Category: Uncategorized

I am not shitting you

So, I do have this thing about people flossing in public.

Personally, I think my thing is totally normal and appropriate and I’m not sure I understand how there could be any other perspective, but apparently there is, as was proven today in the cafe.

But before I get there, let’s just take a quick look why I dislike watching people fling food bits out of their mouth across the room with a shredded thread.

It’s gross.

Enough said.

So today, I actually had to ask a customer to stop flossing while standing over a table talking to someone who was eating IN A RESTAURANT.

What could possibly be okay about that?

I hesitated to say something, but then I thought, “Food is being flicked onto someone’s panini.”

But the most astounding part…

He actually asked me what was wrong with it?

Dear god, help humanity.

This says it all

“I travel in wild country a great deal, often alone, and my friends find this to be fatally eccentric, although they use the more polite term “stupid.” They feel sorry for me because I miss the fun of camping in groups, same-sex or mixed. Perhaps I am too cranky to know any better. I go afield to calm myself, to sort out the demonic squirrels in my head, a self-indulgence that lasts about thirty seconds, or as soon as the first petroglyph or curve of the canyon wall comes into view or a ravenous swarm of gnats eats my entire skin, or heatstroke finishes off what the lobotomy began. Then I succumb to pure sensation. I try to notice how the desert is put together, with the expectation that if I look hard enough the land will open up to me, spilling an endless stream of color, light and living things in bright ecstasy.

In company, I would likely remain completely silent for two days straight and everyone would take it personally. I would try my best to troop down a slickrock trail with a gynocentric agenda. I would fall flat on my face with strong women walking over my back in single file. Perhaps in a herd of gazelles, there is always one animal that faces the west when all of the others face east, one animal that drinks backward at the waterhole and is actually not very gazelle-ish at all, but rather awkwardly assembled and inclined to involuntary utterances such as deranged hiccups when the lions are eating it’s compadres.”

ellen meloy… the anthropology of turquoise

Closure?

I looked up the word “closure” in relationship to relationships and this is what the dictionary gave me…

“a sense of resolution or conclusion at the end of an artistic work”

Would we call a failed relationship an artistic work?

That’s kind of pushing it.

So I hit up the Urban Dictionary and here’s what I got…

closure

1. To attempt to ‘move on’ following the termination of a relationship with another individual.
2. When used in a sentence, insinuates that the individual using the word is the same individual who was the target of the ‘break-up’.
3. A word used by overly-emotional, self-centered ‘drama queens’ (mostly women and gay men).
4. Individuals using this word generally will utter the word ‘chapter’ during their often one-sided conversations.
5. A word created during the 90’s which was borne out of individuals unable to cope with relationship failure.
6. Individuals using this word insinuate that the more stable party is responsible for all of the ‘closured’ individual’s problems, as well as the War in Iraq, airbag safety issues, the Democratic National Convention, dustless chalk, nipples on men, PMS, and bad-hair days.

So where am I going with this? Why did I feel the need to look this up in the dictionary? Was it because I have wanted some sort of closure for the last seven months?

Right? I’m not a gay man and I would never use the word “chapter.”

Nope.

