Baja del Norte, Mexico

 I've been gone for a few days.  Goofing off in Baja California, Mexico.  Chuck's daughter just turned 21, and it is her spring break; so we went on a little trip for her birthday treat.  Drove down to the border at Tijuana, then toodled around the Pacific side of Baja, roaming down as far as El Rosario.

We took Franken Audi, so named because it is an amalgamation of two Audis.  Chuck's Audi died a few weeks ago; but he was able to find an almost identical one with a good engine and front end damage. Voila!  Really, to enjoy Baja, you need four-wheel drive with high clearance.  Except for the main highway, very few roads are paved.  We did take Franken Audi off-road a few times, just to see what would happen.  Chuck's daughter K. fussed at us a little, worried we would get bogged down in the mud.  Then what?  Chuck shrugged.  Walk to a farm and ask for a tow?  We didn't get stuck, though.

This brings me to the art of traveling with Chuck. He takes it as it comes.  He doesn't plan too much.  If he likes what he sees, he goes there.  We camped one night, on the shore above Bahia de Todos Santos.  Other nights we would have camped, but hotel rooms were almost the same price.  Why not be comfortable?   

 The beaches up by Ensenada are smooth, clean and sandy.  Farther south, by San Antonio del Mar, very pebbly.  Too pebbly to sleep on.  That's why we stayed in a little hotel in San Quintin.

 There's a lot of big, corporate agriculture down there.  Strawberries; tomatoes.  But also fields of prickly pear, locally known as nopales.  I have eaten lentil soup with nopales, in Salt Lake.

 First day of spring, in San Quintin.  The local kids celebrated with a bike ride from town out to the bay.  I got the details from a parent who was hanging out with them.  Everywhere I stopped to ask questions, people were happy to talk to me in my goofy Spanish.  I had a lot of great little conversations.

 In the rest of Mexico, it's all about soccer.  But here,baseball rules.

 Open air market in El Rosario.  The locals were all lined up for cold drinks and I spotted this jug of horchata, which is...um...well... rice water.  Cinnamon rice water.  If rice pudding were a cold, refreshing drink, that would be horchata.  I looooooove it, and this guy's horchata was the best!

 I had to get over my notions about open air mercados, though.  This one in El Rosario was put on by the local for the locals, so I knew it would be authentic.  Beware getting too many ideas about authenticity, though.  Up in the tourist zone, the mercados were full of garish, ticky-tacky pseudo-Mexi souvenirs.  Out of the tourist zone, this mercado was all second hand stuff that had been bought at yard sales and in thrift stores in the USA and hauled down here for resale.  Check out the resourceful use of that walker.

 The food was great, everywhere we went.  Wood-fired steamers produced fluffy tamales that we ate at a roadside stand in Maneadero.  Ceviche to die for in a sit-down restaurant in San Quintin.  And lots of roadside taco stands like this one in El Rosario.

 The sink for washing up afterward didn't work; but there was a bucket of water next to it.  Good enough.

 A lot of the places we ate and stayed were almost deserted.  The staff told us that trade has dropped off tragically the last few years.  Americans are afraid to come down and vacation here because of their perceptions about the drug traffickers and gang activity.  We researched this a little before we left.  There is a certain level of, let's say, homicide density in Tijuana and Rosarito.  Once out of those urban areas, it's virtually murder free.  I sometimes felt a little concerned about whether I could find the kinds of empanadas I like; whether the shower in our hotel room would heat up; whether we would lose our oil pan.  And you know the number one exhortation about Mexico... did drinking the horchata mean that I drank the water??  I never worried though, that I was going to be killed.

Sick

I have a bad cold.  I had a fever last night, and had to leave work.  I don't have time for this!  I have to work late tonight, start early tomorrow, work an evening shift tomorrow night, then Chuck and I leave for California on Friday morning.

I have managed to get myself tied up on knots, emotionally, over a simple cold.  I thought I should tell Chuck to stay away from me, so I don't make him sick.  I didn't want him to have to wait on me.  On the other hand, I felt lousy; and although I was pretty sure that I could get home and nose-dive into bed, I wasn't sure that I could haul myself around to make tea or feed myself anything.

So, of course, I bull-headedly texted Chuck and told him NOT to come to my place tonight.  I'm sick!  He'll catch it!  I'll snore!  And I also thought that maybe he needed to work on the car he's fixing up for our trip and shouldn't take the time out to look after me. 

Well, OK... If I insist...

Then I was sad.  See?  Just goes to show!  He doesn't love me anymore.

[Cue the laugh-track]

Yes, yes.  I realized I was being dumb.  Hey, at least I KNEW, right?  Uuuugggh.  After feeling miserable for a bit, I thought, "Oh for Pete's sake!  You are doing this to YOURSELF!"  I texted him back and said that I was just being proud; and that it wasn't true that I didn't need him.  I did need him.

At that point, he wisely ignored further texts; but he was waiting for me when I got home.  He literally tucked me up into bed; made chicken soup, and Lem-Sip with whiskey; scolded me every time I got out of bed to do anything for myself; carried the TV into the bedroom and rigged it so I could watch a movie without getting up; he read aloud to me from my book for an hour or so. 

I know! He's an angel.  I'm very lucky.  I told him so.

He's gone now; off to a morning meeting.  He blew me a kiss and was out the door.  I'm getting a slow start this morning because I still don't feel great; and because I can't run today.  I am feeling vaguely depressed, despite the fact that I have a cup of tea and some Girl Scout cookies beside me.  I think it is the same old shit.

I tend to see relationships on a continuum:  at one end is romance and eroticism.  At the other end is intimacy.  In other words, as you get closer and closer to a person, you slowly see their hidden corners; but they become less intriguing to you.  They are no longer objects of wonderment and discovery.  There is a beauty in the depths of this knowledge, it's true.  Lots of people slide down this continuum with ease. They leave behind all the... surprise!  The WOW!  The inability to keep their hands off each other.  The long, sweet conversations.  It's inevitable: you realize that your adored one snores; farts; bleeds.  He wipes out on his motorcycle and she picks his bandages off.  She gets her period unexpectedly and he washes the sheets. He gets a sinus infection.  She catches cold.  His car breaks down and she picks him up.  She crashes her car and he comes to get her.

I can't stand it.  It kills me.  I want him to think I'm magic.  I want to beat the shit out of the ordinary.

But only in one direction. I love it when he needs me.  I can see him ill and miserable today, and still adore and desire him tomorrow.  I know that the double standard is ridiculous.  Sometimes I say to myself:  imagine that he feels exactly the same about you that you feel about him.  That is a great feeling.  But I struggle to hold onto it.

So what's my problem?  Why do I continue to obsess about this?  And how do I make it stop?

Maybe I'm scared because of my past.  Oooops.  I hit on something - my eyes are welling.  I tried so hard to find affection, romance and adventure within my 19-year marriage; and I sucked at it.  I have no confidence that I can build or sustain any of that; because I tried and failed.  Intimacy?  Hell, yeah.  Si saw me naked and pregnant; watched my squeeze two babies into the world; I gave him shots in his belly; he saw me when I only had one boob.  I've seen him hallucinating so badly that he called himself the king of fucking Ireland.  The part where the couple takes care of each other?  I can do all that.
 
This is why I'm so insecure with the idea that I am capable of being pretty, or sexy, or a stimulating person to talk to, or the kind of person who deserves flowers for no reason.  I think, "There's no way I can keep a man's interest.  I didn't keep Si's."  Worse?  I don't think I ever really HAD Si's interest.

Major fail.

 I have tried to talk to Chuck about this, but he dismisses it, saying simply that he's happy and that there is nothing to worry about. That I will realize that, myself, after a while.  He has no anxieties or unhappiness about our relationship.  Other things in his life?  Yes.  Me? No.  I sigh in exasperation.  With myself.  Something is broken and needs to heal.  I've always been impatient with healing of any kind.

So I popped right up out of bed this morning, declared myself cured.

Fever down. Self-reproach up.

