Tigger the Dog knew nothing of chipmunks until about six months into her stay here in Nashville. They started teasing her just outside her perch in the Good Room window. They’d run back and forth doing chipmunk things and she’d go mental trying to get at them. As soon as we’d open the door to let her out, she’d take off and head right to the place they’d last been, determined to give them the what what. Then she'd madly follow the trail of smells in a zig-zag all over the yard ending at some hole where, baffled, she’d wait and watch for them to emerge, totally unaware they had come out a hole on the other end and were now behind her pointing and laughing. As time went on, she stopped chasing. It got too hot and she couldn’t be bothered. It made her sad they didn’t want to play with her so she literally took her ball and went elsewhere. The chipmunks got braver. Or the chipmunks got stupider. One of those things, and the suckers started zipping out in front of her napping in the sun. Or as we opened the door, waiting to the last minute and only running if TTD saw them. Two years of this game of chipmunk tag and TTD has never once not been "It." Until last week. This guy made the mistake of waiting till she saw him before he ran, not knowing I’d shoved a stick in the hole in front of the air-conditioner that he was obviously counting on escaping through. TTD caught him as he went in. Totally surprised at finally getting one, she dropped him and then started to panic. She picked him up to play with him like she plays with her babies and chipmunk was as limp and uncooperative and very, very dead. When I took chipmunk away in a glamorously plastic bag, TTD was crushed. She couldn’t figure out what happened. She kept looping from her perch on the steps to the hole, checking it out from every angle and then franticly checking out all other holes in the vicinity. Not one chipmunk to be found. But she kept checking and waiting and looking and pacing and Chewbacca whining and still nothing. Every time we’ve let her outside since wining the game of tag, she’s gone right to the hole and then, after a suitable amount of investigation... I'm pretty sure this is indicative of every female after a failed relationship: revisiting the trauma day after day expecting new results. Okay, maybe not 'every female', maybe just me. If I examine my past relationships with men - heck, my relationships with people in general - I'm 100% sure I'm doing the same loop as TTD is with her chipmunk: I examine the trauma from every angle, wait for them to change, whine endlessly about how it all went wrong and still end up with the same result: a dead relationship. I've even stuck my nose in places I shouldn't, trying to get answers to questions that have none. Or at least, answers I won't like. And then I sit and wait. And wait. And wait but the results will be the same: a dead rodent. And the look on my face is as pitiful as the look TTD has on her face here. And, just like TTD, I will forget the drama of the chase, push away the trauma of the death and go out there again, hunting magical chipmunk relationships, ever hopeful. When will we ever learn?
0 Comments
I’ve been feeling a little lost of late. Unsure of who “I” am, of where stand in the world, of where I’m supposed to go. Husband has kindly stated that I’m in an intermission, waiting for my next act to start. It’s soothing statement in a way but not entirely helpful. I usually know where to go. I usually know what to do after an intermission. Here, I have no clue. And, since I have no clue, I have no solution. And since I have no solution, I’m spiraling.
Which is why today I am wearing an orange shirt. You see, at one point in my life, you could tell who I was by how I dressed. My ego, my confidence, my self was in my style. If I were having a day where things were fuzzy and dark, my clothing would settle me, define me. Not that I’m a clothes person, just that what I had, what I wore was like a uniform. When I put them on, there I was. These days, I’m apparently old t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans. I’m confused and lazy and blah. Hence the bright orange shirt. Now, I hate shopping and I am totally not fond of the body I currently have but desperate times call for desperate measures. And apparently desperate measures means shopping for hours, trying on clothes I would never look at before and having absolutely lovely and necessary therapy day with my friend. For the first time, I understand why women shop. And somehow, an orange shirt became the answer to the question of who “I” am. Is it the answer? I don’t know. The orange is absolutely f-ing terrifying. But I’m wearing the damn shirt anyway. Let us see if that changes my story. And how. ONE: I went to the Ortho doc for a check of my water-on-the-knee situation that I gave myself six months ago by slamming the side of my knee into the coffee table. They gave me eight pages of forms to fill our and check and sign. It seems like on every other form, I had the opportunity to check off boxes with what is wrong with me or what was wrong with time or what was wrong with my family. I was very honest. I checked the ‘depression’ box every time. I also check ‘former smoker’ because for a very short period of time in my twentyish year, I bought a pack of cigarettes and spent some time in New York bars pretending I was cool and edgy and didn’t mind getting smoke in my eye and pretending my ashtray mouth was a sexy choice. When I got my marching papers, there was nothing on there about the many times I’d checked ‘depression’ but they sure didn’t miss that one freaking ‘former smoker box’! It's in there TWICE! Not to be glib but this is why people can fly planes into mountains and shoot up people for the heck of it. Because of this type of focus on the stupid insignificant details and not the very big, very obvious picture. TWO:
We have yet to fix the ‘prison bathroom’ in our basement. A few months ago, I cleaned it up, filled the tank and realized that the real estate company had slapped the “Do not use. Winterized” sign across the seat because the tank was cracked. We haven’t replaced it because we HAVE to replace the floor and the sink and do something about the prison shower and the cinderblock walls. It’s very “If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk.” And we don’t have time for those cookies right now so the tank is empty and the bathroom is used to wash paintbrushes and fill plants. But no one told the HVAC guys who were in the house installing the new units for the studio. And the first guy who used the toilet didn’t tell the other guys - OR US - that he’d used the toilet and it wasn’t working. And the second guy only told Husband because Husband caught him coming out of the bathroom. ICK! THREE: For our tenth anniversary, Husband promised me three things, one of which was a trip to Hawaii. He can't remember the other two things and I didn't get a trip to Hawaii. “Yet!” he says. This is after he tells me he's already taken me there twice. I say that a one-night layover in Hawaii on the way to the Philippines does not count. Neither does the three-day layover on the way back. That was a recovery trip from our stay in the Philippines with its lovely people and bomb searches and different foods and very scary driving. That does not count as a “Congrats! You made it through ten years of marriage with me…” trip. Because of the various life things we have going on, I knew that the trip to Hawaii wouldn’t happen. “Yet!” And I knew, despite his many promises and declarations throughout the years, I wouldn’t likely get gift number two or three. I thought I’d get a “Soon.” Or a, “Someday, I promise I will…” like I’d gotten for the first ten years. I didn’t think he’d forget all together. I’ve not been angry about the missing two things. I’ve been teasing him about it, the forgetting. His guesses about what they could be have been hysterical and not even close. He keeps begging me to tell him but I won’t. I’m female. I feel it won’t be as special if I have to tell him about it. Till then, I’m happy to tease and guilt and giggle at the wrong answers. AND THEN Monday, we did a long drive to our friend’s house in Spring Hill, TN for lunch. Spring Hill is about an hour away but because it was a beautiful day and he’s that kind of guy, Husband did the wander route down so it took us longer. I’ve been to our friend’s house several times. Husband has been there once. A year ago. When he was following our friends to their home from the restaurant 30 miles away in the dark. AND YET HE REMEMBERED THE WAY THERE WITHOUT MY HELP! Why? Why can he remember a route he drove ONCE a year ago and not remember something silly he promised me all the time for years and years??? His penis must be with directions like a divining rod is with water. I sure as hell know it doesn’t have ears or this post would be babbles about something else. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
Categories
All
|