In light of the above, I embarrassingly admit that yes, I did want closure. I didn’t need to clarify why we had split – that was very clear. But I wanted to understand what the fuck happened in the aftermath?
Things that he did, or didn’t do, were so fucked up and cruel and hurtful and careless that I honestly just couldn’t believe they were happening.
But I actually didn’t need him to explain it. I have plenty of language for that going on in my head.
What I honestly needed was a chance to say all of the tens of thousands of things that have spun through my head in the last 7 months, to him, not to my friends, my therapist, and random strangers.
And they needed to be spoken, not screamed.
I ran into him yesterday. I saw him and thought that I’d blow by with a quick “hi,” but that’s not how it turned out.
It was only the second time I’ve seen him since last autumn and the first time amounted to “How’s the weather” in terms of depth or content.
We talked about the fact that we had never actually talked after things shook out. There was never a final anything. We “broke up,” and then, within days, the shit started hitting the fan with the litany of cruelties that took me down.
And down and down and down.
And it just became a mess.
Being a woman of words, I have this belief that if I say something well, the other person will understand and show some compassion and maybe even remorse.
If they don’t then I just keep talking, thinking that they will finally see the light, but really, the other person just tunes out and shuts down.
I often (almost always) walk away from conversations involving my hurt heart, with a lot of self-doubt, regrets, frustrations, and 52 reasons to spin out about every detail of the interaction.
And 52 million things that I wish I had said because, in hindsight, if I had just said ____________ then he would have understood and regretted hurting me.
So we had this lengthy chat and I walked away, went back to work and began to hyperventilate; loud, body-wracking sobs and tears that didn’t stop running into the dishwater all afternoon.
I didn’t want to talk about the details with anyone – I just wanted to sit with it while I cooked. I know that I need to feel this incredible sadness and grieve what I haven’t yet grieved.
Did I get what I needed?
I did receive some valuable bits.
He was kind and respectful.
He listened.
He saw one big piece from my perspective and admitted that it was “fucked up.”
I didn’t yell.  I said everything that I needed to say without going on ad nauseam. I didn’t try to hold him accountable for other’s actions. I wasn’t sarcastic or condescending or demeaning. I didn’t barely swore. I was calm and rational and very very clear.
And I didn’t fall apart.
(All things I do more often than not.)
I owned and apologized for some really shitty things that I had done.
In other words, not only did I maintain my dignity, but as I ruminate on the exchange a day later, I am satisfied with it.
I’m not wishing that I had said things differently or said more. When I think of things that I would have liked to add, I am thankful that they weren’t included because they are the things that would have made me look small or petty or pathetic or bat shit crazy.
I’m not cringing in hindsight.
I was able to try to set things right from my end. It takes two to tango as we all know.
That which he apologized for…it was what I wanted, and I appreciate it, and I also realize that it’s not the apologies that I need. The remorse can’t begin to undo what has been done.
What I needed was to be heard and maybe understood a little bit better.
To speak my peace.
To say, “You destroyed a family that loved you.”
Without expecting anything much in return.
I needed an opportunity to regain my dignity which I, maybe not lost, but definitely compromised in my unhinged moments.
And regain it I did.
The sadness that I am feeling today is deep. I am exhausted. And yet, I understand that this is part of the process and that I will eventually feel some relief.
And I don’t have to beat myself up for one more mismanaged moment.
So did I get the elusive “closure”?
I don’t know.
But I think I can probably go to the coffee shop now without fear, without ending up on the floor of the kitchen having a full-blown anxiety attack.
And that’s worth a whole awful lot these days.

Who am I and what am I doing here?

I think that I am supposed to be writing some sort of introduction here but I am struggling with it. I am not going to try to explain in one post who I am or what my blog is…

you’ll just have to read it to find out.

I will say this:

Currently, this blog is a work in progress. I will be adding more as time goes on. I tried to set it all up in advance and then have a Grand Launch with all kinds of pages and information and shortcuts and maybe even a cake recipe ready for viewing but…

not happening.

See, the thing is, I just need to write.

The setting up and fanicifying of the site is work – hard work for my brain – and I can’t write while laboring through the technology quagmire. So I will write and post, and then make corrections, changes, and additions when I have the time, the energy, the fortitude, and some good grass.

So for now, here is what you need to know:

I am single; relatively newly but not for the first time.

I have three sons who have all reached adulthood and live together one town over.

I live in a very small community in the rural southwest.

My dog’s name is Elvis.

 

Enjoy

I live alone

(Originally printed in the Four Corners Free Press, February 2018)

Due to a very, large, handful of unforeseen surprises in my life, (read: my life imploded) I find myself in a situation that I never thought I’d be in again…

I live alone.

I live with two cats and one dog, so not alone alone. But, I have no other humans in my home.

Moreover, I am completely reveling in it.

When I got married and had kids I figured I would never live alone again. That is the plan right? Until death do us part.

Then divorce did us part, but I still had kids at home. So. Not. Alone.

Eventually though, I loved having my own room so much that I came to a place of never wanting to live with anyone. Again.

Besides them.

Their time at home was limited.

I like my space.

I like going hours without talking to anyone.

And then, change of plans, I moved in with a boyfriend and became one in a household of five; four of whom are male.

Two dogs. Two cats. Fourteen chickens. Ten pigs. Two horses. A bunch of steers and various and sundry other human beings, all men, who lived and worked at our place.

And now, it’s just me.

Alone again.

Happily.

The last time I lived alone was 25 years ago in my cabin in the Wasatch. I had to ski 3.5 miles each way between home and work. I had no radio, no phone, no way to connect with the outside world when I was there.

My nearest neighbor was ½ mile of breaking trail through waist-deep snow away.

It was a joyous time in my life.

Then I fell in love, moved in with my then-future-now-ex-husband, and gave up all fantasies of ever experiencing that again.

And yet, at 52 years old, here I am.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

Most definitely not.

But, I will say that my life looks very different in very many ways.

Some changes are small, some, more extreme than others.

For one, I no longer sleep in a king size bed. Besides not needing that much space at the moment, a mattress that wide is bigger than my entire house.