Letter to C

[I must tell you all out in the blogosphere that this was not the entry I sat down to write AT ALL!  I was going to write to Chuck because I haven't seen him today and talked to him only a little.  I was going to tell him how I went to OfficeMax to get Sara's party invitations printed; how I left my flash drive there; and how I went back to retrieve it in my slippers and pajamas because I had managed to squirt honey all over my work clothes while I was getting supper ready.  Oh, and how I reminded myself as I walked into OfficeMax in my "space rockets" jammies that these days, people wear pajamas out in public all the time and call them "leisure pants".  Whatever.  Guess I'm not in charge, here.]

Dearest C.

You don't read my blog any more.  There was a time when it was a lifeline between us.  And a time when it was a portal into my heart that I did not want you to find or read ever again. Now, it's actually extraneous!  If you want to know how I feel, you can just ask me.  What is to be found here that you can't request any time you want?

Well... that's mostly true.  Sometimes I put stuff here that I can't say out loud to you.  Maybe it reveals too many of my insecurities; or it touches painful places that neither of us wants to probe.  My insecurities are fading, anyway; so maybe there isn't a lot here for you after all. 

You often say, "I keep meaning to read your blog.  I need to get caught up."  I generally demur with something like, "Ah, it really doesn't matter."  And it doesn't.  When I write to you here, I think I may be writing for my own self. 

On Saturday night, we were at a big party together; and I was inspired by being out with you in the company of others.  We moved from group to group, chatting with people - sometimes together, sometimes apart.  I watched you from a little distance, smiling and talking.  I knew that after a while, your hand would touch the small of my back and you would ask if I wanted a drink.  We would share a slice of birthday cake and pretend to compete for the chocolate layer.  You would introduce me to this or that friend, saying ridiculously flattering things about me and embarrassing me.  People would admire my $6 second-hand dress, and I would get to tell them that you helped me with the alterations.

Your friend told you in private that you and I "seem like the perfect couple".  That's bullshit, of course; but we really are scarily companionable, peaceful and aligned.

One of your old friends reminded you that tomorrow was Super Bowl Sunday; and that last year, you had been at a party at his house.  I know a little about that day.  It turned into a day and night of turmoil for you: fear and confrontations and heartbreak and sleeplessness.  Meanwhile, I was struggling with a similar misery.  A year ago, the pain and the trouble had only just started.  I didn't know at that point that it was going to get much, much worse before it got better. 

At this point last year, we were completely separated, and I thought I would never see you again.  I don't know what you thought at this point a year ago.  Did you think you would never see me again?  I have never had the guts to ask you much about your feelings a year ago.  I don't want you to relive all that misery; but I wonder sometimes. 

I asked you during a quiet moment at the party whether these "anniversaries" of painful times strike you and hurt you, now that a year has passed.  You said you weren't impacted in that way.  I didn't say any more about it, but I AM!  For example, I know that it's almost time to go in for my annual gyno, because I remember how utterly beaten down I felt that day at the gyno last year.  It's February, so this is a hurricane season of bad memories, for me.  I'm so glad it isn't for you.  All through March, too, and April and May, I will remember all the ugly shit, just the way it happened. 

I stand in February this year, straddling the calendar page with my arms spread out and my face pointed at the sun.  I feel like I'm s-l-o-w-l-y thawing in the warmth that radiates from you.

We had our coats on and were headed for the door.  A quick turn on the dance floor: you swung around while my purse dragged along on my arm.  I laugh and think how the days roll into weeks, then months of happy times.  You pulled me in for a little smooch and I knew - if I can make past the next few months of remembering, I will be able to let it all go.

High Point, Low Point

My eaves are dripping, but I can see that a dusting of snow  has fallen on the lawn of the apartment complex.  I join the rest of the state in exclaiming, "It's about bloody time!"

I am equipped with a very small palm-full of chocolate chips, because I just couldn't stand it and got myself a little nibble.  Chuck and I are going to a party in a couple of weeks, and I want to feel svelt.  Lithe.  Not plump.  I would love to be just eight pounds lighter, and if I were sufficiently mad enough at myslef, I'm sure I could do it.  Problem is that I'm just not in the right place, self-loathing-wise.  Bummer. 

A realization today:  why I prefer grocery shopping alone.

"Hey, Mom!" 

"Hey, Mom?  Can we get soda today?  Why not?!  I haven't had soda in AGES!
Hey, Mom, wanna hear what I want for my birthday?  There's this game, you have to order it from Amazon.  You wanna hear how it's played?  Well, first the Pokemon...
Hey, Mom.  I'm gonna need a birthday treat for my class. Doughnuts should be fine. Don't worry - I only need 30 of them.
Mom!  Watch this!  Watch this!  Lemme show you how this partic-lee-ar soccer kick goes.  See, if you leap up like this, and then land like this, your position will be just right to....
Hey, Mom!  Are we getting cereal?  What kind are we getting?  What about this kind?  You know, if you realy want to make me happy, you could get Coco-Roos... And can we get marshmallows to put in cocoa?  No, I don't like the kind with the mini marshmallows.  They melt too fast.  Can we get this kind?
Can we get root beer?
Moooooom!?!  How much longer are we going to be here?  I have math!  If I have to stay too long at the store and I don't finish my math in time, then I won't get time for Nintendo.  Oh. My.  God!  [eyes filling]  I just remembered the worst problem.  Susie has place markers that are each equal to 17. Then she has a remainder of two, all of which totals 87.  So let's see... I need to subtract two from...
Can I get gum?
Can I get a lollipop?
Did you know that Sir Isaac Newton predicted that the world would come to an end in the year 2060?  So this is based on his predictions regarding the temple in Jeruselem...
MOM!  Men in Black II!  You should get it!  It's only $5.99.  Chuck would like it, I'll bet!
Hey, Mom.  listen to this:

Tarzan the monkey man, swinging by a rubber band.
He slips.  He falls.  He's hanging by his balls!
They rip!  They tear!  He'll need another pair!

But you know what?  How the hell did he fall so that he got caught by the balls?  That cannot be right."

High point:  A friend at work asked me about the series of four surgeries I had after my breast cancer diagnosis.   She needs to go in for  a touch-up surgery after having a melanoma reoved from her cheek last summer.  She was wondering about my feelings at having to have multiple surgeries, and about my body image now that I am so badly scarred.  I realized during the conversation that I don't care any more about how my left breast looks or feels.  I just don't think about it much now.   Leftie is still numb, two years after my final surgery.  It's true that, where the nipple used to be, there is just an expanse of scar tissue. There is still a long, horizontal incision scar.  I look at this, shrug, ignore it.  Think, "It really doesn't look that bad."

Low point:  Chuck is fed up with the "roommate" thing at Aloha Road.  He sent me a couple of texts during the evening expressing the wish to be at my place with the kids and me.  I concurred that I missed him.  Later, when we were talking on the phone, he told me that the situation at Aloha was on his nerves; and I realized that his earlier texts had less to do with wanting to be with me, and more to do with NOT wanting to be at Aloha just then.  That part of my psyche that loves to mind-fuck me and over-analyze every situation sent messages of embarrassment to the rest of my brain.  The logical part of my brain (sick of this shit and wanting to just be happy and enjoy this lovely relationship) started beating the over-analytical part over the head with the tea kettle.  Last I checked, they were still going at it.  Hopefully, they will have it resolved by morning.  Chuck thinks Aloha can be a pain?  He has never tried living inside my head! 

You Would Think...

You would think that, after being able to be with Chuck for the last five days, I wouldn't care that I don't get to see him for two measly days. Big deal!  When I have custody of my kids, we still spend a little time together - but it is kid-centered time.  He doesn't sleep over.  I miss him.  I tell myself that it is silly to miss someone whom I see and talk to and touch as often as I do him.

Almost eight months since  we started this relationship.  Still no fights, no disappointment, no tension.  I keep waiting for it.  But it never comes.  I think loving someone this much is scary.  It makes my chest feel tight.  I keep bracing myself for The Inevitable; but instead, we just glide along, happy. 

Letter to the Edges of the Galaxy

There is no standout headline for this day, so I will spew randomness by sending a letter to the universe.

