The fibs we tell ourselves

What I *should* be thinking, as a soon-to-be single woman: “You don’t need a partner to make your life complete. Make your own way, and everything will be fine.”

What I *do* think: “Sniff. I miss being close to someone.”

Shame spiral ensues.

I’m going on a ski/relaxation weekend with friends to Winter Park this weekend – all couples. Same set is going on a cruise in June – all couples. My ass is going, anyway, because there’s certainly fun to be had. I’ll be the pudgy single girl lurking in a bikini. Because, man….fuck it.

RCFMHD Monday

Pre-St. Paddy’s Day goodness:

Lime-A-Way

Mmm…my new favorite: Rangpur gin from Tanqueray. Gin is typically flavored with juniper berries and corriander – Rangpur adds Rangpur limes, bay leaf, and ginger to the distillation process. There’s a strong lime note, certainly, but I don’t find it overpowering, and the citrus blends well with the other botanicals.

I’ve been drinking far too many gin rickeys made with Rangpur lately. The cat doesn’t mind, though, so what do I care? We agree on one thing, though – who the hell is Tony Sinclair?

Rangpur Gin Rickey

•  1.5 oz Tanquray Rangpur Gin (if no gin available, use lighter fluid)
• 4 oz sparkling water
• juice of 1/4 lime

Combine in highball glass. Swill.

(I’ve seen these made with a rim of superfine sugar or shot of simple syrup if you like a sweeter drink)

Short-timer’s Disease

Tomorrow is my last day at my present job. I start a new gig next Monday.

Things I should be doing:

• finishing documentation
• wrapping up open client cases
• writing up a plan for future contract work
• packing up the last bits & pieces of my office

Things I am doing:

• jacking around on the Interwebs

I feel certain that if I only troll Craigslist long enough, I’ll find the following job listing:

Professional Screw-Off Skills: trolling forums for fights, inciting flamewars, harassing zealots, posting LOLcats, shoe shopping. Salary: One million billion dollars.

Dumbassitude of Days Past

So I’m trying to start this new blog, and pulling in a few posts from old blogs as backfill, and it’s really like reading your junior high diary. The hope, the angst, the questionable fashion choices.

My old posts are full of passing references to J, my soon-to-be-ex husband. Plans for the future. Inklings of starting to try for kids. I was so secure then. So sure of him, of us, of our connection and devotion to each other. Our day-to-day adventures that weren’t even adventures, just a quiet laid-back existence with someone who’s been your near-constant companion for 14 years. Go see a movie. Hang with friends at a cookout. See a friend star in a community theatre production.

Talk for weeks about leaving Wichita, which we thought we’d never do. Everything is there – families (that won’t be so intact when you return), friends, all things *familiar,* which I’ve come to appreciate in a whole new way. Decide we can leave that behind for a chance at better jobs for us both. A new adventure, new state to explore. A set of good friends has already moved to the Promised Land (Colorado Springs), so we wouldn’t be entirely alone. Visit friends in COS under the pretense of seeing Rush play Red Rocks. My hand finds his as Geddy sings “Ghost of a Chance,” which is the closest to a love song Rush has done.

Drive back to Wichita, full of hope and happiness. Is this what you need? A fresh start? A new environment? Hells yes. Plans are made. J lands a job in COS, and I begin looking. And looking. I move out to be with him and look. And look. I start waiting tables full-time, leaving me little time to spend with J.

J feels the pressure as the primary breadwinner. I slack off my “real-job” search because at the restaurant, no one pressures me. I am a rockstar. I effing should be, at 29 years old.

Our 6 month apartment lease is up, and real estate in CO is considerably more than in KS. We need a house that we can afford, while still holding the mortgage on the ICT house, which still hasn’t sold. After a whirlwind look, we find a house. It isn’t perfect. But it’s a roof and it’ll do. We immediately start making plans for renovations.

I get a real job a few months after we buy the house. I think we are happy, mostly, but it’s kind of brittle.

Then…my dad. My dad is ill. The “shadows” on his lung xrays will need a biopsy to get more information. The word “tumor” is never spoken. My parents are Midwestern Stoic, and see no reason to divulge bad news to anyone, ever.

Cancer is confirmed a month later. Official diagnosis: Aug. 8, 2006. Dad says no chemo. Oncologist suggests palliative treatment, give 6-9 months to live.

