I told my grandmother that we were proud new parents of a bread maker.  (Stretching the not-having-a-baby-but-look-at-the-other-cute-things-we-have-in-our-life gig a little far?  Maybe.)

I remember my grandmother making bread from scratch all summer long.  Only raisin bread.  I got to help put in the raisins.  Grandpa said the storebought kind didn’t have enough raisins.  She never made any other kind of bread, just raisin bread.

“A bread maker?  How nice.  I used to make your grandfather spice bread.”

“Yes, raisin bread.  With extra raisins.”

She shook her head, “Nooo…” slowly, like she was letting me down gently, “He didn’t like it with cinnamon…he wanted some other spice…cumin!  That’s it.  I made it with cumin.”

This conversation haunts me.

Am I remembering wrong?  Can I have such strong, specific feelings that are completely made up?

Can she be wrong?  Has all her joking about being an old woman finally come to pass?

Or worst, are we both right?  Is she thinking of a different time, a different bread.  If so, I’m missing out on one more story to cling to when she’s gone.

Holy Fuck, life has been rough.  Inappropriate, excessive swearing rough.

And then of course, we still have our house, can afford to stay in it, do not have to give our animals up because we can’t buy food, and loosely-speaking, still have our health.

Still.

I’ve been very unhappy with my schedule lately.  Doesn’t shock a lot of people.  10-14 hour days?  6-7 days a week?  How can you not love it?

Well, I do.  Usually.  I love feeling like I’m making a difference and getting dirty (and bloody) and being part of a solution.  I love helping people and animals and most days I feel like I’ve done both.

Lately though, Tom’s schedule has been just as much shit as mine - including shift work which means I end up not sleeping a full night either.  And our animal woes have not stopped.  Three, THREE, urinary tract infections.  One on a cat who’s been surgically altered to have much less tract to resolve this exact kind of thing.  One a cat who has to be sedated for the most simple of exams.  (The last is just on a plain ole regular cat.  Albeit a fat, old, and needy one.)

I’ve been really wishing I had a more 9-to-5 deal, so I could do a better job taking care of everyone.  And maybe some weekends off to catch up on everything else.

The thing is, I really hate wishing that.  I am not made to be selfish and me, me, me.  It pisses me off.  And I’m horrible at it.  My boss has even less time off than me - how do you ask for more?

I really hope this is a phase.  I really hope we get a handle on our pet and personal life and I go back to feeling gunho about my schedule.

That’s how old I turned this past Saturday.

I took the day off from work.  Not something I realize most people have to think about on a Saturday.

I went to the dump, sephora, a massage, and ending the night watching Saturday night reruns while my husband slept.

On Sunday, we spend off to Gainesville to spend just 15 minutes more time with my grandmother than we actually spent on the road.

Laptop sent away.  Back now, can you tell?

Cat pee on kitchen counter.  (please repeat in between every other line)

Pot Rack installed.

New Sneakers.

Painful ankle.  Still.

Flu.  Worst 24-hour shit I’ve had in a long time.

Track lighting installed.

Cat pee on bedroom carpet.

New kitten.

Vet visits.

Resorting to facebook for social life.

Resorting to sent email folder to remember the week.

More Vet visits.

Roof fixed!  Yes?  For reals this time?

Waiting for rain.

Waiting for a break.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Waiting for more.

In the past few weeks I have been contacted/visited by/seen randomly about five or so exes.

Some of these exes are well aware of this blog…Hell, it played a role in a few of those romances and is the way at least one of these guys still keeps tabs on me.

I am sure at some point curiosity and the cat will get together and at least a few of them will stop by here to see what, if anything, I might have mentioned.  I could certainly wax poetic over the past, or describe the ironic/strange/awkward situations.  But I seem to have drifted away from that voice.

So….in general, to all men I might have dated/slept with/been married to….

1)  At some point, for some amount of time, you rocked my world and I thank you for it.  I don’t date losers (minus one horrible meal at Carrabba’s), so I still think of you highly no matter what the outcome of us.

2)  I hope you are enjoying life.  It seems like most of you are.

“Are you still up for tomorrow night?”

“Kinda.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah.”

Turns out, he was only kinda up for it as well.

I like him, I really do. As well as you can like anyone whom you’ve seen three times in the past five months.

It hit me the week of the AC breakdown/New Jersey trip. He’d had spotty internet access and was emailing about once a week. As I sat down to respond to his latest, I had to sit back and close my eyes against all the shit that had happened. How did I sum that up?

That’s when I realized that it really wasn’t going to work. Casual or serious, I wasn’t going to get what I wanted from a relationship – support and distraction. Someone to either battle my fears with me or take me out for drinks and make me feel pretty so I can forget about them for a while.

2009 Progress Update

I got to this point in the document without figuring out to whom I was referring.

The snafu I walked into this morning was my fault. Totally. It might have been less of one had boss #1 remembered a few discussions, or boss #2 hadn’t known why I ditched out yesterday. No one likes a reminder that work is not your number one priority. (Although he has often chided me for making it such a high priority when I’ve pulled a 24-hour shift. You can please some of the people all of the…)

I hate that I enjoy my job so much that I want to cry over this. I let people down. I was let down.

