There is no song that goes with "Fireplace"

Did y'all know that summer is NOT the time to put a house on the market? While I wait, and wait, I've started removing things. Things I really love, like the Chinamen and the ginger jar from the mantle, and the groups of prints that hung all the way around the living room. Wine-induced introspection has led me to conclude that I am either highly anxious (duh) and wanting less stimulation, or I am trying to depersonalize Misty Hollow so giving it to someone is not the soul-eviscerating experience I expect it to be.

 

So I painted the upstairs bathroom, which was a pain in the arse, but the results make it look taller and less devoid of personality. I have a backsplash plan for the kitchen that will commence once the materials come in. And the handy man is coming to work on a storage solution in the kitchen I'm hoping to God works.

Karma

A rant, in GIF overuse:

 

Wasband has this face of about nine different emotions that he makes at me when he walks into a room and finds me in a state that causes him concern, like being face-down on the kitchen counter with my feet on the floor. He rubs my back or hugs me and asks me what's wrong and I look at him like he just asked me how old he is or whether I should really wear my hair this way. I scoff and say something about loving him but hating him, and blame him for everything I do not particular care for or enjoy that is transpiring in my life at that moment that he's standing in our house. Then he has the sense or the fondness for me that he either agrees or acknowledges, because there are five breakable items within reach, and I'm not averse to throwing things.

 

With(out) This Ring

Today's post is illustrated courtesy of realitytvgifs.tumblr.com/, because me loves me Housewives.

I remember the day I stopped wearing my wedding ring. I decided on a Sunday afternoon that I would be legally dissolving my marriage, the emotional dissolution having been marching on slowly for months. I told my wasband about that on Tuesday, during a rooftop confrontation that was charged with the anger, betrayal and brokenness that only plays out poetically in movies. (They never show snot in movies, which is #1 on my list of why movies do not represent real life. I never Come Undone without a worrisome quantity of snot.)

 

The next Saturday I rose, dressed, put the diamond band in the jewelry box and had a manicurist paint my nails red. It has not quite been five months yet, but I still have a damn indentation on my ring finger, and I still absentmindedly play with the phantom wedding band. I'm working on finding the right piece of bling to take over on that finger. Other than sending a picture of my bare finger and red nails to my posse, it was an unceremonious end to the partnership between my ring and me.

Express Yourself

There is something I was not anticipating when getting unmarried began. Beyond one-half of a king bed being piled high with clothes and shams instead of a human. Beyond having only female-scented items on the edge of the bathtub. Beyond having to get up to get your own glass of water EVERY TIME because no one can do it on their way to/from the bathroom. But also, and what I did not foresee being an issue, nobody (adult) in your house has to listen to you, has to observe your quirky  24 hours a day, as necessary.

 

People get tired of you. People need a break. People need to retract their attention for you and focus on themselves, their children, their parents, their friends, their successful marriages (which is my least favorite excuse.) But the person who lives with you as your partner/spouse is available and legally bound to listen to your verbal unravelings as necessary. Susan Sarandon said in a movie once that people get married because they want to have a witness to their lives, and to be a witness to someone else's. She should have gone on to say that one of the plusses to that is sharing a home with someone who will watch you lose your sh*t, and say "it's really not that big a deal" or "we'll figure it out" when you're done.

That's what you get, folks, for making whoopee

Can somebody please give me a hand while I step up on my soapbox for a minute?

 

Yesterday I posted on Facebook the article about Plan B being available for people without age restriction or parental consent*, and spent time in a respectful difference of opinion with someone who does not share my views on most political issues, but whose opinion I respect and enjoy debating. Part of that exchange was how we dealt with sharing information with our parents in our youth, which made me reflect on the reality that in a few years, my oldest son is going to start thinking about sex. Constantly, if the statistics are true.

Cause You Were All Yellow

Thursday I got into my car to go to work a little bit on time. C-c-c-curly hair (my The Way We Were people know this), baubles, frilly shirt, sandals...I remembered my cell phone. I even remembered to drop a couple clementines in my bag. When I get down my driveway and rounded the corner on to the street, I got my cell phone out of my bag and put it on my lap. In doing so, I felt the phone touch my skin, and I looked down to observe that I had left my house with no bottoms on. I did not have to walk out the front of my house, but my carport is not attached to my house, and garden homes do not boast tons of privacy.

 

Leaving your house for work with no pants on has GOT to be an SOS signal to anybody listening.

Yesterday Once More

Pema Chodron is my dawg. Sister has some good stuff. Pema, Anne Lamott and Glennon Melton are saving my ass on a daily basis.

I find myself with some serious writer's block these last two weeks. It is something that I need to trudge through, because the reason for the block is major anxiety. But the writing is what relieves the anxiety, most of the time. When I write it, well, and truly end an essay feeling like I have said what I feel in a way that impacts the feeling, I shake off the grip of the anxiety. I have not been able to do that.