June 28th, 2010
If the Dork Lord decides to keep me after last night, it will be a tribute to his inexhaustible patience and how really, really cute I am. When we went to bed, I had a migraine a-bloomin’ and that meant the seven hours was filled with of a lot of tossing, turning and um, sitting up and menacingly growling things like, “I need to go to sleep!” That’s the one I remember, at least. From the ten minutes I saw of The Exorcism of Emily Rose on TV last year, I’d say I was doing a very keen impression of the possessed. Love is never having to say, “I’m sorry I suck.”
This weekend, I was invited up to my friend Amanda’s grandparents’ lake house in Oklahoma. Spell check disagrees with me, but I think that should be one word, by the way. Lakehouse. Like, clubhouse or doghouse or crackhouse. If we’re going to compound noun things, let’s not go about it half-assed. Regardless of the spelling of lakehouse, I had an excellent time up there and while some of that was the being lazy, floating around on the lake eating Oreos, a lot of the awesomeness was spending time with the grandparents. I’m not all that close to mine – a natural byproduct of growing up several hundred miles away – so it’s a huge treat to sit around the breakfast table with a faux-crotchety ole grandpa telling quasi-inappropriate jokes while grandma peels apples and contributes the occasional, “Oh, you stop that, Carl.”
And Carl would not stop that, not even for a second.
On Sunday, instead of going back out on the lake, we kept our sunburns indoors, playing hymns on Grandma’s piano and baking. Grandpa quizzed us on our scripture, and despite my current unbeliever status, I rocked that quiz, King James style, yo. I felt kinda like the Flanders kids, on some Biblical trivial pursuit. Yay! I get to clothe the leper!
Did I mention there was cake? Because there was. Cake and ice cream. And pie and ice cream. Thirty-two isn’t too old to be adopted, right?
June 24th, 2010
Over the last few days, I’ve had the pleasure of getting in touch with my inner road-rager. And she is not pretty. Or particularly gifted at insults.
After years of commuting four miles or less (read: years of being spoiled and sheltered), I’m now making a twice daily, thirty minute trek and hoo boy, it sure is taking some getting used to. Now, I’ve already admitted to being spoiled and sheltered, so this is the part where if you were going to leave a nasty comment about how spoiled I am because your commute is like, eight times that long, in inclement weather on bald tires, you’ll find yourself having to scrounge for something else to be nasty about because I’ve beaten you to the punch. Yeah, that’s me. Always thinkin’ ahead.
Anyhow, last night, when it was eleventy hundred degrees in my car and I was trying ever so hard to make progress in the direction of Laura’s house and some margaritas, I found myself making flailing, exaggerated hand gestures and yelling things like, “You! You are a REALLY BAD driver!” at people who couldn’t hear me. And it felt so pathetic. I was actually a little embarrassed. So I turned up my Glee playlist and pretended (very loudly) that I was Rachel Berry until all my mad went away. Because there is nothing embarrassing about that. Nothing.
I’m also getting used to wearing real grown up shoes again. Except in the case of a client visit or somesuch, flip flops were perfectly acceptable at the old gig. But then again, so was not showing up to meetings you’d scheduled, failing to honor agreements and other assorted asshatery, so you know, I can probably put up with some sore feet.
June 22nd, 2010
First I started this post, and then I started my new job. So please forgive me for how disjointed and un-spell-checked it is.
I’m here!
I know I’ve been out of touch, but I do have a good excuse. The Dork Lord and I just got back from spending the last several days with his family in Indiana for his grandmother’s funeral. I never met the Boy’s grandmother, but it hardly mattered. This trip may have been one of the more emotionally exhausting experiences of my life; something akin to watching a four-day long, Oscar caliber, based-on-a-true-story tear-jerker. Those feelings of missing and longing and sorrow – they’re so fluid, so easily transferable that during the first memorial service, I got this lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. I even tried throwing a few margaritas down for lubrication but that got me nowhere but drunk and sad. In the year and a half we’ve been together, I’d never seen the Boy cry before. He’s gotten choked up once or twice about our aged and infirmed dog, but this was something new entirely. I’m programmed with a Make it Better function that made it extremely difficult to watch him during those funeral services and not be able to do anything but squeeze his knee or put my arm around him. I was helpless and I hated it.