Dear All-Who-Float-In-The-Ether,

It was a beautiful sunny day here in Salt Lake City.  I should have been out running in it, but I had an unfortunate nap-attack.  AGAIN!  What is up with me?!  Have I been bitten by a tse-tse fly?  Sometimes, when I feel like making excuses, I tell myself that I am mentally tired from all the changes in my life,and that I am more tired from stress and single parenting than I would like to admit.  Or maybe I have become unbelievably lazy!  That is probably closer to the truth.

I'm sitting here listening to The Kinks on Radio Paradise.  I should really send a message to my cousin Andrew on Facebook and thank him for posting the Radio Paradise link.  This is my new music-expansion strategy.  

My head aches a little because (this is embarrassing) I cried so copiously at the movie Warhorse today. Yes, Budget Babe actually took her kids to a new-release movie.  I try to stick to my guns about only seeing movies once they get to the dollar theater; but Sara loved this book, and has been patiently waiting to see the film for months.  I decided not to make her suffer.  I HATE crying at movies.  Especially schmaltzy, sentimental movies.  I always feel like I have lost some sort of contest of wills.  "They are just trying to manipulate my emotions!  Steven Spielberg wants me to cry.  Must!  Not!  Give!  In!"  Yet I do.  I didn't cry when my father died, but I balled my head off at Charlotte's Web?!?  (Sigh!)  Go figure.  Anyhow, I try to draw attention away from the fact that I have been crying by accusing others.  Sara just shrugged and said it didn't make her cry much because she already knew the story.  Nate denied at first, then said that he got a tiny bit of sugar from his Sour Patch Kids in his eyes and that made them water.

The best part of today was just the general feeling of well-being that I had while cooking supper.  There was a voice mail from Chuck waiting for me after I got home from the movies.  Just called to hear how the movie was; but his voice sounded so loving and sweet to me that I saved the message for my future listening pleasure. I got started on a new recipe:  mushroom lasagna.  It called for half a cup of white wine, so I went to the liquor store yesterday and found a bottle of Berringer Chenin Blanc on sale. Chenin Blanc and Vouvray are my two favorite white wines, and I have not had even a glass of white since I moved out of Swiss Oaks.  I opened the bottle of Berringer and started cooking.  Sara put on first Rusted Root, then ABBA (both excellent groups to cook/dance to, especially if you are also imbibing).  The mushrooms smelled spectacular, sauteed with shallots and garlic.  Chuck called and found my tipsiness amusing.  Sara interrupted my conversation with him to ask whether he could come for dinner.  I extended the invitation, but it was already kind of late and he had eaten.  Tomorrow night.  He told me that it made him feel happy that Sara asked for him.  Sometimes, we get an hour of perfect grace.  That was mine.  Could it be that I am finally learning to live in the moment?

The worst part of today was disciplining Nate for saying "fuck".  He said it yesterday while telling about something his teacher had done that made him mad.  I took his Nintendo away for 24 hours.  He hadn't had it back in his possession for two hours before he said "fuck" at Sara and I had to take it away from him again.  Loud was the wailing, the door slamming, the "I hate you"s.  I ignored this and started our evening read-aloud routine with Sara in my room.  After a while, Sara went to get the AA Milne poetry books and made a few requests.  While I was reading "King John's Christmas", I heard the kids' bedroom door opening.  As I continued reading, I heard him creeping closer and closer, then requesting a poem as if he hadn't been screaming at me 20 minutes earlier.  Ah, well.  That's how he rolls.

Tomorrow...  What's on my plate? Our Adult Education Floor Manager, Brittany, will have her LDS Missionary Farewell at her ward in South Jordan.  I will go to that and say good bye to her before she heads out for a year and a half in Taiwan.  I'm going to make (and blog) a new recipe:  Grapefruit Pound Cake. Check this out! 

I left my tube pan behind at Swiss Oaks and was a bit dismayed to find that I need one for Grapefruit Pound Cake.  I looked at them at the supermarket.  $20!  "FUUUU..."  I mean, "Darn it!"  Imagine my delight when I found this one at the thrift store for only $2.  A savings of $18!  Precisely the amount that I spent at the movies.     

Tomorrow, Chuck will come for supper and we will make omelets, I think.  Maybe a DVD?  Maybe a few games of Hearts?  I want to run tomorrow.  Clean house.  Write a grant proposal.  Read my book?  NOT nap?

I will end this very unfocused vignette with a question from Plinky:

What do you wish you spent more time doing?

Wow.  For me, that's huge. 

1. Reading!  If only I had about two hours a day just for reading.  That would be heavenly.
2. Making music.  Here, in my present incarnation, that means practicing guitar.  Someday soon, I hope to be reunited with my piano.
3. Writing curriculum for my students.
4. Playing outside.
5. Hanging out with people, having fun conversations.  With some Chenin Blanc. And mushroom lasagna.  I can't wait to make it again.

Anybody out there?  Not so many these days.  I need to get out and read my friends' blogs. I haven't been reaching out and making contact lately,and I want to. 

6.  Read more blogs and communicate more with my blog-buddies. 

Wanna post in the comment section about things you wish you spent more time doing?  Share please.

Slept

That is about all I did this weekend.  I hope there's nothing wrong with me!  Chuck says he's not surprised, given the way I was burning the candle at both ends all week.

We did very little this weekend.  We had a little get-together for people who want to go on river trips this summer.  We looked at different rivers in terms of when they have the best water flow and when the odds are best that we might be able to bag a permit. Then we set dates and went online to put in for permits for the Selway R., the Salmon R.,(both Middle Fork and Main) and the Hell's Canyon section of the Snake R..  We filled out mail-in permits for the Yampa R. as well, and found out what the call-in rules are for Desolation Canyon.  I was going to make chili and cheesecake brownies for the permit party, but remembered when it was too late that I had left all the ingredients neatly packed in shopping bags in my fridge.  My big culinary plans quickly changed to packaged cookies and chicken soup we concocted from some stock Chuck had made the week before. 

We walked down to P & G's house last night to give them the river trip dates, and hung out to watch the Red Green Show with P.  G went out dancing with a girlfriend and invited me to come along.  Oooh, I really wanted to; but on the walk down I had slipped on some ice and fallen hard on my shoulder.  Just at that moment, I could barely move it.  I begged for a rain check, an Ibuprofen and an ice pack, which Chuck and P secured in place with strapping tape. 

Otherwise I read, dozing off frequently.  Not exactly the dynamic and exciting woman I want to be, huh?  Yet, I feel my eyelids growing heavy AGAIN! 

I am at the house on Aloha Rd.  Chuck is at work.  He has only one more week to make last minute changes to the emergency shelter he and his partner Roi are building from a shipping container, before Roi has it shipped to New Orleans for a disaster preparedness trade show.  Today, they are fitting the solar panels onto the roof - a two-man job. I am sprawled on the antique opium bed in the living room, listening to the Bluegrass show on KRCL.  The only other sounds are the small peeping noises Scarlett the rose-breasted cockatoo makes to herself.  Chuck's friend Cliff is downstairs in his part of the house.  The intermittent yelling must mean "football game".

I must stir myself before I get drowsy again:  straighten things up a bit; bake brownies from  mix to surprise the guys; sew on my quilt for a little bit?

Atmospheric Pressure

I have a feeling that this entry is going to be ramble-y. I apologize to the ether in advance.

I had a lousy day today.  I can't really blame others, or circumstances.  I made it lousy all by myself.  I want to blame PMS!  Yes!  Another way to avoid accountability!  Guess what?!  No!  Impossible! Wrong time of the month to assign the blame to my uterus.  Shit.

I refused to go to the gym.  I did not eat breakfast.  I knew when I arrived at work that I was not my best self,  but I usually don't have much trouble shifting gears and shellacking over my agitation.  I thought I was succeeding at it today as well, but still I managed to irritate Zina.  Zina!  I know.  That's horrible - only really seriously annoying people annoy Zina.  Even though I was making a concerted effort NOT to irritate Zina, I did.  Twice.  You know, if it happens once, you can maybe parcel out the blame and say, "Well, s/he is not communicating effectively today."  Twice, though?  Must've been me, Baby!  I went to my office and started working.  Ray came in, but was not full of his usual chatty bullshit.  He sat down and started to work in silence. 

My eyes kept filling. 

