I joined the Y again on Monday. I hadn’t been in about 3 years; due to divorce and a lousy-paying job, I couldn’t afford it. I can now, though, and I desperately need the exercise. So, to the pool I went again.
Last time I swam regularly, I weighed about 20 pounds less than I do now. The laps this time are a little more difficult and I get winded pretty quickly, but on Tuesday, I swam 10 laps in the big pool. Today, I did 16. I could have done more but Isobel had an appointment at 7 and I don’t want to push too hard right now. I don’t want to burn out and I don’t want to hurt myself.
With the assistance of the handy-dandy calculator provided by my computer, I figured out that 16 laps is 800 yards. So, 35 laps is a mile. I’d like to do this at least four times a week. More, if I can squeeze it in.
I love swimming. I love how I don’t forget how to do it. Sure, it hurt on Tuesday but today, my arms and legs are just a little noodly. Tuesday they were screaming in pain.
When I swam three years ago, I went during the day. It was great. There were usually a couple of older men there, swimming with far more vigor than I’ve ever had, but it was quiet and I could zone out, watching the ceiling beams glide by and listening to the water slosh in my ears. This time, though, I go at 4:30 and there’s a swim team that meets there and only two open lanes. The swim team director is loud. The kids, who appear to be in high school, are loud. And then they all get out of the pool and do some sort of exercises on the pool deck. Don’t ask me what – I wear glasses and can’t see a thing without them – but today it involved tossing weighted balls at each other. I think. It was something orange, anyway. And the coach is yelling instructions the entire time. And the kids. Well, they’re all long and lean and don’t have an ounce of flab on them anywhere. I was starting to get self-conscious, but then I did that thing I used to do when I was little: if I don’t have my glasses on, then I can’t see them and they can’t see me.
I do think I’m going to buy some goggles and some earplugs, though. And hair ties. I forgot one today. My hair is down to the middle of my back and it makes swimming rather challenging when you keep getting hanks of hair wrapped around your arms.
I didn’t have to race for that final spaceship off the planet after all. There’s no jockeying for places to sit when you’re the only one left. But still, given the state of what was left of the planet, I figured a hustle was appropriate.
So, hustle I did, across the blasted landscape that smoked and blazed like something out of a Jerry Bruckheimer film. My brain was kind of numb from the chaos but I remembered, vaguely, where the docking bay had been before the whole place went ker-flooey. I stumbled over twisted metal and charred bits of things that didn’t bear investigating and finally found one remaining spaceship. I inspected it and to the best of my spaceship-knowing abilities it seemed to be sky-worthy.
Scrambling aboard, I pulled at levers and jabbed at buttons, hoping I wouldn’t blow myself up in the process, but the engine roared reassuringly to life. I raced back and forth on the flight deck, making sure the things that were supposed to be beeping were and that lights that weren’t supposed to be flashing weren’t. On one of my mad dashes, I came to a sudden halt at the sight of a pair of dusty black boots that were attached to a pair of skinny legs. I bent down cautiously, one hand reaching for a handy, nearby wrench. I peered under the console and was met by a pair of dark eyes. Unfortunately, those eyes were on the other end of a gun. The eyes, and the gun, unfolded to reveal a rather attractive, if rather filthy, young woman.
“I thought I was the only one left on this dump,” I said, laying down the wrench carefully.
She just motioned with the gun, so I moved. I find that’s usually the best option in cases like this.
“Do you know how to run this thing?” I tried again but all I got was an eye-roll and a snort.
She started manipulating the controls with a much surer hand than mine, so I let her have at it, leaning against the wall, trying to look nonchalant.
She gave a final twiddle to something and spun around in her chair to face me.
“Sit,” she ordered. So I did. Gun and all, y’know.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Not a clue. Just away from here,” was my response.
She sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I need a partner. You seem to be not particularly stupid. Shall we give it a shot?” she finally asked.
“Sounds good to me.” Given that my planet had pretty much just disintegrated, I wasn’t in a position to be too picky about my next means of employment.
As the ship took off, we shook on it.
Neither of us seemed to be the talkative type, which boded well for our future relationship. However, we couldn’t help but pause and stare at the hollow where the earth used to be.
Shaking myself out of my reverie, I said “C’mon, Slick. There’s plenty of sky left for us out there.”
