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Boo and Hoo

I don’t believe I was anyone recognizable in a past life … but I’m fairly certain I have some serious romantic karma in the debit column that I’m carrying over into this life.  In fact, I must have been a tremendous jerk … it’s the only thing that makes any logical sense.  How else to explain that if I’m drawn to and attracted and fall for someone … which is infrequent … it invariably means they are unavailable.

Also, timing.
Mine is the worst.
If I had a dime for every time I’m convinced that a love-of-my-life person was passing in the subway car going in the opposite direction … or leaving someplace I was entering … or passing on the street/in a car/walking … I would have dozens of dimes.

I thought I was over all this … and I’m not.
A new disappointment added to the familiar disappointment with which I’m so familiar.



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I Keep Forgetting to Remember

Reminder:  Everyone is where/who/how they need to be right now.

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Sundays are my favorite.
I was born on a Sunday.
It’s the only day of the week when you’re supposed to relax … when it’s okay to just do whatever it is you wish, sans guilt.  Rather imbalanced if you ask me, six days when you’re supposed to work work work and just the one day to be lazy.

What’s lazy look like for me?
Doing whatever I wish in the moment.
I love the routines of a Sunday … the structure of the non-structure of it … ideally it involves a full pot of strong coffee, half&half, NYT, local rag paper, music I don’t seem to listen to any other day of the week, cooking something that smells delicious and will yield several meals, thinking.  “Daydreaming” … there’s even a judgmental connotation to that … and it’s something I do mostly all day every day, but Sunday is the only day it feels alright.  How silly.  How ridiculous.  It’s how I’m wired … it’s what I need to gestate creativity … I’m hurting no one … why on earth should that be shameful?

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Be the Best Damned Plumber

I wonder what would happen if we stopped lying to ourselves and our children.

We cannot be whatever we want. If you’re reading this and haven’t quite gotten around to being an Olympic gymnast or a a cowboy, it probably ain’t gonna happen.

We cannot have whatever we want if we work hard. Lottery of birth, luck, abilities, and a bunch of other things you cannot control or take credit for or blame have as much to do with fortune as anything else. Everyone thinks they work hard.

I think the best we can hope for is being our best self.
Do what lights you up, whether you get paid for it or not.
Create. Love. Be kind.

Be whatever it is you are.
That’s all that’s required of you.

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My Love Note to You

If I had a pot to piss in, I would gladly share that pot with you.

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Maybe it’s the breakfast wine talking, but I am feeling more content and … dare I say happy right now than I have in, perhaps ever?

Today marks the three-year anniversary that I moved into this rental house and last night was the very first time I took an evening shower without mysteriously igniting a sewer smell. It was the first time that the heating/AC unit has kicked on without the intermittent smell of sewer. That is 1,095 days and nights that I’ve lived with that … and the past year-and-a-half been living as a recluse … so that’s a lot of sewer smell. Oh, dear reader, how that has weighed on me … shame/defeat/powerlessness … that’s a pretty awful smell. Gone gone gone.

Since last December I’ve been on a path … and it’s feeling, well, wonderful.

It’s never just “the sewer smell” (although heaven knows that’s enough, really) … it’s the giant clog of shit that it represents … and how to make it stop.

I hope you’re able to identify … remedy … heal … and learn from your clogs.
We’re all of us circling the drain.


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What’s in the Bucket in Your Guestroom Closet?

Good news. Bad news.
The men doing manly pipe things left at about 6:30 last night, the contractor parting with a meaningful, “We’re turning your water on for the kitchen. You can use the kitchen sink and your washer. But you cannot use anything in the bathroom.” We stared at each other while thoughts remained unsaid. “I wish I were a dude right now” was the best I could muster.

I wanted to take a hot, soapy shower. I wanted to use a bathroom. I wanted to shower again and again. I wanted to dry my clean-as-fuck body on a soft, favorite towel and then pamper it with fine lavender lotion. I wanted to cover it with clean socks that were fuzzy and a robe with the softness of a hundred baby’s (clean) bottoms. Then, I wanted to crawl into fresh, crisp linens and feel the weight of several blankets and quilts.

In short, this fantasy could not occur in my own home on this evening. Of course, if I couldn’t have the basics of bathroom plumbing, then my landlord should front the bill at a five-star hotel. Heck, I would even compromise for 3.5 stars. But I couldn’t screw up enough chutzpah to call him … I knew how the conversation would go … he would brush off this request as the most unreasonable, indulgent, insane idea he’d ever heard. Did I not realize the thousands he was spending on fixing the plumbing and sewer lines? Was I not grateful enough for that? Was I really expecting him to provide more than the ability to run my AC/Heat without a sewer smell – which has been the dirty, shameful secret for the 2.5 years I’ve lived here?
I couldn’t call him.
Making that initial call about the bathroom, and tacking on a few more collected issues (garage door opener not working since Spring; main doors that didn’t fit properly) took all I had.
I had to coach myself through all my limiting beliefs … and there were many … and they were tangential.

I got online and drooled over the photos of the hotel rooms that Priceline whispered were less than half an hour away … I let my mind wander to imagine the bathrooms … with their hot water … their tiny soaps and conditioners … the toilet … oh sweet Jesus, the toilet. I named my price. Anything was too much … I am paying rent, dammit … but I was smelly, I was desperate, I was weary. William Shatner didn’t consider my offer very long before coming back with a “That is insulting. Of course I’m not going to sign off on this.” I fucking hate William Shatner.

I’d not eaten. I had an extremely important tele-course call from 8-9:30.
Resignedly, I microwaved the bit of leftover pot roast and ate it in a few bites from its Corning Ware dish.
I found a small bucket, cleaned it, took it into the bathroom and filled it with tears and urine.
I brushed my hair, washed up in the kitchen sink, brushed my teeth.

This morning, I moved the bucket into a closet.
I didn’t want it to bear witness to my shame.
The shame that I couldn’t stand up for myself.


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