I felt compelled to text Chuck and ask if he was mad at me about anything.
He called me straight away.  No he isn't even the tiniest bit mad.  Why?
Well...  the tone of voice he used this morning when he said such-and-so sounded a little...
He promptly offered to mind his tone of voice better in the future.
I was vastly ashamed of myself.  I knew it wasn't him.  I don't want him to be all mindful when he's with me.  I said so.
I texted him a little later and said that I knew there was nothing in his tone of voice.  That I knew I was being dumb.

Finally I turned my chair to my co-worker Ray and told him that I was not at my best today.

"I know.  The real Kate is not here today."  Now, Ray is a guy; but he can sometimes be the perfect confidante, because he will tell me the unvarnished truth about myself in a very caring kind of way.

"I am being stupid.  I am acting like a child.  I am on the verge of spreading my un-joy to all and sundry near and far, my boyfriend in particular." (to riff a little on A A Milne)
"You ARE being stupid.  And childish.  It's true, Kate; but at least you can see it in yourself and don't deny it.  You need to stop communicating with Chuck for today, until you are in a better frame of mind because you will end up picking some stupid fight with him and then you will really be sorry."
"You're right.  This atmosphere is all emanating from me."

I told Ray that it helped to talk to him.

"It's a good thing you did!  Your atmosphere was so tense I was about to stage an intervention."

As evening rolled around, my mood improved.  Chuck actually surprised me by showing up at the office with a pizza.  Just seeing his face made me feel better.  I focused on plans for fun things we want to do together in the upcoming months.  This lightened me enormously, for some reason.  I had a good night at work.  We got a lot of people enrolled for classes, and I felt that I was returning to a better version of myself, if not the best version.

So what the fuck was THAT all about?  Unfortunately, I think this goes back to relationship insecurities.  Coincidentally, my friend KM posted the following quote on her Facebook this evening, from Captain Correlli's Mandolin.

"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides.  And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconcievable that you should ever part."

I am NOT ready for that transition!  After berating my self for being needy or overly romantic, I realized what my problem is:  I've never had this before.  Chuck has probably loved like this and been loved like this, so maybe he is less disconcerted. But... the last time I was in a serious relationship with someone, I was  saying "I love you" to a man who wouldn't respond. My words would be met by silence.  This continued until after we were married. Little nicknames?  Flowers?  Not always having to make the first move?  None of it.  And now this.  Now?  When I'm old and have crow's feet?  Could I not be forgiven for dragging my feet?  No matter how often he does small favors for me or buys me chocolate or tells me that I am amazing, I will NEVER take it for granted.  These things still stun me.  I am still in a minor state of shock.

And I kinda hate myself for caring.  Where is all my armor?  I took it all off and stowed it away about 7 months ago. I want to be the tough one.  I don't want to be hurt.  Furthermore, I don't want him to think I'm weak and vulnerable - or he may hesitate to do the necessary and  end it if his happiness in the relationship doesn't survive the transition.

And this transition into a "mature" relationship has to happen.  Inevitable. So say all the wise people.  Yet, as we head in that direction, I find myself thinking: a sexier, more beautiful, more overall fabulous version of me could forestall it.  No?

Chuck's tone of voice on the phone today?  There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.  It was matter-of-fact.  Questions about the Fiat.  About the Tacoma.  Plans to help me with a car shuttle tomorrow, so I can get the Tacoma to its new owner.  He is always so helpful.  It was a very "mature relationship" kind of conversation.  I remembered how, up until recently we would often talk on the phone at the end of the day and tell each other everything.  These were often silly, rambling conversations.  Flirtatious and affectionate.  Lately, that practice has kinda dried up; and I have to admit that I miss it, despite my discomfiture on the phone.

The matter-of-fact conversation continued.  How was my day yesterday?  Fine, fine.  He was distracted by things happening at his end.  I thought, "Why am I here?"  I moved quickly to end the call, cutting off his, "I love you."

Solution?  I need to move forward into the next stage of the relationship and be OK with the transition from "romantic/erotic" to "comfortable/mature".  Captain Correlli's Mandolin goes on to assure the readers that we will be good with this stage - that it is an adventure in its own way, too.  Get me there!  I don't want to be cutting off any more "I love you"s.

Telephobe

I shouldn't really be blogging right how.  I should be getting my stuff together for our trip to California.  I'm excited!  I love trips, large and small; I love being with Chuck and I think his kids are great company;  [sing this part] it will be WARM there!  For the first time in many years, I will not be hosting a dinner party.  I will get to meet Chuck's family.  We will go sailing; maybe hiking; I want to run on the beach.  I want to be near the water.

The first time I went on a long car journey with Chuck, I was  preoccupied by the idea that I might have to provide stimulating conversation the whole way.  Maybe this was it!  Ohmygawd!  The moment when he discovers that I'm boring!  In the end (because I always end up confessing my little eccentricities to him) I asked if long stretches of silence were OK by him, and he said they were.  And they were. 

That may have been the first time he used the adjective "comfy" to describe our relationship.

Since then, we have started developing what many people call a "mature" relationship. That means that we can keep our hands off each other, and we don't have to be talking to each other every minute that we're together.  It is, in fact, very pleasant to just hang out and read.  Or I putz in the kitchen at Aloha while he goes off to run errands.  This is a lovely feeling:  the sense that your special person is with you even when he is not with you. Or the feeling of being happy with what you are doing, and knowing that when your special person comes back, you will simply be happier.

Other times, though, I think, "Mature relationship?  Could that not be a euphamistic way of saying that I am deathly dull?" When we first met, Chuck said he loved my "quick wit".  I told him at the time that I was not always like that.  Sometimes, my tongue feels thick and clumsy.  Sometimes I lack fluency, even regarding things that I care passionately about.

I often voice my thoughts the best when I am lying in the dark, waiting for sleep.  Or after school ends for the evening adn I am sitting with Chuck on the sofa.  Across the table in a restaurant?  Sometimes I have language, other times, not.  And ON THE PHONE!?!?!?!  The pits!  I HATE talking on the phone.  This is why I almost never call my mother; or anyone else in my family, for that matter.  I will text people when a phone call would be more practical.  I will want to hear Chuck's voice, but refuse to pick up the phone and call him.

He is having a little difficulty with his phone at the moment, so he can't call me.  I miss his little calls during the day.  But I am shy about calling him.  The idea of calling without a reason embarrasses me, and I find myself thinking, "What if he is busy and doesn't care to talk?"  I have been making myself call him after the kids are in bed, just to ask about his day.  He seems to like it, but I struggle.  Now that our relationship is in a peaceful, happy place, there are no "US" problems.  So, we talk about our days. As in, "I did this, and then this happened, and I talked to so-and-so, and she said.."  I think, "What a dull tool I am!" 

But something has hit me just now: in thinking this over; I really think it's the medium.  When we are sitting face to face, I never feel this way.

You know what my problem is?  I am NOT boring.  How can a person with  a head so full of dreams and hopes and plans be boring? I embrace every day.  I am not a bore.  What I AM is unbelievably self-conscious. 

I'll tell you what would be "mature": if I didn't care so much about other people's opinion.  I need to remember to just relax into myself and expect that I will be loved for who I am, not for what I do and how well I do it.

There was Always More to It

Simon is angry at me - I mean, even more than usual. 

One trigger seems to be Fun.  Namely why I'm getting it and he's not.
 
[I think, but don't say, "For fuck's sake, Si:  if you want to go camping, go camping!"] 

He voiced his disagreement with my taking the kids out of school for two days next week and taking them canoeing.  What did I think I was doing, planning a trip in September?  Why couldn't I have planned it for summer, when the kids had vacation? 

[Uh, because they have had a soccer tournament nearly every single weekend?] 

Because southern Utah in the depths of summer is HOT!!  That's why!

He pointed out that, since I have left him, I seem to have plenty of time to bug off and enjoy myself.  Then it was time for the tired assertion that I never wanted to take time off work to do anything when we were still together.  We used to have this fight all the time: "Kate, you won't want to go on this trip because you won't want to take the time off work." 
"Says who!?  Why do you always say that?  It's you who can't find time to do things from October through May because of the ski season  When do you want to go?" 
"Nope.  You won't leave your job."
"Yes, I will!"
"No, you won't." 