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Mediocre Wayne challenged me with “For the world is hollow and I have touched the sky” and I challenged Melissa R with “Get off the penguin. It’s time to go home.”
Is this what friendships are like now? No one calls just to chat. People make plans and then don’t follow thru. People let you down, repeatedly. Is this what friendships are supposed to be like? Am I just supposed to get used to this?
Maybe they just morph into this as we get older. I don’t need to talk to all of my friends every single day but it’s nice to actually talk to people on the phone sometimes, y’know? Or just go out for a coffee. But now, it’s always a horde of us getting together and there’s no opportunity to really talk, have a good conversation about what’s going on in our lives. It’s so rare. When it does happen, it’s like a little gift but it happens so infrequently that it leaves me wondering if my friends are truly my friends or if they’re just people I hang out with on Friday nights. It’s much more difficult to have a conversation with someone when there are ten other people in the room and it’s leaving me feeling kind of isolated and lonely.
I thought I had plans with a friend of mine to the Thomas Dolby show together – when the tickets went on sale, I asked if he wanted to go with me and he said yes, so I bought two tickets. I saw him at a party last night and asked if he was looking forward to the show and what time should we meet and I got this blank look. He said he’d gotten tickets himself, for him and his wife.
I’m just so tired of feeling like my friends don’t have any consideration for me at all, like they say they’ll do something with me and then they just forget about me. I rarely get included in plans; I pretty much have to invite myself and I hate doing that.
I’d like to be able to wall myself off from feelings. They suck. And hurt. And I’m so sick of crying over people who don’t seem to give two shits about me.
I know that I feel things a lot, maybe more than other people. I can’t just stop that, though. I can’t shut it off. And I don’t want to stop seeing my friends, I just want to stop being disappointed by them. Is it me? I’m really at a loss here. People have shit going on in their lives – I get that. Boy, do I get that. But isn’t that the whole point of being friends with someone? That you can talk about it, discuss what’s going on, be a shoulder, an ear, whatever. I have problems up to my eyeballs. I don’t need them fixed – I can do that myself, eventually – but it would be nice to know that I could talk to my friends about these things and that they could talk to me about whatever’s going on with them, too. I’m not good at arm-length friendships. Those aren’t real friendships, they’re just people you know. I want more than that.
I tap my way down the hall. I can tell this place is fancy – the thick carpet deadens the sound of my heels on the floor and there’s a subtle, expensive scent in the air. My white cane glides easily over the rug and makes a heavy, satisfying thunk each time I touch the walls. The concierge at the desk, concerned that I’d get lost, I’m sure, offered to walk me to the party I’m attending. Even though I’m usually quite confident and well used to this dark world I live in, I accepted his offer. Something about this space has unnerved me slightly. I have my hand thru his arm and he’s blissfully not a chatty man. I do enjoy silence.
“Here you are, miss,” he says, stopping.
I thank him and enter the foyer of the suite. Off in the other room, I can hear the sound of voices laughing and chatting, glasses with ice cubes clinking brightly, a woman’s gasp and mock-anger as she chastises someone. The sounds that fabrics make are so distinct. The gentle sluice that signifies silk, the crinkle of taffeta, the almost complete silence of cashmere; this place is definitely not my normal milieu, although I was assured by my friend Kerri, as she helped me dress this evening, that I looked, in her words, “like a princess.”
My nostrils flare a bit as a someone walks by. Maybe a server, carrying a plate of something. Something with bacon. My stomach lets out a most unlady-like growl and I giggle, hoping no one else can hear me. But then, most people don’t have my hearing. I wait in the foyer for a few more minutes, getting a feel for the room, listening as people’s voices move to and fro, wanting to enter inconspicuously, without accidentally knocking into someone, or worse, spilling a tray of drinks.
Suddenly, I hear the distant tinkle of someone playing piano. Stardust. I smile, knowing that means Kevin is here after all, and walk into the room.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kat challenged me with “You are in a room full of people and you are the only blind person there. Describe the room and the people in your mind.” and I challenged Cedar with “You are the last one in the office, about to leave for the night, when the lights go out. What happens next? “
I was contacted yesterday about doing some promotions on this blog. Paid promotions, which is always a bonus. So I’m going to do them. I know my readership has gone straight down the toilet, but even so, I will try to start a separate page on the blog to keep the promotional stuff separate from my regular writing, such as it it.
