Friday, February 27, 2009

Burn, Baby, Burn

I am not afraid to burn bridges. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoy not only burning them, but dousing them in gasoline, shooting them with a flame thrower, and then dancing near the fiery fury.

Figuratively, folks. I'm no arsonist (at least, not that I'll admit to publicly).

It's just that I feel like if I'm done with somebody or something, why worry about severing ties? If I'm THAT over it, I don't WANT to be able to patch things up someday. Getting back into a bad situation is just poor judgment. So when I burn these bridges, I'm actually potentially doing my future self a favor. Makes sense, doesn't it? (Yes. It does.)

And it feels so damn good.

For example: I had a very, very bad boyfriend my Freshman year in college. I gave him chance after chance to straighten up, but he never learned. So when I decided I was done with him, I brought him lunch to work (filled with ExLax), waited until he got really sick and went home, then tipped off his parents that he was selling drugs out of their house. Mayhem (and police reports) ensued.

He didn't speak to me for a decade, but I really don't think I was missing out on all that much.

Anyway, blowing relationship ties into a million little pieces is on my mind today, and I'm working up a good plan to end a big one, once and for all. I'm only about 20 years overdue.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

I Now Pronounce Thee, "National Cocktail Day"

President's Day is a stupid holiday.

We all know that I hate days when the mail doesn't run. It throws off my whole mindset. Sundays, alone, are hard enough for me to contend with, but a Monday without mail? It's part of my OCD (yes, I do have an official diagnosis)--one of those quirks I have. A day without mail is a day that we don't need.

And PRESIDENT'S DAY?? Can't we at least celebrate something more deserving than that if we're going to have a holiday? I'd much rather celebrate Teacher's Day or Johnny Depp Is Hot Day or National Martini Day. But President's Day, not so much.

So tomorrow, I will be celebrating Teach Your 5-Year Old to Make a Mean Cosmopolitan Day.

Please feel free to join me.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart

It's Valentine's Day Eve and, just like the rest of 2009 has gone so far, things aren't turning out so well. For starters, Blaker left early this morning for sea trials. He'll be gone for four or five days, including tomorrow, and I have absolutely no contact with him while he's floating around the Atlantic on the George W.H. Bush aircraft carrier fixing anything that might break on the ship. So much for a romantic Valentine's Day. Not that it really matters. You know, it's funny--I totally dig Valentine's Day. I love all the pink and red, the balloons and flowers and candy and such, but I'm not really one of those people who gets into it beyond noticing and appreciating the aesthetics. I'm not a big romantic--cynicism seems to be more my niche.

I spent the day today at Bellamy's school, volunteering with the kindergarten class. They had a Valentine's Dance that I helped out with (which means I hung out in the gym and danced with a bunch of 5 and 6-year-olds while the sound system blared Beyonce' and Soulja Boy--yes, you DID hear that correctly). I also lent a hand at the ice cream social that followed, which involved giving all the kids huge bowls of ice cream which they then had the opportunity to decorate with gummy bears, sprinkles, two kinds of syrup, gumdrops, Reece's cups, nuts, and whipped cream, before we packed them up and sent them home, reeling from their sugar highs. It was a fun time. It also gave me excellent material for another list.

A RANDOM LIST OF ENTERTAINING THINGS I OVERHEARD AT BELLAMY'S SCHOOL WHILE HELPING A BUNCH OF KINDERGARTENERS OBTAIN A SUGAR-INDUCED COMA

1. " I KNOW we just went to the potty, but if I have more than, like, one spoonful of ice cream, I'm totally gonna have to poop."

2. "But my big sister says that's how you're SUPPOSED to dance when Soulja Boy comes on."

3. "That may be how you did things in Georgia, but up here, we don't do that to the gummy bears."

4. "I pick my nose a lot because that's how God made me."

5. "If anybody needs to know how to dance, you just come ask me. If you take ballet for, like, 200 years, you MIGHT learn to dance as good as I can."

The joys of being five again.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Super Bowl-ed Over

Last night Blaker took the kids across the street to a Super Bowl party. I stayed home because...well, frankly, because I think watching football and pretty much all sporting events are a ridiculous waste of my time, AND because I really THOUGHT I wanted some alone time (there's also the fact that I'm a total introvert who is scared to socialize with the neighbors AND the realization that I will never learn the rules of football because I JUST DON'T CARE). So I kicked back, mixed up a cosmopolitan (what's Super Bowl Sunday without a cocktail, even if you aren't watching the game) and watched a fascinating show about polygamy on A&E. Good times.

Until.

I turned sideways on the sofa and looked back at the piano, where I have three family photographs situated. A Christmas photo from 2006 of Blaker and myself with the kids. A photo of Blaker and I taken while we were in grad school. And my favorite photo of my Dad, a close-up of his profile while he's laughing, taken at my wedding.

I fell apart.

This was not some pitiful little weeping like I've been doing lately. That weeping comes up on me in the car when I'm driving down the road, or in the laundry room when I'm cleaning the lint trap. This was full-on wailing, keening, gut-shaking sobs. Fetal position screaming. I was so loud, it's a wonder that Blaker and the kids didn't hear me across the street.

I've cried a lot since Dad died. A LOT. I cried a lot before he died too. You'd think I'd be all cried out. But I haven't really collapsed like that before. I always had a kid (or two), a Mom, a husband, somebody around who I needed to hold it all in for to some extent. Not so much last night.

One thing has really become apparent to me during this whole miserable experience. I am a worrier, have always been a worrier--did I dress Bellamy warm enough for school this morning? Did I pack Blaker enough lunch? Should I really have spent $40 for that shirt?--but now, none of that stuff seems all that important any longer. It's like, I've seen the BIG PICTURE. I've seen how bad and ugly and sad things can be. The other stuff? Well, it'll fall into place. It's NOTHING. That's what everybody always told me, but only now can I actually see it. Who cares what the gas bill is when I'm living in a world where people you love can just be GONE so quickly?

Life. What a mystery.