I know the origin of this ridiculous argument:  there were busy years during graduate school in the mid-90s when I would go on trips with him, but feel fussed about the work awaiting me when I got home  And there was one year- the 95-96 school year, when it was hard to dislodge me.  It was my last year of graduate school; and I was teaching a writing class at the university; and I was Interim Director of Adult Education at Guadalupe School.  Why is it that I am now labeled ever after as the girl who doesn't want to go anywhere?  The therapist told me that this was an example of one partner growing and changing, while the other partner remains focused on a fixed point in the past.  Whatever.  It's a pain.

And he's mad that I'm not getting my stuff in the basement boxed up fast enough.  He has threatened to put it all in the bulk trash.  Lord knows, I'd like to get it done, but it complicates things when he insists that he has to be home before I can enter the house.

"Look, if you want me to get the job done, why won't you let me work on it regardless if whether you're around? I can come in with the kids."

"No way.  You may not enter my house if I'm not there."

"What do you think I'm going to do?  What are you afraid I'll steal?"

"I don't trust you."

"What do you mean by that?  That you think I'm going to snoop in your stuff?  Rob you?  What?"

"I just don't trust you.  'Cuz you're a liar - it's as simple as that." 

"What did I lie to you about?"

"You told me that you were divorcing me for a variety of reasons that simply aren't true.  Plain and simple.  You left me for Chuck.  You saw what you wanted and just took it, with no consideration for anyone else."

"Si you know there were other problems.  We had had problems for years!"

"They weren't worth divorcing over.  They were the same problems every married couple has.  We were happy enough."

[YOU were happy enough.]

"You are forgetting.   "What about all the times when I asked you if we could PLEASE just get some-"

"No.  Our problems weren't serious.  This is all about your selfishness.  I'm hanging up now - this conversation is no longer productive."

"THERE WAS A LOT MORE TO IT!"

But he was gone.

So I was feeling low in my mind this morning. BUT!  I have half an hour between dropping Sara at her school and dropping Nate at his.  I figured, what a perfect time to work on boxing my stuff!  Si is generally home just then, so I could go to the house for thirty minutes every day.  Packing up my remaining stuff would be a great project for that time frame.  Nate and I saw Simon's truck in the drive, so I knocked.  No answer.  Huh.  I knocked again.  Finally, Si opened up.  He was still in his boxers.  I had no idea he slept so late, now!

I explained my thoughts on the half-hour-to-kill, and after initially refusing to let me in, he eventually agreed to let me work in the basement.

I didn't have much time, but I was able to box some things.  I encountered the cardboard carton in which I keep all of my diaries.  As always, I grabbed one and flipped it open randomly, to see which incarnation of myself would appear.  Today, it was my "college Sophomore" self: reading Dante and sweating over my statistics class.  I snorted with amusement, then started guiltily.  What if Simon came in here and found me reading when I should be boxing?  I was putting the diary back in the box when something caught my eye:  loose sheets of paper in there.  I pulled them out and found myself holding a letter I had written to Simon in April of 1992, three months before we were married, but had never sent.  I was living in Poland at the time - the letter was closely written on cheap, soft paper.  It was very long and very sad, expressing my dismay at his last letter, which had been hurtful to me.  I complained of the mixed messages he was giving me about his love for me and about our future together.  I ever mailed it, which means that the moment passed, and I decided to look away from the things he had said to me. 

There was always a lot more to it. My 44 year-old self looks back at my 24 year-old self and thinks, "What would your life be like now, if you had sent this letter?"

I tucked it away and opened the next box, which contained the contents of my night stand and the top of my dresser at the time I moved out.  Some things I packed in a "when I have my own home again" box.  Odd earrings?  A small pile of my children's baby teeth? A seashell whose provenance I don't remember any more?  Out.  One earring with a gorgeous collection of fiery opals, I put in my "sell it" box, along with my wedding ring.  A few things came with me to the apartment.  There is a carved wooden box containing a bunch of loose change.  I used to horde small coins in case the tooth faerie needed to make a sudden appearance.  Also a little, bittie china baby that I think will be a fun addition to my wind chime I am making from junk.  Same with the beads. (I knew they were there somewhere!)  Ones from shell, ones from wood, African ones.  I found an edition of Three Cups of Tea, adjusted for younger readers.  My Running 101 book.  A whale sicker from Depoe Bay, Oregon; a good photo I took of pictographs a couple of years ago and have yet to frame.    My half-marathon training schedule.

There are two index cards on which I listed things that are important to me in considering a new relationship.    One was my master list of what I think everyone should expect from a relationship - a reminder to me not to accept a relationship that does not offer mutual... "Loyalty, Protection, Affection, Division of Labor,  Caregiving, Supportiveness, Companionship, Freedom, Honesty, Respect."

I honestly never expected to have a relationship with Chuck after I moved out.  I think that hovered in the territory of "wishful thinking".  I had spent a lot of time considering the world of dating, as evidenced by my many jottings on the subject.  Another list seems to be about what couples need to be in accord about.
Money, parenting, sex, relationships with family and friends, religion, household responsibilities, leisure time, careers and jobs.

As I went back upstairs after boxing for 30 minutes, I smelled toast and fresh ironing.  I called into the kitchen to thank Si for letting me use this time, and to ask him if I could come at the same time tomorrow.

No.  Did I have any idea how rude I was?  Showing up?  Just knocking at the door like that?  And expecting to be let in?  Get out, and don't try this again.  Go!  Leave!  Get out! 

Si was furious.  I felt scared for a moment.  He made shooing motions with his hands and I left.  The door slammed behind me.  i dunno.  Seemed like a "win-win" to me...

So my communion with my former selves illustrates a few points.  One is that the Kate of 20 years ago was always willing to smooth stuff over, to ignore the red flags in hopes they would go away, to make it work.  To write the letter, but never mail it.

The Kate of five months ago was finally aware of the wrongness of that and decided to move on.  That old letter took a while to be signed, sealed and delivered; but it is clear.  There was always more to it.

The Kate of five months ago was also more than prepared to live alone.  To find a new partner... or not.  I loved Chuck, but he was not the cause of this.  I was the cause of this, because it was about time to reclaim and rebuild the person I want to be.

The Kate of this moment is still a bit screwed up, but I think all the important bits are there and can be reassembled.  And Chuck is still here: with his many gifts; his intriguing and endearing flaws; his big heart.

 Like I told him one evening last week, when I arrived home to find supper and a frosty gin and tonic waiting for me:
"I'm a lucky girl."
"No, I'm the lucky one."
"No, I think it's me."
"Uh-uh.  It's me."
"Sorry, but you're wrong.  I am the lucky one."
"Nope.  Me."
No, me!"
"Me!'
"Me!"
"NO, me!"

It's my blog, so I get the last word.  I'm the lucky one.  Long may it last.

There Once Was a Woman

Today saw the culmination of many different things.

Simon and I finished our last real session with the divorce mediator.  I know now what my financial situation will be and how we are going to handle custody. The divorce won't be final for some weeks, yet; but we are going to start living separately on June 1.  My goal is to sleep in the apartment that night, even if it is with canned soup in a saucepan and a mattress on the floor. In fact, that suits me fine.

I chose the apartment in Cottonwood Heights.  I have to say that I have misgivings, and sense that I would be happier living in Glendale.  I had the best feeling about it!  But I need to do what I can to take pressure off the kids.  Maybe next year when I buy a place, I will buy something in Glendale.

And my bad-dog of a heart finally decided to come home.

I was writing away at my grants his afternoon and delayed leaving a little, then a little more.  As I walked up to the truck, I admired a cute bike leaning against the chain link (a beach cruiser!  Yellow!).  Man!  Just the sort of bike I have always wanted.  I backed out, looking over my shoulder, and when I turned to face forward, there was C. on the other side of the chain link, holding the bike.  I put the truck back into the parking slot, v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y.  And blinked.  Was he still there?  Indeed.  I decided to see if he would dissolve into thin air if I walked up to him.  Nope.  Still there.  He reached over the fence to shake hands.  "Hi.  I'm C.B.  Good to know you."