Neither of us believes in an afterlife – an idea that in rural Indiana is accepted more as fact than philosophy – and while talk of guardian angels and heavenly reunions was comforting to a vast majority of the congregation, it did nothing for my guy. The person he loved was gone, and that wasn’t changing. Later that night, we lay on top of extra firm hotel beds and talked about the life after.
“I’ll be devastated when you die,” I said. “I mean, assuming I don’t go first. I don’t think I’d be…functional.”
“I want you to get remarried.”
“What?”
“You only get one shot. I want you to be happy while you’ve got a chance to. And if you want to get married again.. it’s okay.”
“Okay,” I said, and then I was quiet for a minute. “But, just so we’re clear? I expect you to mourn forever and ever. Okay?”
“Gotcha.”
June 14th, 2010
Last night after dinner, I was chilling on the couch, letting digestion happen and waiting the sun to go down before I went for a jog, when I happened on Jillian Michaels’ new show, Losing It. And you know how I love that crazy lady, right? Well, wow. I don’t know how much love I’m still feeling after watching an hour of that lunacy.
First, Jillian finds a family in need of help – the Jones Family in Boston. Then she yells at them. Then they cry, for all the hurt built up over the years after losing a loved one and also, probably from the sheer humiliation of being yelled at. Eventually, in all that yelling, they find the message that they’ve been living terribly unhealthy lives and they deserve better. They lose weight, clean the house, eat better, enjoy each other’s company and thank Jillian profusely for yelling at them.
Did you pick up on all the yelling? Gah.
I felt like puking. I even cried a couple of times. Sure, the outcome was great! It’s everything you could want for someone who feels lost and used up. But am I wrong or is that nothing that couldn’t have been accomplished with some humiliation-free counseling?
June 10th, 2010
We’ve all been there. You walk into a room and realize with a sudden, piercing clarity, that you’ve just been the topic of conversation – and not in any sort of pleasant way. Everyone goes quiet and you just know. And you feel like someone’s scooped out your insides with a melon baller. Reach out or withdraw? The choice is a question mark, dissolving like a cough drop tucked inside your cheek.
Me, my first instinct is to withdraw. There is, though, a small part of me that wants to stay firmly put, to remind them that I’m worthy. Likeable. Good enough. I don’t, though, because I know these things, and that should be enough. It has to be.
It feels like high school – only, there’s no eventual and permanent separation to look forward to. There’s no graduation, after which you will leave them all in the dust and have adventures in far away places with people who see you for who you are. Adulthood only offers promises of more of the same. Feeling sorry for yourself is not an option because it’s horribly pointless. You’re a grown ass woman! You don’t need to be liked by everyone! But…
There’s always a but.
For me, the emotional byproduct of the situation hasn’t been feeling sorry for myself. No woe is me. Rather, it’s been an intense feeling of missing. I miss my friends in New York. It’s like a pit in my stomach, the way I ache for these people. People who get me. Who loved me even when I said stupid things or didn’t feel like washing my hair or ruined our trip with food poisoning. People who knew when to feed me cake and loving affirmation and when to tell me to move on, that guy is a douchebag.
“Remember that time we were walking home from the grocery store and I got shat on by a pigeon?” I want to say, and then we will laugh about the bird shit in oozing into my cleavage, my shoes, plastering my hair. And Krissa will make coffee. Elana and I will stay in on a Friday night and, under the influence, consume a box of Cap’n Crunch. Jen and I will take up half the aisle at Barnes & Noble pouring over travel books. Sarah and I will make yellow cake with chocolate frosting and eat it in bed while batting our eyelashes at Cary Grant. Hello, Dexter. Rach and I will take our Sunday walk down Second Avenue. Biscuit and I will sip martinis – proper ones – and dream about British fellas wearing elbow patches. I could daydream this way for hours.
It’s gloomy out right now, which is the perfect backdrop for feeling nostalgic and for casting a perfectly rosy glow on a perfectly imperfect time in my life. That, I realize. But this is exactly the same way I miss my siblings when things aren’t going quite right and I feel a little bit lonely. And I think it’s perfectly reasonable to want to be surrounded by the people who know my stories. Who would never say, “Sometimes you think you’re funny – and you’re not.” People who just go on liking me even when I’m not funny. Because yeah, sometimes, I’m not.
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