I’m kind of excited that someone reached out to make me this offer. In all the years I’ve been blogging, I’ve never had anyone pitch me anything.
I work from 12 to 8 on Wednesdays, which means I work from home that day. This morning, I slept in a bit, since the kids were at my mother’s. I took O to the grocery store because we needed a few things, including vinegar. As I reached for the jug of vinegar, I knocked a huge jar of cherry juice onto the floor. It smashed into a mess. It looked like I’d killed someone in aisle 13.
I came home and started working but these children I have do demand to be fed somewhat regularly, and since O had cleaned the entire kitchen for me, I decided to make one of her favourite dishes – mac & cheese with crab & bacon.
After I finished slicing the bacon into small pieces (lardons, if you want to be wanky about it), I, for some reason, set my knife blade side up on the cutting board and promptly slice open my finger. I’ve got my hand wrapped in a paper towel to staunch the blood and I’m stirring the bacon with my left hand while yelling for someone to get me a band aid.
I stop the bleeding after a few minutes. The nice thing about keeping my knives really sharp is that when I do slice myself open, it’s a nice, clean cut. Bleeds like a son of a bitch, but it’s clean.
The bacon finished, I decided to be thrifty and save the bacon grease. I already had a jar in the fridge, so I opened it and started spooning the grease into the jar. Fortunately, I had some sense and put the jar on the jellyroll pan because after a few large spoons full of grease, the jar exploded and hot bacon grease went all over my left hand.
I’m not going near anything else tonight. God knows what I’ll do to it. Probably blow it up.
I’ve been struggling a lot lately, with a lot of things.
I had my hours cut at work. I’m only working 32 hours a week, which is the same things as a 20% pay cut. It helps in that I can now pick up the girls after school but I’m worried about what it’s going to do to my finances. It’s also fucking with my head. I went from getting a promotion in December to being demoted in February. But, according to my boss, this has nothing to do with my job performance. Why the demotion, then? The company I work for is pretty good about talking to you about any job issues, so maybe she’s telling me the truth. I know we’re having financial troubles but if I was given the pay cut because of finances, I wish they’d told me that. I’m feeling very vulnerable right now and like I’m somehow not living up to others expectations of me.
At home, things aren’t much better. My apartment is constantly trashed. The girls make huge messes and half-assedly clean them up. I’m inundated with papers from the school, every day. The dog sheds like a motherfucker and the cats aren’t any better. I can’t seem to get my shit together to get things organized. For example, I bought a microwave cart. I started to put it together but I can’t figure it out, so it’s in pieces in my kitchen. I paid about $200 for the thing – I don’t want to just scrap it, but I’m embarrassed to ask for help putting it together. I’m more embarrassed to have someone come into my apartment and see the mess. I feel like I’m being suffocated by clutter.
I don’t know if this is depression doing this or if this is just me, just the way I am these days. I’ve never been Suzey Homemaker, but I was always able to keep things tidy. Now, I feel like everything is getting the best of me and it’s making me feel guilty. I have zero motivation to get anything done and even less energy.
I’m sick of the inside of my head, basically. It’s a shitty place to be these days.
I’ve been taking Cymbalta for a couple of years now. When I was going thru the break up with Mark, it helped immensely to pull me out of the horrible depression I was in at the time. I’ve been pretty religious about taking it because I know if I don’t, I want to scoop my brains out with a rusty spoon and that’s just messy.
Lately, though, I’ve felt so much better. I started taking vitamins B & D as well as a fish oil supplement. I’ve pretty much eliminated processed food from my diet and I don’t eat white food – no bread, pasta, potatoes, rice, that sort of thing. And it’s helped. A lot. To the point that I was considering asking my doctor if I could step down to a lower dose of medication, since I’m starting to feel muffled and somewhat zombie-ish.
But last Thursday and Friday, I forgot to take my medication. I took it on Saturday and Sunday but then forgot again on Monday and Tuesday and man, I feel like shit. I just want to go home and crawl into bed and cry, but of course, I can’t. I have things like work and kids to deal with and that doesn’t allow for the luxury of just falling apart.