"Kate Diggins."

He told me that he had moved out of his house and was living in the Avenues with a friend.

"And soooo... it begins!"  he said.
"How do you want to start?"
"I want to see you ride this bike!"

Which I did.  Blissfully around the school, around the parking lot, around the portable. And then, given the absence of chain link between us, I was able to wrap my arms around him, and we stayed that way for a long time.

And so.  There once was a woman who went to the grocery store and, while putting horseradish sauce in her basket, was suddenly swept by a wave of peace and happiness that she hadn't felt for a long time.  There once was a woman who came home and put the ice cream in the pantry while stowing the canned beans in the freezer.There once was a woman who looked at herself in the mirror and decided that she looked like shit:  rough, limp hair; eye circles; cloudy skin.  She decided to go to bed, and be healed by a decent night's sleep.

Did you think I was going to end with, "And they lived happily ever after?"  Hell, no!  I am happy, yes.  Safety and confidence are trailing a little; but they will get here soon, if all goes well. 

There once was a woman who was selfish, self centered and inconsiderate. 

And loved, as it turns out.  Without earning it or deserving it.  She is amazed.  And very, very sleepy.

Waiting?

First off, I have to say to B.:  You met me at the door.  You poured me a whiskey.  You let me fling myself onto your sofa (with sound effects "Hyyyyyhuuuh!") and sprawl there.  You listened to me jabber about my day.  I talked a lot, too!  I have missed this small luxury.  Thanks.

Today was a good day.  Check out all this sweetness.

1. Got my hair cut.
2. Ran hills, outside, in a tank top!
3. Met Becca and baby Eli at Mazza for lunch.  Beautiful, inexpensive, delicious.  We coordinated side dish sampler plates,and then spent a gluttonous hour throwing tidbits at each other.  We were approached more than once by people who either know me or think they may know me, which felt very friendly and small-town-ish.
4. My counselor told me she was proud of me. Surprising.  She is usually a bit curt.  Maybe she got a little extra milk in her latte or something.
5. E-mail from my brother Charles.  He has opened up the cottage for me and turned the water on. A canoe is out, chained to a tree, waiting.  He will lend me one of his cars.  "In case you want to go find groceries."  "Thanks.  It'll keep me from breaking into deserted cottages, searching for canned goods."
6. A little box of Godiva chocolates from Wise, who is concerned that I will be neglected on Mother's Day this year because of the divorce.  The good news is that I have always thought Mother's Day was a load of hooey, and I don't care. But I like being comforted with chocolates anyway.
7. I received compliments on my eyes today, several times.  That's just 'cause I was wearing a green shirt.
8. Short-sleeved shirt.  Open-toed shoes.  Red toenails.
9. People's tulips are ABLAZE.
10. I planted cilantro, lettuce and spinach.
11. Becca forwarded me some classified ads of apartments for rent.  Some are very reasonable!  Maybe this won't be as expensive as I thought.

I think I can go on the record and say that I am no longer depressed.  And my counselor isn't the only one who is proud of me.  I am very pleased with myself, because I have worked hard to get my old self back despite the fact that I keep BAD COMPANY:  divorce-related Tension, Confusion and Guilt stand on my right; on the left stand Longing, Doubt, Heartachy stuff... did I mention Longing?

19 days, it's been.  The counselor laughed and said, "Not that we're counting or anything..."  I laughed, too. 

I've got to get away from the bad influences.  The divorce stuff will be resolved in an orderly manner over the next weeks.  I very much want to get out of here and live away from all the tension (and by doing so, cause less of it myself).  I just can't figure out how I leave until the money stuff is ironed out a bit more.  We have that conversation with the mediator on Monday, so maybe I'll be able to see a way clear after that meeting.  I would like to get a 6-month lease on a place and catch my breath there.  Now, it can't be a depressing dump, or I will get sad again.  I need a place that is cheerful. It can be small, and old, and have marginal appliances. It can be quirky, with poorly designed closet space.  But I would like it to be in a walkable part of town, and it needs to have big windows that open wide to catch a breeze.  I don't like air conditioning. Nothing feels quite as wonderful as standing in in the kitchen,chopping up some fresh veggies while the breeze blows through and ruffles my skirt.  I want to set a folder in my Favorites and start collecting possible rentals in there.  I wold love to have a new situation by the end of this month.

And what about desiring?  Longing?  Doubting?  W-A-I-T-I-N-G...?  Waiting?  Who's waiting?  I'm not waiting for him.  I am getting on with my life.

[Pfffft!]  OK, not exactly. But guess what?  It's possible to get on with my life AND still be waiting...  Yeah, I'm waiting.  Because, boy howdy, how I love that man.  If I follow my own advice to myself about trusting, believing, having confidence, then waiting is the course of (non)action I will take.  I'm making friends with the idea that I am waiting because I have also embraced the vulnerabilities of trust, belief and confidence.  [BWOOP!  BWOOP!  Chink in the armor!  Armor alert!]  [Stand down.  We're going to allow the chink]  Yeah.  I will tell you:  if I get through this without losing my mind, I will emerge a much better person, because I have sure needed to deal with a lot of my faults and fears this past month.  Whether he comes or not, I will build an amazing life.  I'm not Rapunzel, after all.  And I am not taking all of this incredible risk just to allow myself to be struck down by things that are out of my hands.  I will wait, though, for the month or two, because I really want to make an amazing life that includes him. 

(Pardon any editing errors.  I am all dozy.)

Epiphany Between the Sheets

Hoo, boy!  I wish it was what you're thinking...  Gimme some of that...

No, I was referring to the flash of clarity I sometimes find while in an early-morning half-slumber.

Not yesterday morning, though.  I woke to the sound of sobbing from Sara's room across the hall. Wha-?  Huh?  As soon as my eyes opened, I could tell from the quality of the light that it had snowed.  Oh, yay.  I remembered that Sara was supposed to debut as a soccer referee that day.  She has just been certified to ref the Under Eight group.

"Mmmmmph.  Sar'?  Baby, c'mere."
The sobbing comes closer...closer...  Do you think some of this might be hormones?  Ooof.  I scootch over in the bed and she climbs in next to me, lying on her side so I can rub my hand sleepily up and down her backbone.
"Whassa matter?  Are you sad about the snow?"
"I'm so SICK of it, and it snows EVERY WEEKEND!"
It does kind of feel that way.

After a bit, her sobs turn to hiccups and then she goes quiet.  I doze off.  Maybe when my brain is half asleep, there is more opportunity for contemplative thoughts to elbow their way to the front.  I can sometimes find solutions to problems when I burrow under the quilt for a few extra minutes.

A couple of days ago, I gazed across the smooth expanse of untouched bed where Si used to sleep and had a sudden realization about the custody plan.  Simon gets to have the kids 202 nights each year; so I am stuck missing my kiddos and paying him $180 a month.  Right.  BUT!  According to this custody plan, I only need to drive the kids to their school in the mornings on Mondays and Tuesdays. I would pick them up on Mondays and alternate Fridays.  That's very do-able with my work schedule, and it's do-able NO MATTER WHERE I LIVE.  I am not tied to the overpriced, super-sized, white bread, water hogging, beige stucco Cottonwood Heights!  I could find a cute little place that's not so expensive, and then I would be able to pay my smaller mortgage and the child support.  I wonder if I could find something affordable (that's not in need of a bunch of work) in Sugar House?  Near the park?  Or lower Avenues?  9th and 9th?  My friends Aimee and Topher are selling their house near Liberty Park on a short sale... I love that little house... Since I had this epiphany my fear has diminished a bit, because my options are more open. 