The thing that I don’t get is that both #1 and #2 always comment on how I got dumped with too much work, too many important tasks, and that I’ve done a kick ass job considering. I’ve been in meetings where I represent half of the dozen interfaces discussed. (Other people = one or two)

Are the mistakes I make an outcome of just being overworked? Am I multitasking to a point that to err is human? Or is there something flawed in my approach that allows for these slip-ups?

I guess I’m down because I want to do a kick ass job. No qualifier or explanation needed.

It rained all last night. I love this weather. I used to go to pass-a-grille and walk the entire length – from the “To Public Beach” sign, to the concrete pier that the fisherman use – during downpours.

I’ve huddled against someone on that pier during a hurricane who turned out not to do it for me. I walked hand-in-hand over that sand with someone who didn’t want the date to end after dinner-and-a-movie (and we still ended up back at my place, watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”), but turned out not to want to do it for me.

I drove to that beach with W only to not get out the car, taking advantage of the mood thunderstorms put me in.

But mostly, I remember Monica. Junior year. No boys (er, for the most part). Our own apartment. Mornings of cappaccino and grapefruit halves. Nights of sand, seashells, and rain.

2009 Progress Update

I skipped around my folder a bit.  I didn’t neccesarily want to choose items to share in chronological order.  It would seem like I’m telling a story.  And I’m not, at least not to my knowledge.

The first part, the job part, hits home because I feel a sprained my ankle in part due to over-working.  (I deleted “being over worked” because that implies someone other than myself put the heavy on me.)  So, obviously I’m very much the same.

The last part, the beach and men and Monica part…I haven’t had many close female friends in my life.  Or close friends period.  The sprained ankle brings it out in me as well - I can’t stand the incessant questions regarding my health from collegues and volunteers.

I always thought I was good about being friends and keeping in touch with people.  But they have babies and I have jobs and here we are.  Or, here I am.  We implies the babies and the jobs didn’t change anything.  And they did.  They always do.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the amout of time I spend at the sanctuary precludes much of a social life.

That includes a religous social life.

Today was the first day since I sprained my ankle I resumed even semi-normal animal care activities.  As it was my Sundy to coordinate the volunteers, I was head honcho.  No one could tell me no.  So I gimped around 6 cages, filled water bowls, picked up extra meat, picked up the result of not-extra meat, and cared for the animals.

This is the best fucking day I’ve had in so fucking long.

I have mentioned to friends here or there that I believe to some extent I am completing a higher power’s will by caring for these animals.  What I don’t think I mention is why I feel that way.  That the fulfillment I get from dirty legs and latex gloves is something I can only hope for others.

Thank God.

When my family came to visit for the holidays, we were blessed with warm weather.  This was unusual because the temperature always seems to dip into the teens (OK, forties) when my mother crosses the state line.

We took advantage by eating on the outside patio of Sea Critters, by far my favorite sea food restaurant in the Tampa Bay area.  Tom and I have successfully entertained many out-of-town guests there, as well as just gone for a twosome meal every now and then.  But remember, I’ve lived in this area for ten+ years now.  Sea Critters has been one of my go-to spots for almost as long.

Which led to the following conversation at the dinner table with my entire family…

Him:  It’s not too bad this time.  We usually have to wait.

Me:  Not always.

Him:  Yes, at least a little bit.

Me:  Not the time I got drunk off Mai Tais.

Him: ….

Me:  Maybe that wasn’t you.

Him:  Yes, you really should change states when changing husbands so that doesn’t happen.

Me:  Wasn’t a husband.

Him:  Well, hell.  There’s not enough states to start covering the rest of them!

Have you ever felt that any choice you made was going to be right and wrong?

That’s how it feels when you realize you want a divorce.

There’s no way to describe it and make anyone understand except those who also had to make this choice. Yes, I use the word, “had” and “choice”. A mandatory selection. One that you never thought you’d consider, but can no longer deny is staring at you from the ballot box.

And you can do your research. You can find out how other people handled this. And while you’re talking to them, you feel calm and good and know that you will make the right decision.

That feeling can sometimes last through the car ride home and putting away the laundry.

You will decide to trust your intuition – go with what “feels” right. Then he will call. Or not. You will ask if he will move into your apartment complex and he’ll say no.

2009 Progress update

My ex-husband and I still live in the same city, and have some of the same friends.

We are both remarried.  He to a woman younger than him; me to a man older than me.  Him with a child (a son, I believe) as he always wished (I hope); me childless with no plan to change that scenario as I always wished (and I hope Tom wants as well).

I truly don’t feel like I was ever married before.  Of course, I don’t feel like I am married now.

Life is a series of scenarios.  Of people.  Of instances.

I don’t believe you can say happily ever after to anyone but yourself.  That’s pragmatic and sad at the same time.

And yet….

As writing this, I realize the date of this post was one day shy of a potential 3 year anniversary.

Is life about potential and anniversaries?  Or pragmatic and sad?

Or is it simply technical?  Technically, due to lawyers and paperwork, it was a 3 year anniversary.  And technically, I couldn’t care less.

Or could I?