How I want to, though. Just take a day or two to just wallow in it. I hate getting like that but sometimes, I feel like I need it. Actually, what it really makes me feel like doing is running away. Anywhere, by myself, for a couple of days, to just be. Be alone, somewhere in a city, where I can wander around with no kids, no computer, no work, no nothing to do and just decompress.
I think this may be something I need to start scheduling for myself. Not often, because I can’t really afford it, but once in a while, just escape to a city somewhere and explore it, on my own. It might help me get out of my own head for a while. It might make this go away. Even if it’s only temporary, it would be something to look forward to, something to hang on to when the dog rears its ugly head again.
The gravel kicked up in waves behind her as Diamond swerved her ancient, blue pick-up truck down the unpaved road. Her iced-coffee threatened to tip over in its cardboard holder, so she grabbed it with one hand while her other one spun the wheel. The dust swirled thru the windows and floated in the air as she came to an abrupt stop by the river. She held the sweating plastic cup to her forehead in a vain attempt to cool her face. She wasn’t sure what was making her more hot, the fight with her mama or this insufferable Georgia summer.
She jumped out of the cab of the truck and stomped over to the river. She skipped some rocks and kicked some others, her worn cowboy boots making divots in the dirt. She swatted at a horsefly and cursed under her breath.
“Just who does she think she is?” she muttered. “She can’t tell me who I can and cannot see. And she’s a one to talk, always yammering to that God-awful Lurlene. That woman would sell out her own mama if it meant she could get some whiskey and cigarettes.” Diamond waved her arms as she went further and further down stream. Her anger cooled as she walked.
The grass along the river was higher here, where the water bended into an oxbow. She bent and removed her boots, setting them on a rock, and waded into the water. It was cooler, but not by much. She shucked off her dress, tossed it on the shore and dove under.
She felt the water flowing over her scalp and she scrubbed her head roughly. All the riding she did meant she kept her hair short so her helmet fit better. It was only when she dove into water that she felt the urge to let it grow long, so it could float behind her. Breaking the surface, she floated on her back, eyes closed against the sun. She drifted in the water, the faint current moving her gently, half-dozing in the heat.
Suddenly, faintly, she heard a guitar being played. Dropping her feet and shading her eyes, she saw a man sitting on the rock where she’d tossed her dress earlier, strumming and singing softly. She swam closer to listen. Bird on a Wire. Willie Nelson. Lovely, she thought, treading water, smiling.
The man played another song, then just got up and left. Diamond frowned for a moment but at least this would let her get out of the water with some dignity.
Reaching the shore, she leaned back against the warm rock. The sun played across her freckled nose – she knew her mama would give her hell for that, too. “A lady doesn’t have freckles, Diamond,” her mother said to her, nearly ever day. As if her mother would know a lady from an inch worm. Roughly yanking her dress back over her head, Diamond was irritated all over again with her mother. She blew a stray lock of hair from her face as she turned for her boots. She nearly tripped over…what was that? A gold-fish bowl?
Completely puzzled, Diamond picked it up. Yes. It was a gold-fish bowl. With a gold-fish in it. Tightly sealed in plastic wrap, with meticulous holes punched in the top. Whoever had left it certainly was considerate, but who abandons a gold-fish?
That’s when she noticed the note. In blue ink, in block letters, it read “Meet me here at midnight. It’s been too long. xoxo James.”
“James,” she sighed. And then she raced back to her truck, clutching the gold-fish bowl.
I don’t have a real desk at work. I have a work surface. Since I work for a place that’s big into reusing stuff, this means I’ve been scrounging for a couple of drawers since I started here back in August. I was going to use the file cabinets but then they put a sink in and used those as a base. I was going to take Steve’s desk when he left, but now he’s not leaving. So I’m back to scrounging. Today, I talked to the owner and while I was talking, this came into my head. Just a glimpse into the workings of my odd little brain.
All I want is a drawer somewhere
Far away from the pries and stares
So my crap isn’t everywhere
Oh, wouldn’t that be loverly?
Room for the chocolate I shouldn’t eat
Room for the stuff I don’t need to see
Clean desk, tidy space, how neat
Oh, wouldn’t that be loverly?
Oh, so loverly, my desk abso-bloomin’-lutely clean
I would never lose a thing til
Someone left papers on my desk again
All I want is a drawer somewhere
Far away from the pries and stares
So my crap isn’t everywhere
Oh, wouldn’t that be loverly?
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