In between whacks on the snooze button a few days ago, I realized something else that is important to me.  I love CB, but I am not leaving my marriage for him. He held up a mirror in which I saw so much potential, but the things I learned from that experience can be applied independent of him.  I am sure of this now; because even when I am mired in doubt about getting to be with him, I never find myself drawn back to the safety of my marriage.  I love to envision sharing my life with CB.  But my vision of a future without CB is always a vision of life on my own (with friends, kids and a kittie), or possibly... finding someone who is almost as special as he is.  In this way, being apart from him has given me perspective. 
Yay!  It has been so worth it! All for the sake of perspective!  NOT!  I'm tortured by the fact that I initiated this painful separation.  In considering the wisdom of it, I have to maintain that it was the right thing to do.  Which doesn't negate the fact that it SUCKS!  I miss him terribly.  On a bad day, I can only focus on the negative.  Soon it will be two weeks since I have heard from him or laid eyes on him.  That's the longest stretch yet.  Maybe he visits this blog, maybe not.  My widget is not lending any clarity. Maybe he still wants me, maybe not.  Maybe he's forgotten about me, maybe not.  Blah, blah, blah.  Fine:  this "never see him again" train of thought keeps me from getting my hopes up. 

But I haven't learned a damn thing from it.  And I like to learn.

Everything I am learning is coming from a more positive outlook.  When I allow myself to have it, I know some things to be true.  

First.  He would like me to trust him.  During a conversation last month, I was telling him about all the names I called him when we were apart; and he asked me how, if I didn't think he was a good man, I could love him and want a relationship with him.  Excuse me, let's let Little-Miss-Negative-Self-Talk take that question, shall we?  What?  Nothing to say?  This guy has been beautifully honest and straightforward all this time.  He has been clear.  He loves me.  He knows how much time he needs, and he's asked for it, and he's taking it.  What would happen if I lowered my defenses? Trusted him and believed in him?  If I don't see him again, it'll hurt, but it'll hurt no matter what my attitude was.  If I do see him again, I would like to be able to tell him that I knew all along.  And if the shoe were on the other foot, I would expect the same attitude from him.  I would be hurt if he doubted me too much. I'm learning a little faith. 

Second.  One of the reasons I am fidgeting and chafing and doubting and moaning is that it is OUT OF MY HANDS.  Fully posable action figures like me are most comfortable when they can Solve Problems.  When it comes to CB, I'm on the sidelines and it bugs me. I'm learning to chill.  

Finally.  This will end one way or the other.  Maybe I will have him to love, or maybe I will have to find acceptance that he didn't come.  We left it tidy:  he has loads of space and no pressure.  I get to spare my pride a little, 'cause allowing him to simply not reappear means I will be spared the embarrassing call, text, conversation or Dear Jane letter. 

And I'll allow myself a sunnier view:  a few more weeks will pass, and I will be patient.  I will remember the things we talked about.  I will continue to recover my cheery old self.  The time will pass with work and play.  I'll be audacious and let myself think, "I can't wait to see him again!  What a day that will be!"  And I won't tarnish it with "yeah, buts" or "what ifs".  I kicked Little-Miss-Negative-Self-Talk off my property.  I'm going to try not letting her back.   
There were no epiphanies yesterday morning, though. I would just nod off again and Sara would say something like, "Mom?  Mom?"
"Hmmmmmm?"
"Why is it that every ceiling has to have texture stuff on it?  Why doesn't anyone ever just have a smooth ceiling?"
"Mmmmmph."

I definitely need a three-bedroom home.  Any thoughts I may have had about Sara bunking with me are fast fading.

Memory Box

[Yes, I realize that a scant 24 hours ago, I thought I was too fucked up to write.  I still am! Welcome to my fucked up little blog.  And now, a word from our sponsors:  Kate's spongy, fogged-up mind and Kate's emotion-fatigued fingers. Fact is, I do better if I write.  I had better keep on.]

So, I have finally landed in front of my computer where I am allowing my toenail polish to dry (Orchid!  Very pretty!  Doesn't improve my mood just now, but effectively covers the very black toenail that I bruised running the Salt Lake Half.  Soon, it will come off.  In the meantime, it will be Orchid.) and drinking a cup of tea.  Earlier in the evening, I decided to waste some of my precious time weeding out my memory box.  This is a foot locker in which I hold my clabber. I try not to be TOO much of a pack rat, so when the foot locker gets so full the lid won't close, I go through it.  I often find Precious, Precious Treasures, so precious that I have forgotten their provenances.  And WAY too many t-shirts. 

My memory box contains all the same stuff you have in yours:  programs, graduation tassels, certificates, diplomas, key rings, pins, passports, maps, letters, t-shirts, junk jewelry... But here are ten things I found that I'm figuring NO ONE else has in his/her memory box.  If I am wrong, and you have any of these things, please comment and I will stand corrected.  And I will ask to meet you.

1. A silver teaspoon with a porcelain handle, upon which is painted a portrait of Calvin Coolidge.
2. A likeness of Nicolas Copernicus, rendered from gingerbread (now a little fuzzy and dusty).
3. A child's dress-up dress from Chile.  A few years ago, when I went to Concepcion to do some volunteer work, I stayed with a host family that had a 7 year-old girl.  The family was not well-off:  there were seven of them living in three tiny rooms.  They were so happy, though, to squeeze me in for a few weeks and make me part of the family.  The little girl had an old cast-off dress that she played dress-up in constantly.  She presented it to me as a parting gift.  
4. Four wisdom teeth, strung as a necklace on a piece of dental floss.  My dentist's idea of a little joke.
5. Microscope slides, assembled in a box labeled "Katie's Box of Small Wonders".
6. A Singapore Airlines flight attendant uniform shirt.
7. A brown paper bag with a handful of little felt, shield-shaped patches.  School crests from the high school where I taught in Poland.
8. A little photo book made by my dad, commemorating the bumper local harvest in my hometown one year:  CORN '99! 
9. A ginormous pair of wrestling shoes.  These were way down in the bottom of the box, due to their awkward size, and my throat tightened when I pulled them out - I hadn't seen them in many years.  They were a parting gift (yeah, I know - I get some very odd parting gifts) from one of the high school boys I taught in Poland.  You know, I should write this story down.  I'll give it a blog entry of its own tomorrow.  Michal J. and I had a perilous adventure in which blood was spilled and I decided I was meant to be a teacher.  If the house caught fire, I would try to save these shoes.
10. Dutch paratrooper's wings. Filthy and frayed because for many years they kept company with a bunch of other patches I had sewn to my ratty day pack that traveled the world with me.  I have written about my Dutch pen pal in the past.  When we "broke up" (for lack of a better word, since we had never really managed to be together), I sent his paratrooper's wings back to him.  He sent them back to me again.  He thought that, maybe someday, I would miss having them. 

And since he was right about that, maybe I can make room in my memory box for two action figures, two Nerf swords and a very short note?

Yes, to the relief of sensible people everywhere, I have gone back into Detox. 

[Sigh!]  Day ONE, I'm afraid.  Today was not too awful...at first.  But the miserable reality of it is starting to sink in.  I found myself back on the rim of the bathtub for the first time in a while. 

This is not because of anything CB did wrong.  He has never lied to me or deceived me about how hard this is.  He hasn't prevaricated or obfuscated or done any other big words.  He has been ridiculously steadfast. He's just not a single man, and not in a position to be in a relationship with me.   At first, I was just so glad to see his face and hear his voice that I thought I could have him in my life while he continued to work through  a lot of difficult stuff. But I can't.  I would be elated at times, but would then become sad.  We can't really spend time together, so we can't explore the potential of the relationship.  And since the little bits if the relationship that we had were so fabulous, this frustrated me. I kept hemming and hawing about what would be a better choice:  staying close to him or backing away. 

It was the Salt Lake City Half Marathon that decided me.  CB insisted on coming to meet me after the race.  No, no, no.  Not necessary.  It's crowded at the finish area.  Hard to park.  He has other things to do.  I wasn't sure exactly when I would finish.  I don't want a man that I'm interested in to see me with sweat-salt crusted in my hair.  And no one ever meets me after races.  Simon has never been to any of mine.  Anyway, the kids had soccer.  Heedless of my objections, he was waiting for me when I got in.  He had a thermos of sugary chai.  He put his hoodie on my sweaty, nasty, crusty wet self when I got chilled and shivery.  He walked back to my truck with me.  And I thought, "Geeze, I love this guy.  Every time I am with him, I love him more."  And then [cue the sinister music] I thought, "You are setting yourself up for an absolute fucking train wreck of a heartbreak.  Run away now!  CB is not available to be your guy." 

