Left

I’ve made many a left turn in life. Right was there, but left looked more fun, or “interesting”. Sometimes I am fairly sure I’ve seen that tree before. I’ve definitely seen that sign. Yep, I did a loop; I’m back where I started.
I could lament my loops, but I’ve been reminded the same thing happens if you only turn right. I hold hope meandering my own route has taught me more than following the one set out for me.

And damn, if you’re going to make a mistake, you may as well make it a good one.

 

Helpful kitchen hint: when making croutons it’s best to remember you’re making croutons.

Advertisements

And You Were Fired Because:

A running list of “advice” I won’t be following.

• No swim suit? Just go swimming au natural (in the outdoor,not so private, condo pool).
• “My name is Bitch.”
• Working at an elementary school (where at some point, I’m sure I’d smack a parent).
• “Shenanigans” while on the clock.
• Informing the confused about the “zombie apocalypse outside.”

 

Too Much For One Button

Eureka! I believe I’ve stumbled upon what my client likes to eat. Awesome! What does it entail? Rich sauces cascaded over a beds of starchy goodness, ie “Italian” food (the Americanized version of which noodles, oil or butter, and cheese are the foundation on which these plates are built *drool*), seafood of most any variety (I too have yet to meet a fish I didn’t like), and chocolate. All of which, naturally, are *DELICIOUS*! It thrills me to finally see him clear his plate, AND ask for seconds. Thus far it has been my pleasure to share and indulge in my kitchen capers.
Then it happened. Today, I was assisting him, leaned forward, and my pants broke. The button bailed from it’s seemly secure home, and the both of us watched it sail to the floor.
Coincidence, perhaps. They were not the best fit to begin with.However, I can not take that chance. It’s becoming clear eight flights of stairs are not nearly enough. The dog and I must expand our afternoon route. I must find a swim suit and start swimming in the (not as stated) heated outdoor pool. I must endure the February, March, April … chill outside (and hope when the middle of July comes, that summer has indeed arrived, you know, on time). I must select a cardiologist.
The good news: asparagus is on the win list too.

Preposterous

Life is ponderingly preposterous and laughably logical, obstently obvious and masterfully mysterious. My brain may be brilliant, but is beautifully baffled. My heart hearty, and heavy. To another day, left in wonderland.

Heart Broken

Friday: Her cries were sharp, there was no subtly. She would not be ignored. She jerked, squealed, and pleaded me with me. Murmuring “I’m trying”, I attempted to soothe her. Instead she grew hot, and halted. I thought I had pacified her. I may have been too late. Things have been far from wonderful for some time. Unfortunately, time was against me, I had to carry on.

Evening came. We picked up the fight, nothing had changed. She continued, more fiercely this time. I knew this was not something I could attempt alone. Honestly, I was not even sure where to begin. As I left her that evening I promised “Just for tonight, I’ll be back in the morning”.

At first I delved into distractions, afraid to face the morning. Sleep would not come. I paced for some time before I even tried.  I told myself to lie down, only to toss, turn, and flop about. Battling the tears was futile. They ran hot against my cheek. I have always tried for her, as best I could, but now?

I could not help reflecting our time together. Recalling the day we met; I knew.  The many adventures we have had. How much freedom she has afforded me. How much we have survived. All the obstacles we have faced. How much I had put her through. How much I had pushed her. How much she has been there for me. How much I have put my wants and needs before her. How much I have failed her, even if it was not my intent.

Saturday: I came for her as promised. A solution had been offered, but my heart told me it was not completely right. But there were things I needed to do. She waited patiently for me. I promised to find someone who could help. At the end of the day we slowly made our way down the interstate and headed home. She kept it together, I don’t know if it was for my sake or her own. Monday felt forever away.

Sunday: There was nothing we could do but wait, so I continued a path of diversions. I let her know my plan, but generally let her be. I struggled to sleep. Not knowing what was next, anxiety began to overthrow me.

Monday: I started the day early, despite my lack of sleep. I had a promise to keep. I pulled on some clothing I found about the floor, wrestled my hair into submission. I was too focused on her to truly care about my appearance. The grey January sky matched my mood. Bundling up to face the chill, I took a deep breath. “It’s time Love.”

We didn’t fight, but I could hear her muffled cries. We pulled in. I spoke to the woman at the desk, gave her all the information I could. This is not what I wanted, but what I have to do. The waiting game begins again.

I heard nothing more.

Tuesday: I tried my best to be patient. I had spent the night wrestling the sheets. Because I knew, I had known for some time. I did not want to hear what I knew was coming. Anxiety filled me, my limbs felt weak. Another cup of coffee. Another cigarette. I could do nothing more than pace in anticipation.

I could not take anymore. I had to know something, anything. I had to make the call.

“I was about to call you” she paused “I hate to tell you this…” As this woman spoke, I felt myself turn cold.  She was giving me a list, telling me the reasons. All the things I already knew, all the things I wanted to deny. All the things hope had me holding on for. “I’m sorry.” She finished. Mumbling I replied “I understand. Thank you.” There was nothing left to do. They could try, but it was a gamble, not worth the risk.

So, I brought her home. I didn’t cry like I thought I would, I simply sat with her awhile. No words, no sounds, just peace. I know I have put her through plenty, I could not ask her more. My heart broke.

Sarah and I had 3 ½ years together: approximately 140,000 miles (of 257,xxx), four sets of tires, 2 oil pans, a water pump, 3 sets of spark plugs, 2 sets of wires , 3 stereo systems, who knows how many hoses, a botched air flow system with numerous repairs and variations, interval oil changes, and thousands of dollars in gasoline. Together we drove on road trips to nowhere, daily commutes, voyages along the I5 corridor, to meet with friends, family, and played taxi. We fared through 5 failed relationships, gallons of tears, days of laughter, music and sing-a-longs (on and off key), times of triumph and failure. She was my safe haven, my home as I trekked from place to place, my spaceship, my escape, the keeper of my sanity and suitcase.

She is proof that of what I am willing to invest in to trying to maintain, as best I know how or could afford, a tragic relationship. I do not know just yet of her final fate. It’s strange. I may have cried more tears for her, about her, with her, yelled and screamed more, maybe even fought for, more than I believe I have for any man. But I guess that is what happens when you love. You don’t think about it, you just, do. And I fell hard for my Sarah, a 95 Volkswagen Passat.

257000