songs i get stuck in my head all the time

"For My Broken Heart," by Reba McEntire. Anytime I carry a box, I get that song stuck in my head. I carried a lot of boxes this weekend. With no angry words at all. And the sun didn't blind me as it broke me from the night, but Reba wailed the hell out of that song as one by one I put those boxes in my car.


"Bad Touch," by Bloodhound Gang. It all started when I realized I'd have to buy a mop and bucket...


"Meet Virginia," I mean "Drops of Jupiter," by Train. Something about the lines, "Did you fall for a shooting star, one without a permanent scar..." because I am clumsy and I gesture a lot and sometimes when I'm waving my hands around I forget that I am holding a boxcutter. Ouch.

something about being rewarded for hard work or something.

inertia/momentum

I stood in the living room and yelled about how if I didn't get out right now, I could lose my momentum. It made him stop and squint at me and cock his head to the side and ask me what I meant by that, but I was flinging my hands around and pacing and trying to outrun the knot in my stomach.

I lived with that knot for years. I put it there.

If I just kept moving, I thought I might keep from being crushed.

Turns out it doesn't work that way. Nothing is as bad as you think it might be. Sometimes, it's worse.

Even "worse" is better than the dread, though. You know?

And that was years ago. Years and years. We're both okay now, I think. I know I am. I hope he is too, somewhere on the planet. But it's none of my business anymore, and I'm all right with that.

Saturday afternoon, I sat on the porch swing for a while by myself. I looked out across the lawn I mowed so many times. I thought about the tulips Jess and I planted a couple of years ago. Pink and black. We planted hyacinths too. I transplanted some irises and lilies and Jess put in mini hostas over by the sidewalk. We planted morning glories to climb the trees. I planted columbine seeds, but they never amounted to much. Same for my nasturtiums.

I wondered if I should leave a note for the new occupant. "Front flower bed contains tulip and hyacinth bulbs. Also lilies. Please be careful when digging. Skinny little long-legged cat who comes around, his name is Apples, but the neighbors renamed him Boots. He is violent, but he means well. Please be careful when petting him. Feel free to remove the raised beds in the back yard. Just please don't tell me you did so. Please take care of the floors in this house. I recommend mopping with Murphy's oil soap once a week, sweeping as often as necessary and cleaning up spills immediately. Please call me with any questions -- " the note was neverending, so I never wrote it down. The new occupant will figure it out just like we did.

Inside the house, the floors were gleaming. The rooms were empty, just like the day we moved in.

I guess on the day you move out, you can't help but think about the day you moved in.

It felt familiar, that excited hopeful anticipation. But it was different. I wasn't smoking, for one thing, sitting on the porch swing looking out across the lawn on Saturday afternoon.

That's still a little weird for me sometimes, the not smoking. It's a good weird, though. And I quit almost a year ago. Eventually, maybe, I'll get used to it.

Moving in, years ago, I was hopeful and excited, but I was also angry. Bitter. I walked around in a rage-cloud for weeks. Months, maybe. I saw red, red, red, everywhere I looked.

Canta Lok en el obscura region desolada
y hay vapores de sangre en el canto de Lok.

Mists of blood.

But I digress.

Moving out is better than moving in. I will miss the house. I loved that house. I loved living in it. It offered a sanctuary, a refuge, when Jess and I needed one. And now we are done being refugees. We have found our footing and we are ready to move on with the rest of our lives, separately. Finally.

I thanked the landlord. He thanked me. Then he forked over my deposit and we went our separate ways.

And I am happy now, moving forward.

goodbye, house.

Last look. November 1, 2009.

the Berenstain Bears fucked up apples for me, forever.

I don't even remember which book it was.

See, I love apples. Especially Braeburns and Jonathans. Tart, crisp and delicious, I'll eat them cooked or raw, baked in pies and tarts and cobblers, by themselves, chopped up in tuna salad -- apples are delicious.

I have a bag of Jonathan apples sitting on my desk right now, actually. For sharing.

But you know what you'll never see? Me biting right into an apple. When I want an apple, I take it down to the kitchen, quarter it and cut out the core. THEN I eat it.

You know why? Because of a Berenstain Bears book I read when I was a kid. One of the old bears was teaching one of the young bears a lesson, something like you can't judge people based on appearances or some hogwash like that, and to demonstrate, the old granny bear cut open a perfectly good looking apple. It had a worm inside. A green cartoon wiggly worm.

How she knew the worm would be in that apple, I still don't know. How did she KNOW? It plagues me.

