Saturday, August 30, 2014

he's totally a broken table

I realized this summer that I miss physical intimacy.  For someone who's personal bubble is bigger than Texas, it surprised me how much I miss it.

More than that, I realized that I’m ready for a relationship.  With these two realizations, over the course of the summer - many Fridays, much whiskey, and endless laughter - a classification system evolved.

Once it's determined that he is attractive and (more importantly) available, he gets classified.

We’re not going to go into what I find attractive. That's another post altogether and the matrix for that is complicated and completely subjective.


Busted Barstools, Notches, Broken Tables, and Perfect Paintings. 

Ah, hell.
I didn’t realize until just now that apparently I think of men as furniture.  I’m sure there’s something to be gleaned from that.  later. not today.

Back to the topic at hand…

Busted Barstool:  This is that stool at the bar that’s always there.  After four or five drinks, it starts to look really inviting. Heck, it’s closer to the bartender, right? And it will get more appealing the more you drink.  Hopefully, if you’re that drunk, you’ve got a friend who will remind you that you don’t like sitting at the bar. 

A hook-up. Not for me, ever.   Just not who I am.  Totally okay with those that are.  More power to ya.  I’m gonna go sit at the slightly wobbly table in the corner.    

Notch:  A notch on your bedpost.  It’s your bed.  You like it.  It’s comfortable.  Adding a notch isn't going to hurt it, it adds character.  A reminder of good times.  It makes you smile.

Totally a one-off event, with the possibility of an encore.  There are no expectations, no regrets and you don’t flinch every time you see them, instead you smile. And it’s not awkward.

Broken Table:  That adorable, slightly damaged table you saw in the window of the thrift store. You like it. But…you’re not sure…so you walk away.  Every time you walk past the window it’s there.  You just keep thinking about how awesome it is. It has potential.  Yeah, there are flaws, but you like it more than you don’t.  You want it. You go back to the store…

if it’s gone, oh well, someone else saw the potential.


… if it’s still there, YES. You bring it home.  It’s great. It comfortably fits exactly where you want it, and the flaws aren’t really noticeable.  You don’t need to fix it, as is it will be great until you get tired of it or you find a better table.  You might take it to family functions, cause, you know, a table is always handy at a function.

A low-maintenance relationship.  If you both happen to have an evening free at the same time, you’ll happily get take-out and pretend to watch a movie, or go to the family bbq.  Both parties expect the other to let them know if they’re found someone more interesting, and that’ll be sad, but not heart breaking.

and lastly, 

The Perfect Painting:  You see it.  You understand it. Instantly your heart hurts or your chest is full of butterflies.  You’re floored that someone created it.   It fits perfectly in your life.   Just looking at it gives you joy.  You must have it. You can’t imagine ever getting tired of it, you love and cherish it. You are amazed that this beautiful, perfect painting is yours.

One day I’ll bring home the perfect painting.

Right now though…Right now I’ve got so much going on that the last thing I need to add right now is a priceless piece of art to worry about.  I’m not avoiding looking, if I run into the perfect painting, I’ll happily welcome it into my home.  But I’m not going to all the galleries in town searching for it.

So there you go. Men are furniture, at least in my head.

Friday, August 8, 2014

a year later

It started in the pantry.  I was searching late at night for something appealing to eat, but only finding empty boxes.

I have got to clean this out.

I finally found a lone bag of popcorn and shut the door on the whole mess.

Then, again in my closet, as I was reaching over a teetering pile of stuff to grab a jacket.

Ugh. Too much stuff. I’ve got to go through this.

My closet is the default “I'll-deal-with-it-later” location.  I found my jacket and shut the door on the whole mess.

Later, mindlessly folding clothes, I came to a realization.  I had a conversation with myself. With words. And questions. It went something like this:

My life is not what it was. For the next eight years, I’m going to have little to no time to do any of my hobbies. Chickens, quilting, roses.

Okay, yes. True.

The next eight years are going to be exactly like the last year has been.  No time for anything. And after that? What comes next?

Wait, I can’t even see past tomorrow and you want to know what happens in almost a decade?

Yes. You can’t keep treading water.  Enough of that.  Pick a path.

I…I can’t….I don’t know…there's...too much.....hurt...

Kristin.  You’ve been talking about moving north when the kids are grown.  You’re not going to pack up all this and take it with you.

 No, probably not.

Then why are you keeping it all?  Why are you storing these constant reminders of a life you no longer have?
Well, what if that’s a whim?  What if I stay? What if I meet, fall for, and marry a very rich man.

