Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Strange Traffic

This isn't my toilet paper.

Neither is this my iron or my pillow or my coffee or my time zone. Nothing here seems to align with my daily expectations, and it's kind of driving me slowly toward insanity.

I need my creature comforts to feel like a comfortable creature, y'all.

Still, my would-be roommate actually has family in this city and a new grandbaby, so she's staying with them, and I've got all this strange hospitality to myself. I have flung my things all over, and I have canceled housecleaning services for the duration. (Except, for some reason, they have to come in on the fifth day, no matter what.Odd.) I have walked around with nothing but a towel, and nobody has been the wiser.

Yesterday, I pulled up and allowed some friendly young man to commandeer my vehicle, leaving me with nothing but a square of paper to reclaim it. I stood there with my luggage and stared into the fog and snow and wondered if there maybe was a mistake about my being here. The powerful, domineering swell of self-doubt began to creep into every pore. I don't belong here. There must be a mistake. Am I educated enough? Do I know enough about our company's culture? Will anybody recognize me as any kind of authority in my field while I'm here? How many hostiles? How many friendlies?

Why am I thinking about this in terms of war?

But...I can do all this. And even more than this. This is no big deal.

And the little things don't matter. In a couple of weeks the strange traffic and the weird night noises and the somewhat familiar faces of the folks who work in our company will soon become routine, and I won't think a thing of it.

And then it will be time to go home.


Thursday, February 23, 2017

That One Time We Fled for Our Lives.

Yesterday was National Margarita Day.

I did not partake. But if I were inclined to celebrate things in that way, I might have had a couple because yesterday was also the twentieth anniversary of the day I escaped THAT MAN.

I remember it well. I had waited three months for the perfect moment, and when it finally came along, I took it.

I had four babies, two diaper bags, and a tank full of gas.

We've come a long way.

So cheers  to us.

Monday, February 6, 2017

Good Lord, I'm a Goner


Don't tell him I told you this, but... he snores.

He says I snore, too, but we all know girls don't actually do that sort of thing. It's right up there with belching and passing gas on the list of Things It's Biologically Impossible for Girls to Do. So when he says I snore, you know darn well he's just being silly.

But he definitely snores.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bother me at all. It's part of the noises of the night. It's rhythmic and somewhat soothing, and it makes me feel cozier and warmer to know he's right there. (Most nights, he's not there, so I soak up what time we have together.)

And when he's not there, the silence makes me nervous and restless. I've grown so comfortable with him, it's as if he supposed to be there, as if he's always been there. His absence feels like the anomaly. The night is off kilter without him. I get fidgety, and I have to wait for the lullaby of the passing night trains to soothe me to sleep. It's something to drown out the silence when he's gone.


Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Lifestyle Choices

I had hostile neighbors last year, which is almost an unbelievable fact, because they also had an incessant practice of filling up the entire duplex with marijuana smoke. I often thought to myself, how much more hostile might they be if they hadn’t embraced that particular habit? Isn’t it supposed to calm a person down?
            Personally, I don’t care what they smoke, but I am allergic to marijuana, so I became rather aggravated by the constant two a.m. struggle to rid my side of the duplex of the thick cloud that would waft through whatever duct system existed there. They couldn’t have known that I was in danger of actually dying from their lifestyle choices, but I often translated it to a personal assault on my lifestyle choice—specifically the lifestyle choice I had made to continue being alive as long as possible.
I never approached them about my problem. They had already reacted badly when I asked them to move their vehicles away from my garage, and one time, the postal carrier put their mail in my box by accident. When I tried to knock on their door to give it to them, they threatened to have me kicked out for trespassing. This was their mindset, so I never spoke to them about my very real issue with their pot-smoking habits, even though it is still illegal in Texas.
Instead, I bought a little house very far away from them. It’s adorable. Or, if you want to use the words my real estate agent used, it’s “totes adorbs.” Two bedrooms, one bath, washer dryer hook-ups, garage, fenced yard, nice neighbors. I like it. I low-balled my offer, and the owner accepted it, no negotiation at all, on my birthday in July. I moved in on August twelfth, and the plumbing started acting up ten days later. No worries, though. My super smart real estate agent signed me up with a home warranty, and all my plumbing issues are slowing being resolved. It’s an old house. It’s going to take time. The washer is draining and backing up into the bathtub as I type this, but there’s not a pot cloud in sight.
            The funny thing is, during the time it took to get all the paperwork and inspections done so I could get away from the old neighbors, they up and moved away from me. They took their five cars, their four dogs, their two teenaged boys, and all their pot with them. They didn’t even say goodbye. Go figure.

            The landlord grumbled a little about the mess they left behind, but he was happy for me when he heard I was buying a house. I left my side of the duplex nice and clean and got my entire deposit back. 
             I’m a good neighbor like that. 

Monday, January 9, 2017

All these nice things are MINE

This is awkward.

I graduated three weeks ago, and I haven't paid any attention to all the things I swore I would pay attention to as soon as I graduated. My house is still messy. My car still has bird poop all over the passenger side door handle. My  manuscripts remain unwritten.

Lazy...

But, you know, it's been nice. I know what my kids look like in person instead of just seeing them on Facebook. I got to help my little grandson Damon create some refrigerator handprint art. I went on a few dates with a sexy Irish guy who opens doors for me and makes me laugh. I went shopping.

2016 was my year, you know. I realize it pretty much sucked for so many people on the planet, and I'm afraid I made off with the one little bucket of great things 2016 had to offer. I know this, but I'm still holding on to all my great stuff. In fact, I'm practically flaunting it. Wearing it like people wear Michael Kors, and bragging about it just as much.

"Look at my beautiful trip to London, and my new gray house with the red door, and my four point oh. Aren't they to die for?"

yep. It's been a great year.