Testing My Limits
I am cold. Two layers of socks and slippers and sweats. Sometimes even, for a time, gloves. Inside my house (!).
I turn on the space heater in the living room. (The only source of heat, other than the bedroom, but I’m not quite yet ready for bed.)
I turn on the TV (distraction).
I turn on the computer (productivity).
I turn on the toaster oven (food, warmth.) [The “real” oven is on its own breaker (but only half-operational), so... / why / but / can... I really, possibly justify heating an entire, giant oven for one tiny little pizza?!] (Or maybe I could justify it to heat one-third of my winter house…?) (Or maybe I could be thankful to have a house, and I am.)
I preheat the bathroom (before I pee or take a shower). [BTW, I need to take care not to directly touch the metal power switch to protect myself from an electrical shock.]
I wonder – always – when my circuits (“circuits”) will short out on the overload?
* * *
Now you know everything. Well, almost, anyway.
I am purged. And open and willing and ready.
I am able (?) (Yes, I am, damn it!).
Able and willing and ready. For my New Year. For my New Me.
And I wish the same for you.
Happy New Year!
The 12 C’s of Christmas
A day after my horseback-riding Christmas date – a day spent experiencing a place that is picture-perfect to what I had so long ago (or for so long have) envisioned for myself here in Missouri – I find myself transfixed on the television…while it tells me a story about New Mexico. Earthships, land, art, music, animals and even large bodies of water.
And I know, yet again, without a doubt, where I belong. I don’t know why the entire world doesn’t live there, but I’m glad they don’t. And I am glad that New Mexico wants me, calls to me, and seems to be waiting for me.
The 12 C’s of Christmas
A different kind of countdown
Completion is Coming
Wednesday, 12.24.15 (Christmas Eve)
On The Precipice
What if I started a count down?
What if I stared a count up?
And then, I wonder
and at what number does
or in what order will
or should I make
the count begin?
I am not ready yet to fill in the blanks.
Wednesday, 12.23.15 (Christmas Eve-Eve)
Boarding the (re-)Train to Normal
Normal, Illinois is where I always put gas in my car on my way to Wisconsin, my family-home. That’s where the first Citgo station is located and where my gas gauge always approaches empty. I have a Citgo gas credit card.
I also have a credit card for Normal Me. That’s my Life credit card. I maxed it out quite awhile ago, but I have been making minimum (maximum actually, plus interest!) payments on it, for years now.
I think, I hope, I pray, that it is now paid in full.
I am re-training Me, returning to Normal Me.
In the way I do dishes, the way I bathe, the way I spend, the way I interact with the world (people) around me. The way I deal with an invader or a helper or a giver or a taker or a poser, be it a cricket, a cockroach, a mouse, or a snake or any variety of each and/or all. The way I love, the way I trust, the way I maintain faith and grasp (with both hands and feet!) onto optimism. The way I treat myself. The way I believe in me (and others) and life and love and hope.
I am training – re-training – Myself. Every minute, every morning, every day. Every night when I cannot sleep.
I just today paid off my Citgo credit card, leaving me plenty of credit available for the next road trip, to my heart-home, though I prefer to pay cash from here on out. To live fully. To live now and in the moment. Credit is postponement. Cash is real. Cash is now. My present and my present.
I am ready to board the Christmas Miracle Train – right now and into the beyond – to a very special New Year.
Merry Christmas to one and all!
p.s. None of this particular missive should be misconstrued as, or mixed up with, or otherwise entwined within, my earlier post which alluded to a train-wreck metaphor. But it certainly could be viewed in contrast to.
Hmmm....another blog subject...? Four days ahead; you’ll probably hear from me again. Tell me you can’t wait.
O only, over, or onto
I probably should have written about
my challenge to wash dishes,
but what can I say?
This was way more fun.
The Bath, Part 2
I am truly wondering when a simple act like bathing became a dreaded EVENT, something I have to actually plan for and, even, sometimes make excuses for. (“No, I’m sorry I cannot accept your offer of a date tonight; I need to wash my hair.”)
A heat-challenged bathroom. Spongy flooring. Mal-functioning door (I locked myself out, while the heat and the water were already running, and ultimately requiring a freaking crowbar -- seriously!). Forty minutes later…dull razors, neglected too-long body hair, everywhere. (Who cares?!) Plus my head-hair, now stripped of a month’s worth of hair product, and which hair will surely not cooperate for another 60 days because that’s what it (and I) am used to. Tomorrow and Monday and the next week: bad hair days ahead.
And I forgot to lather on my in-shower lotion, which is so much more effective (and easier) than my after-shower lotion. Flaky-skin days ahead of me, when I put on my (for-now necessary) control-top pantyhose that will be worn underneath my new $90.00 wardrobe in which I indulged today because nothing fits anymore and I’m sick of my wardrobe anyway. And I really needed an indulgence.
And, maybe I’m going on another date.
Before I leave.
Step Away From the Keyboard! Do Not Make Me Shoot!
Someone needs to tell me that they want me to keep on telling stories. Or I can just write in my volumes-upon-volumes of private journals.
I promised, promised, promised myself (and you? Do you want to hear from me?) I would not blog. I am not blogging. I am simply writing. I need to get it off my chest, off my plate, out of my head, give it to the universe. I may post, I may not. We will see.
This weekend is the one-year anniversary of my (first annual?!) moving sale. Facebook told me so (thanks FB so much for the reminder!), not that I wasn’t already acutely aware, especially since I’m wondering when the second (annual?!) one will take place.
November 22 was the one-year anniversary of the day I met Scott. More on that later.
December 23 is the one-year anniversary of the day I faxed my paperwork to my mortgage company in the hopes of working out a deed-in-lieu-of-foreclosure (DIL). On that very same day, I put my house up for sale.