He makes it to December 15, 2006, at 9:15 am. Mom & I held his hands as he breathed his last.

I told J I was even more devastated because I  had so wanted my Dad to meet his grandkids. J hugged me.

I stayed with mom a while longer in KS, helping with arrangements.

Drove back to COS – cried from Hayes to Limon.

Marriage falls apart in the meantime. I was paralyzed with grief, but not processing the grief, because – hey, marriage falling apart. Quick, choose what you deal with! The loss of the man who’s been your biggest cheerleader and surest rock for 31 years – or your 7 year (“Oh, Joe and Ann are so PERFECT TOGETHER”) marriage crumbling.

I chose neither. I chose to hide and avoid and hope things would just get better. That doesn’t work. Hey you kids out there? That doesn’t work. You’ll have a stumbling breakdown and plead with your partner to get counseling, and he’ll agree.

You’ll have several months of what you consider to be great therapy sessions – you’ll think you’re connecting – you’ll think, “Wow, so THIS is what it’s supposed to be like.”

But, see, it means jackshit what YOU think, because if the other person ain’t feeling it…then likely they’ll just come to you and say “yeah, this…isn’t working. i tried, all summer. i tried. but i don’t feel about you the way i should feel about my wife. i can’t stay.”

So, see, that’s what happens when you look back through blog posts, or look at photo albums, or look at greeting cards, or inscriptions on books. You say, “Why didn’t I see this coming?” What prevented me from seeing this as a possible outcome? What signs should I have been on the lookout for, so I could’ve done something differently? I tried, I tried so hard – and it wasn’t enough.

And I got the lovely privilege of losing the 2 men I loved best in the space of a year.

How Cathlics Know They’re Driving too Fast

RCFMHD Monday

For Random Crap from My Hard Drive Monday, per Drunk Bunny. It’s Bosco Batch! This is one of my mom’s cats. Please notice the dwindling ‘nads – this was shortly after Bosco went to the vet to get tutored. Mom was very concerned that “they aren’t going away! Are they just going to stay like that?”

Can you tell I’m from a Catholic family?

Do I WANT to have a fixation with Orlando Bloom? Did I ASK my young brother-in-law to purchase a “12 Months of Orlando Bloom” wall calendar? Do I feel vaguely pervy that I’m not only an elf fancier, but also a fancier of a dude with way better hair than me? All y’all can suck it.

Don’t Hate Me Because My Hands Are Beautiful on a Volunteer Basis

Yes, it’s true. I’ve lived the high-profile, ultra-swinging lifestyle of Volunteer Hand Modeling.

By day, I worked in the art department of a camping/outdoor recreation product company. But by night (or by late afternoon or over lunch, anyway) I entered the glamorous world of non-paid hand modeling.

Oh, sure, it started during a camp coffeemaker photoshoot, when we realized that a hand needed to be in one of the shots. The photographer asked to see my hands, thinking that perhaps they would not be terribly offensive. Little did he know! My goddess-like appendages glowed as though lit from within by some sort of God-like…um…God-light. Yes, like ET’s heartlight, my handlights shone like a beacon.

The photographer dropped to his knees, shielding his eyes from the beauty of my hands, begging me to capture my mitts forever on film. And so, gentle reader, I held that coffee cup. I held it with a skill rarely seen. The assembled project managers and art directors wept softly in the background. My hands were Platonic perfection, other hands merely a shadow cast on a wall.

That time Dave said I had Visitor Fingers? Choke on it, dearest Dave. You’re jealous because you have hot dog fingers.
My fame has only grown. Recently I hired a team of eunuchs to proceed me everywhere I go, opening doors, feeding me, and even typing my blog entries. Anything to reduce wear and tear on my precious, precious hands. Such is the price of success. I owe it to the world, really. Who am I to deny you all the glory that is my hands? Come bask in the healing light of my hands. Come. The power of my hands compels you.

***the above tale may have been slightly exaggerated. okay, it was very exaggerated. my hands do appear on several Coleman packages, though. but it’s only ’cause I worked at Coleman, so they don’t have to pay me***

Papist Groundhogs

repost from my old blog

Ah, the groundhog has seen his shadow. Six more weeks of winter.
Of course, the real test is March 23. If the Pope sees his shadow, we get six more weeks of Lent. That always sucks.