A whim that you’ve been talking about for 6 months now? Don’t be stupid. And besides, anyone you fall for is going to be the starving artist type.  Not the lawyer type.


Stop a minute.  Sit.  Look.

I stopped.
I sat on the front step.
I let my mind go where it wanted.  I looked back.  I looked at now.
I don’t know how long I sat.  I just know that at some point I came to terms with something I was told months ago.

“You are not her anymore; she’s a part of you, but not you anymore.”

I let her go.

Silently I grieved the loss of the woman I was.  The woman who quilted; the woman who tended roses; the woman who bred chickens.  The tears came and I just sat silently, surrounded by the night and knowledge that this was long overdue.

“You are not her anymore; she’s a part of you, but not you anymore.”

Eventually the tears stopped. And peace came.

It’s time.

So, I begin.
I picked a place to begin where there would be the least amount of tears. 

The pantry.  Because really, what is there to be emotional about in a pantry?

I pulled out everything.  All the food, canning stuff, and everything else we've shoved in the pantry over the last three years.

There were tears.

There were tears when I realized that I was fully stocked with homemade jams and jellies for the next year, and I didn’t make any of them. I hadn’t had time to do any canning.  I love canning.  My mother, the wonderful woman that she is, made enough jams and jellies for us, because she knew I was busy. This hurt. Not that she made them, but that I didn’t.

There were tears when I realized I was almost out of brown sugar, and had no idea, because I can’t remember the last time I baked something. I love baking.

There were tears when I realized that the whole house is filled with who I was, and paring it down to who I am is going to hurt.

My table is piled high with mason jars, cookie cutters, candles and who knows what.  Next I need to empty out all the cupboards in the kitchen and sort through it all. Pack up the things that are no longer relevant to my life today, things I haven't used in a year, and let them go. Let go of the clutter that has accumulated since I moved here.  Let go of the “well maybe one day” and the “I might need that”

My heart hurt. Physically hurt.

I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to get through cleaning out my craft supplies.  Because I don’t need a room full of sewing and crafting supplies. A closet full, yes; but not a room full.  I’m sure there’ll be whiskey involved.  And I’ll probably ask a friend or two to come sit in the middle of a mess and help me let go.

What I’m doing has nothing to do with the man I was married to, or the home that we shared.  This is about me.  This is about me accepting what my life is now, and letting go of what it was.

Everything happens for a reason.  
The further I go, the more I have believe that.
it has to. 

All the pain and heart-ache that I've lived through for the last year has led to so much goodness.
  • A younger-than-me older brother.
  • Two girlfriends with whom Friday is a verb.
  • This blog. 
  • M’Amy. 
  • The knowledge that I can handle frozen pipes, a broken heater, a riding lawn mower, a power outage, and noises outside at night.

There’s got to be more coming, amid the continuing hard, there has got to be more joy.

So, in spite of all the tears and loneliness, I am happy.
At my core. 
Yes, I’m lonely.  Yes, I want someone to hold my hand and cuddle with me on the couch.
Yes, it’s hard. 
Every damn night is hard. 

Here I am.
A year later.

I’m not lost.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m done treading water.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Fly On My Wall - reasons for smiles

Tech week is crazy stressful, here are some exchanges that left me grinning over the last few days:


Scamper, scamper, scamper.
Whisper:  “Stay here, the shirtless hottie is on his way.”
Scamper, scamper, scamper.


“You look very nice….I always like it when you dress up.” *sheepish smile*


“Oh, he’s totally a broken table.”


Smallest child: “Wow, Momma.  You don’t look like momma.”
                Me: “If I don’t look like momma, then who do I look like?”
Oldest child: “Kristin.  This, this is what Kristin looks like.”


“You’re here!  You said you weren’t coming!  Why are you here?”
“So you can buy me a drink”
“Okay. What do you want?”


“Sometimes you just need a notch, you know? I’ve been there. You, you need a notch.”


Whisper, behind me:  “Don’t f*ck up.”
And I promptly miss two cues.


“That could totally happen.  But you’re gonna have to stick your tongue down his throat to get him to realize it. Subtle isn’t gonna work.”


At the grocery store.
The boy is pushing the cart.
“Jack.  Hold.”
And he and the girls promptly freeze.


“You mean the Main wasn’t supposed to go out then?  I thought it made a nice picture.” 
                yes! mistakes that look like artistic choices!