December 30 is the one-year anniversary of the day Michael, the Detroit asshole, rocked my world by calling off our “arrangement.” The only thing about that which matters is the fact that it motivated me to take the necessary and difficult steps to make myself mobile once my house would sell(!).
So…exactly one year after meeting Scott, who came to my rescue after a-hole Michael rocked me to my timbers (but, thank you anyway, jerk-face), I found out that Scott was sabotaging my plans to leave. Besides several other infractions of trust, he stole my cell phone, deleted my contacts, and lied about all of it while I was in the midst of having a nervous breakdown, wondering if I had lost my mind along with my phone. It cost me $100 and I am still somewhat convinced that he was the perp who put the sugar in my gas tank ($125), though he will not admit it because he knows that then I would have to kill him.
But what-the-f-ever. Really. I am done with men. Unless that man happens to be an OTR truck driver with a farm-full of animals that I will take care of while he is on the road. He will be allowed to come home one weekend per month (perhaps for a week with good behavior); I will feed him and love on him, go horseback riding with him and let him make repairs to the house and the fences. Then I will take his paycheck and send him back on the road. Does that sound harsh? Do I care? Can I care?
Anyway……………back to the present, which is where I really am trying to stay. For the sake of my sanity. The past sucks. The future seems impossible. The present is barely manageable, but at least the word “manageable” exists in that sentence.
This past Monday, I had the sixteenth (at the very least) phone “meeting” with my mortgage company (over the past year) to ascertain the status of my DIL application. I could go on and on and on and on and on and on and on. The bottom line makes my head swim in numbers. After a freaking year of these useless phone calls, they are now telling me that in order to even initiate the DIL process, I am REQUIRED TO DEFAULT ON MY LOAN. The situation is additionally complicated by the fact that I am a recipient of the HAMP (Home Affordable Mortgage Program – part of Obama’s response to the mortgage crisis, which I did, indeed, greatly benefit from financially in a long-term-picture sort of way, and which puts me in a much better situation as a seller, but it doesn’t help the fact that property values where I live are still in the tank).
So…….....….in order to initiate the DIL application (they’ve known this for 11.5 months and are just now telling me), I need to be 60 days late on my mortgage payments. BUT, in order not to screw myself out of the HAMP requirements/benefits, which are ongoing for another year (maybe two, depending on which “agent [!]” I talk to), I cannot be more than 90 days late on my payments. On top of that (!), if I go 120 days late, my property goes into foreclosure.
And that’s all still assuming they deem my property “valuable” for their efforts. They’re in Florida (that’s what their phone number tells me. Their accents tell another story. Whatever.) Think they’ll get an assessment done in 39 days? Doubt it. Think they will deem my property valuable enough? Guaranteed not. So, go ahead, you do the math.
I should trust them to do their job, with a 29-day window? I don’t think so. I’m done. No options with my mortgage company (which is, by-the-by, not an actual bank, but “investors”; I am not racist at all, but they all have Middle-Eastern accents, which makes a really difficult transaction all the more frustrating when you factor in the language/accent barrier.)
Meanwhile………………...I am barely hanging on to my job. And Gary C. (my house-buying angel-cowboy) is nowhere in sight (it’s the holidays, after all. Really? I hadn’t noticed.) My soul, my heart, and my will are shriveling.
I went to see a shrink. I told my story for two hours and then her husband called and then she said we were out of time. That’s when I started to cry. Kind of an open-ended…what?
Then I met Mark. He has land. And animals (!) including horses and donkeys. And at least one – maybe two – college degrees. In art! And psychology! And he’s a musician! Oh, and he lives five miles away and he thinks I’m pretty!
I really need a word with God. Or – which I would prefer – God will have a word with me.
Shattered yet again
the shards of my wishes
lie scattered on the floor.
Pieces of my kaleidoscope
dull and lifeless
without their mirror
without their turning mechanism
without the light that gives them life.
Sharp edges cut me, make me bleed
while I gather them carefully into my hands.
I have fashioned them a container
a temporary home,
a holding place
or a hiding place.
Until I can find the mirror
until I can find the light
until I can find a way
to once again enjoy
the mesmerizing beauty
the always-changing spectrum
the rainbow of wonder.
I will hold on to the pieces, the shards,
my wishes, my dreams.
I will hold on to my hope.
I will rebuild my kaleidoscope.
Sunday 12.06.15 – Part 2
I really want-to-need-to take a bath. So many reasons, so many considerations.
Is the breaker on? (I turned it off a year ago, I could tell you why, but that’s not what this is about.)
If the breaker is on, does the (bathroom only) heater still work? (I used it a year ago, I could tell you why, but that’s not what this is about.)
Will the bathroom floor hold the weight of a full tub of water? (A very serious consideration, I could tell you why, but that’s not what this is about.) I know with a semi-certain knowledge (as of a few days ago) that it might not even hold the weight of a shower full of water.
Precarious wonderment it is for a few minutes, ah, as I lie back, try to relax – and soak – before I realize that I need to focus on my task: cleanliness, not godliness. Not even happiness. Just cleanliness.
I dig the grime out from under my toe nails, soften them for clipping, something I cannot do in the shower. Then I consider the potential possibility of clogging the sewer.
I cut short my seriously-this-is-the-best-I-can-hope-for spa treatment. For the sake of my floor, for the sake of my sewer, forget about my toe nails.
While I dry myself off – after exactly six minutes in wonderland – I remember…I forgot to shave.
And I wonder if it matters. I think not.
And I wonder (I could tell you why, but that’s not what this is about, oh wait, yes it is!)
I wonder if anyone cares?