It was very hard to turn away from him.  Easier than last time, because we both know that we aren't mad at each other.  Harder than last time, because I felt that I had a choice, even though the choice SUCKED!  And harder because the few times we were able to see each other during the last couple weeks were so great.  Conversations about the future.  It's hard to pack it all up and really lock it away.

CB maintains that he will be back. "A month or two", he needs. 

I maintain that I will not be seeing him again.  Bleak?  Necessary.  Know what happens if I hope?  I wait.  Detox is all about recovering and moving on.  Not about waiting.  My job is to get on with it.  Maybe he'll come and find me and tell me he's ready.  Or maybe he'll decide not to. In the meantime, if even ONE PERSON says that horrible junior high cliche about how if you love something, you should set it free?  I will blow snot on that person's shoe.  I will put a blackening banana peel under the driver's seat of that person's car.  Fuck the inspirational posters with pictures of fucking sea gulls. 

SO... remember the rules? 

1. Don't see him or talk to him.  I'll block my phone tomorrow.  I don't think he'll try to contact me, but it will keep me from getting the DTs every time I get a text.
2. Get yourself a breakup buddy.  I have several.
3. Get your ass in motion every day.  Back to the gym tomorrow, now that my quads have recovered from the race.
4. Don't wear your breakup out into the world.  Both my fingers and toes are now Orchid.  I'm meeting a nice guy for drinks tomorrow night after work.  I think I remember how to flirt.  If not, I'll check the handbook
5. NO backsliding.  If I see CB before the detox is over, it'll mean that he wants to be with me and I will gladly walk away from the detox.    
6. Remember to put YOU first.  Well, shit.  That's what I'm trying to do.  Are we having fun, yet?  [Gasp!]  FUN!  Time to reconvene the Eleanors.  I wonder if I could get a group of folks who want to go down and do some camping in the San Rafael Swell in a few weeks.  Planning a camping trip would distract me.  And I LOOOOOVE the Swell. "Course, I'd love it more if I were there with him, but... we will soldier on, regardless.
7. Get rid of the things that remind you of him.  OK, I checked the fine print.  It is all right to keep a few things, if you put them away.  The action heroes, swords and little note can go in the remodeled, spacious memory box.  Because there is an idiot inside me who dares to hope a little.  Just a little

What about your memory box?  What are five things you have stashed away?  Tell us about them in the comments section, if you feel like it.

Weekend Ups and Downs

 It has been an ordinary weekend, but fraught with a little extra emotional intensity, I guess. That's how my life seems to be these days. I remember when I wasn't wandering around all tied up in knots.  Here I am, reaching out for a different life and wondering if it is going to bite my hand off.  Must. Focus. On. Best. Case. Scenario.  And no matter how it turns out, what do I need to hang onto?  I CAN manage on my own.  I will continue to laugh at life; I will cherish my friends; I will try new things; I will work hard in the service of others; I will take care of my health; I will love my kids.  Maybe we will get a cat. 

I have used this blog up to this point to say mean things about CB.  When I viewed it as a break-up blog, that seemed OK.  But it is time to go public with the truth about CB:  he is a good person 96.4% of the time.  And I didn't realize it until he pointed it out to me, but he has his own TV show in Canada.  He was very modest not to tell me sooner. 

http://www.evtv1.com/player.aspx?itemnum=1554

I will try to portray him in a manner that is balanced and fair after this.   

We spent a few hours talking on Friday; catching up on our thoughts a little, and slowly combing the tangles out of our misunderstandings.  He brought me Ursa, an ultra-tough super-anti-hero in full possession of all her powers.  According to CB, she looks a little like me.  Hmmm...  I have better tits.  But her hair is perfect, not chronically higgledy-piggledy, like mine is.  She also has shades, which I have not, at the moment.  I read the packaging and laughed.  Ursa hates all men!  Except General Zod. 

She is probably going to have a very busy week at work, but in the meantime, she directed her super-powers at the laundry.  She's not great at folding ("Fools!  Have you no minions stupid enough to crease clothing into squares for the benefit of children?!")  She likes using the dryer though, because she can use her kick-ass martial arts moves to flip the "on" switch.

 I have heard very little from CB over the last few days.  He has a friend who makes emergency shelters out of shipping containers.  They are getting one ready to ship to California on Monday, and there is a lot to do. 

Friday night was poker night. Those of us who need to practice to get the game settled in our heads convened; along with Mel, who actually knows what she's doing.  I've got it down, now!  We just need to work on our poker faces.  Let me explain:  we enjoy being dweebs on occasion. We are actually getting pretty good at Texas Hold 'Em, and could maintain excellent poker faces if the stakes were even a LITTLE higher than M&Ms.  The LDS ladies won't play for money, or they would have to tell their bishops.  As it was, Moira discovered too late that she was absent-mindedly eating her assets.

 It was this face of Corinne's that just about drowned me.  As it was, the back of my nose was seared by tequila and I almost had to go to the ER.

 Here, Tika looks WAY to happy about her hand.

That's better.  This is the face that Sara hates.  She is terrified of Tika.  Three years ago, Sara went to Guadalupe for a summer school program, and was surprised at how much stricter the teachers are there.  Tika is one of the strictest of the strict.  Even Tika's epic Girl Scout Cookie purchase this year did not soften Sara's heart.  I didn't tell Sara that Tika was coming, so the look on her face when she answered the door was priceless. 

How much you wanna bet that I will be enlisted to stuff a Cabbage Patch head in Tika's mailbox or some such thing this coming week?

Mel, as always, is cooler than the rest of us, and pulls off a truly Sphinx-like expression.

Saturday was snowy, and all soccer matches were cancelled.  This was great news for me, as one of the coaches had called me, looking for volunteers to arrive at 8:00 AM to shovel the pitch.  I slept in, which seems to be my way of avoiding emotional turmoil.  Simon and I had spoken on the phone the night before,and he is anxious for me to tell him whether I want a divorce.  He is tired of stewing over it and wants to move forward. I can't say that I blame him, of course.  Per the post I wrote earlier today, we are going to go ahead, but this is not a decision I have made lightly or without considerable guilt and fear.  Sleep is an escape from the emotion.

I ran 12 miles on Saturday afternoon, and had to run all of it on the indoor track, since the snow outside was landing on my lashes and blinding me.  One week until the Salt Lake City Half-Marathon. Will I be running the fucker in the snow?  After Thanksgiving, I deserve to be warm!  My fantasies of beating last year's time are fading:  pfffffft.  I was flakey and undisciplined due to de-tox related issues.  Still, no lasting side effects from the long run, except for a slightly sore right hamstring and a splitting headache.  Must drink more.  Oh, and one of my toes on my right foot refuses to flex today.  Must've pulled something tiny in there.  But I'll be fine as long as it isn't freezing. It's not just the race I have to think of:  if last year is any indicator, I could freeze to death while waiting for them to find my gear-bag at the finish line.

Today, I took the kids to see Rodrick Rules.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJR4xMSGL6s

The books are actually pretty funny and my kids' copies are totally dog-eared.  Here is the illustration of Rodrick's van that he uses to haul shit for his band, Loded Diper. 

The kids and I laughed  our butts off at the movie, but for different reasons.  Grown-ups who (like me) are middle children will find a lot of spot-on commentary.  Rodrick IS my brother Charles.  The part where Rodrick picks up Greg from school in his van and drives home like a maniac?  YES!  The clothes, the hair, the muttered threats, the blackmail.  Charles is nine years older; and I was small for my age, and portable.  He used to love dangling me over the bannisters; or holding me over pots of boiling water while my mother admonished, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Charles."  And like Rodrick, Charles occasionally came through for me. Once he shoved me down into the passenger foot-well in the station wagon and roared through the neighborhood, hunting for a bully who had been giving me a hard time; squealed up to the curb where the kid was standing and made the kid just about wet himself.  The pluses and minuses of having a much-older brother... 

Si got home this evening from Colorado, and we didn't even have to have "the conversation".  We said enough on the phone last night.  As he sometimes does, he brought me a present: a pair of pale green earrings made by his friend Maxine.  I cried because he doesn't need to be nice to me; and it is probably the last present he'll give me.  Tomorrow, we'll get the wheels rolling again.