From that day forward, I regarded apples with suspicion. To this day, actually. True, I have never found a worm in an apple, and I've eaten a lot of apples. But I keep thinking the SECOND I let my guard down, it's gonna happen. So I cut them open every time.

Also, to this day? I resent the hell out of the Berenstain Bears. Who are ugly. You can't trust ugly bears. Or people.

general optimism

Sometimes it's not so bad having a dead mom. Like when you're texting your boyfriend filthy things, you never have to worry that you're going to accidentally send it to your mom. You know?

Thanks, cancer!

lucky

My life is a pretty easy one.


I have a good job working for a company I admire. I work with good people. We have a good time and we take pretty good care of each other.


I have good friends who make me laugh and call me on my bullshit and let me take care of them a little and help me when I need it.


I have a boyfriend I really, really like. And he likes me too! Crazy.


I'm healthy. I run. I eat a lot of fruit and I get enough sleep and I've run a 5k or two in my time -- the Tulsa Run is coming up, and I'll be running that one. You should come out. I'll also be moving that weekend, so you should definitely come help with that! Just kidding. I think we've got it under control, the whole moving thing.


But it's a nice little life, this life of mine.


When you're as lucky as I am and your life is as easy as mine, sometimes you have to look around and find something to do to help.


When someone puts a delicious meal in front of you and tells you rollicking stories while keeping your wine glass full, it makes sense to offer to help wash the dishes. You know?


So I am excited to have an opportunity to give something back. I'm looking forward to working with a local hospice, volunteering to hang out with some older folks who might not have the same luck I've had. Maybe I'll get a look at my future. Maybe I'll just paint some fingernails.


I'm excited about it. I'm looking forward to putting some good energy back out into the universe. This universe has been really good to me. It's about time I thanked it properly.


Let's see how this goes!

my phone takes pictures.

A woman broke down crying after meditation class last night. Big loud sobs. The instructor was coming around, giving hugs.

She asked me the first time if I'd allow it. I was surprised. I had my back to her, picking up my stuff, getting ready to leave, not really paying attention as she went around hugging everyone. She got to me and said, "Kate? Do you hug?" I straightened up and blinked.

"Yeah, I do hugs."

And we hugged and I laughed and she laughed and I thought the whole thing was pretty sweet.

Last night, I wrote down the address for the next class. Now I have to decide between ballroom dancing and meditation, Thursday nights. Or try to do both. Both on the same night?

We all waited for the woman to stop crying. The instructor hugged her, patting her back. People murmured soothing things.

I don't know what set her to her crying. But we were in a church. There are worse places to break down. You know?

Wasps are trying to colonize the house. I've tried to explain, gently, that our landlord has already found a new renter. The wasps keep showing up, buzzing softly, knocking into light fixtures. I think they are looking for a warm place to spend the winter. A safe place. I don't know how to tell them to keep looking. They don't listen anyway.

Illustrations. My orchid is still hanging in there. Two blooms left, and three fallen comrades lined up on the windowsill. I'm not the sort to save flowers. I don't keep much sentimental crap around in general. Normally, I just accidentally keep ticket stubs -- oh. Look at this. It's been riding around in the outside pocket of my backpack ever since I got back. And it's already back.

I never said I wasn't sentimental. Just that I don't keep a lot of sentimental crap around.

What else we got in here? The poster on my boss's wall. Our pranks are important to us, round these parts.

Ivan is an aggressively affectionate cat. His giant gorilla-face is frequently the last thing you see before there's cat hair in your nose and claws caught in your hair and, well. Ivan Himself. Purring in your face because he has conquered you. Do my toes look fat in that picture?

The cabinet above my desk is my mini-pantry. It's much healthier than the snack cabinet down in the kitchen. If you're ever downtown and starving and can get past security, I'll share my snacks with you.

I'm just kidding. We don't really have "security."

I like board games. Also, I was showing Mr. Bretz what his board game options will be when he comes to Tulsa to visit me.

Hear that? When he comes to Tulsa to visit me?

Oh, and the book. So I'm interested in having a GOOD relationship. Even if it takes a self-help book or two. I'll let you know how it turns out.

tea towels

I don't know if my mom made these. I found them when Jess and I cleaned out the garage.

We dealt with the last of Mom's things.

Finally, right?

I'm dealing with these by washing them, folding them and putting them in a kitchen drawer.

I traced the stitches with my fingers. I stared at them like I could read them. My mom sewed a lot, see, more than she wrote. Her handwriting is instantly recognizable to me, so why shouldn't there be a tell in her stitches?

Maybe I just don't know how to read embroidery.

I'll keep the tea towels anyway.

They're useful.