In my full size bed sleep two cats who had been forced to live outside for several years due to “allergies” and one cat’s propensity to pee on everything.

Interestingly enough, once the person with allergies was removed, the random and inappropriate urination ceased.

I have a right-handful of splinters. I can get them out of my left hand but am too uncoordinated with that hand to remove them from my right.

I don’t have that person to whom to say, “Honey, will you get the tweezers…”

I read books, do the crossword, write, and watch The Crown, all in the living room. No more hiding out in my bedroom to escape the testosterone-induced chaos and stink that filled the living room before this one.

When I buy food, it’s still in the fridge the next day.

After I finish the dishes, the sink remains empty. Sometimes from sunup to sundown.

I listen to music almost all of the time.

Before, the only place I ever listened consistently was work. Couldn’t do it at home; all of those bodies under one roof created enough music of it’s own.

My truck became my refuge. I drove in silence just to hear nothing.

When I moved, I bought an echo because I had no other source for tunes.

Alexa, oh Alexa: you royal pain in the arse. You are worse than a teenager.

Do you ever get tired of me calling you a b@#$%?

I prepare actual meals and sit down to eat them.

And I don’t come downstairs in the morning to the aftermath.

I do have to be more careful as I move through my physical world. I am fully aware that one little mishap could turn south very quickly.

If I could remember my neighbors’ names it would be different, but essentially, if I get hurt or incapacitated, I’m on my own. Might as well still be living 3 miles in.

With that said, when I need to ascend my wood pile, I think, “If these logs roll, I could get broken, really uncomfortable, and cold, and I’d have some serious splinters to boot.”

I am terrified of splitting wood because I wonder what will happen if I cut off my hand or my leg? No one will find me and I will bleed out in my yard while Elvis mournfully looks on.

So, when I uber-cautiously put hatchet to log, I am embarrassingly hesitant and ineffectual. After a half-assed swing where metal simply glances off aspen instead of slicing through, everything falls on the ground, and I look over my shoulder sure that the nameless neighbors are watching out their windows with pity.

I walk around naked.

They’re probably watching that scene with pity also.

I stare out the window for hours on end. I don’t answer the phone. No one drops in.

I am not woken up. I don’t wait up to make sure my children are home safe and sound. I don’t have to clean boy-pee off the bathroom floor

I spend many a night sleeping on the futon in the living room. Because I can. Because I can see the stars. Because I can watch the sunrise without lifting my head off the pillow.

I spend more time in the neighboring towns.

I spend a lot more time outside, wandering. Not feeding chickens.

I have a chamber pot.

I sleep with the window open.

Skulls, plants, rocks, adorn every surface.

I no longer have a gun safe in my bedroom.

Come on back liberal hippie self, I’ve missed you.

THERE ARE NO MORE CHEW SPIT CUPS IN MY BEDROOM, LIVING ROOM, DINING ROOM, KITCHEN, BATHROOM, CAR, PATIO, GARAGE, HENHOUSE.

Downside:

I find myself drawn to the Loungewear section at TJ Maxx.

Yesterday I did NOT purchase a cashmere nightgown. I stood in the dressing room imagining myself wearing it every single day as soon as I got home from work, all day on weekends, hosting brunch in it…

Whoa, Suz, have some pride.

So, besides the unfortunate attraction to matching pajamas, this living alone business, after living with so many others for so many years, is fantastic.

I’m even entertaining tomorrow.

Holy youknowwhat.

 

 

 

one of life’s greatest questions

I went to Walmart the other day; a day that had begun with snow and cold, but by the time I got off work and headed west, the sun was out.

I pulled into the parking lot and as I stepped out of the truck I caught a glimpse of what I might look like to the people of Walmart…

or just look like the people of Walmart.

I have this coat that is a magnificent, $4, ankle-length, fake fur number that looks like I’m wearing a buffalo. This was paired with lime green, knee-high rain boots, and, a purple crocheted beanie adorned with appliqué flowers.

I paused, considered how I would feel if I saw someone I knew, shrugged that off, and proudly marched in to get a container for bringing wood into the house.

What I came up with is absolute genius: a turquoise plastic laundry hamper with wheels and a handle just like a roller suitcase.

And what better way to save bags and save the planet than to put all of my purchases into the laundry basket and wheel them on out to the truck.

Admittedly I felt a teensy twinge of self-consciousness (just enough to notice) and then I decided that I actually didn’t care and I though it quite funny instead.

Which then brings me to this important question…

Where exactly, is the line between “I don’t give a fuck,” and, “I’m batshit crazy?”