an old friend. I found him largely unchanged, and going through a crisis of confidence similar to the one I experienced between Hallowe’en and New Years. Because we are similar in many ways, I know that he will pass through to the other side of his crisis, and that he will get his proverbial shit together. That knowledge doesn’t alter my level of sympathy or my worry for him. He deserves to be happy, every bit as I do.

Feeling nostalgic after our lunch was over–hours later–I decided to stop at my old Big W store for a few basic items…and to see how far removed I felt from that world.

Everything Old is New Again

Some things in life are irreplaceable. I remember when fire took (we thought) most of what Patrick and I owned, and as we finally sank into a strange bed that night, we felt nothing but grateful–that is, until I began viewing my mental picture of what had been lying loosely around the house.

I thought of the high school art projects that had stood against the wall in our guest room. Some of my best, most meaningful work had been in the open, exposed to soot and water and stink. Many hours spent, focused and feeling, creating wonderful things as I enjoyed time with my favorite teacher Elaine Walter, who was now gone as well. The tears finally flowed as I remembered my masterpiece, Winter Soul, and realized it was gone forever. These were the things that no insurance policy, no restoration effort, could salvage.