Part 3 –Sunday, 11.29.15
Coming to a Conclusion
Up early. Coffee, then “The Price is Right.” I love to watch people get lucky. Next, Rachel Ray. I love cooking shows. This one’s all about new uses for Thanksgiving leftovers. Interesting. I have leftover pizza.
No leftover recipes on my list; I am making fresh, new food today. Pumpkin pie, garlic-mashed potatoes, cheesy-veggie and tuna brown rice casserole, whole-wheat veggie and tuna mac and cheese. Mini, portion-controlled meatloaves made with locally grown beef, gifted to me the other day by a customer for whom I did some label and ad-design work. I sample everything as I cook, rather than actually sitting down and having a meal, and most of the food will end up in my freezer, next to the gallons of chili I cooked over the last couple of weekends, and the twice-baked potatoes, and the baggies filled with slices of leftover semi-homemade pizza, and chicken and sausage that never made it to the grill. But having a freezer full of home-cooked food gives me an enormous sense of comfort and security and satisfaction, all things that are woefully lacking in my world these days.
At one point, I need to run out to the store for milk, an intentionally-planned inconvenience, designed for the explicit purpose of forcing me to leave the house. I refuse to spend 15 minutes getting “dressed up” for a 5-minute errand, so I go as I am, in my sweats, sans earrings. I really don’t like to do this; in my days at Walmart, I used to wonder at the people who seemingly did not own a mirror. But I’m just running to the local grocery store, and I manage to not run into anyone I know, mainly because I keep my gaze averted downward, focused on my milk mission.
Then my reward. I enter the house and am greeted, and overwhelming pleased, by the aromas that envelope me. The meatloaf, wow. The garlic, present in every dish! My kitchen is a mess, but my senses are satisfied. And I’m really wishing I had someone to cook for.
I put away the food, sampling bits and pieces, postponing my real meal. Why? Why? Why? I really can’t answer that question, and it comes up often on the weekends. During the week, I’m fine. Focused. Structured. Whatever.
Up early again. (Sleep is difficult lately. More often than not, even during my strictly-structured weekdays, I find myself falling asleep on the couch unable to keep my eyes open, eventually moving to my bed where I am confoundedly unable to slip back into unconsciousness. After an hour or more of head-to-toe relaxation techniques, meditation, prayer, mindful mindlessness, I turn on the light and pick up a magazine, usually something I brought back from New Mexico. I make a conscious effort to transport myself to my fantasy-imagination-visualization state, never really getting sleepy, and acutely aware of the numbers on the clock. Sleep comes, eventually, but it never stays for long. On the weekdays, the alarm is the dictator. On the weekends, it is my restless mind.)
Day #2 of rain and wind, cold and gray. This suits my mood, but probably not my psyche. Coffee and network TV to the rescue. (Don’t forget, I do not have cable.) First up, “The Dog Whisperer.” Three or four or five episodes in a row. Then “Save Our Shelter.” Animals, animals, animals. Bittersweet. Wants versus needs, desires versus reality and practicality.
Brown rice veggie cheese casserole for breakfast. Conglomerate TV goes into dumb mode (infomercials, mostly), so I tune my tuner to the Public Television channels. First up is “On the Couch” with Dr. Daniel G. Amen. Brain health. Depression. Anxiety. Panic. Self-defeating behavior. I can truly wrap my head around these concepts! I want to buy his program. $20.00 a month for 2 years, the money goes to public television. I am SO tempted, but I can’t afford it, I can’t justify it. And it reminds me of the $75.00 I spent over a year ago on a music CD set, music I no longer listen to; and the $75.00 I spent over a year ago on a vaporizer/e-cig that I rarely use. And the $150.00 I spent over a year ago (via public television) on a Bob Ross painting kit, that sits in a box, as yet unused but which will certainly move with me when I finally find myself in a place where I want to paint. The music CDs will be listened to. The vaporizer will be used. Some day.
For the rest of the day, between various odd-job-projects, I watch hours of a show I’ve never seen before: “Scrapbook Soup.” Again, I feel inspired and motivated, previous passions rekindled. Again, I can’t figure out how to make it happen now, make it happen here. I need a studio, or at least a room with heat. I need supplies. And why in the hell start a project I cannot finish? So many questions, so few answers, so many excuses.
Later still, I catch an episode of “Rookie Blue.” Ironically it is about putting off your dreams until the time is right. It’s a sad, but enlightening story.
I fall asleep on the couch, with three cats on my lap. Ah, that feels familiar. And bittersweet.
Well, for all intents and purposes, the weekend is over. It’s early Sunday, and I am, thus far, spending it as I do every Sunday: up early for my feel-good dose of CBS Sunday Morning. There are always stories about art and artists, music and musicians, actors and writers and photographers. Stories about people who inspire me, who motivate me to want to live my best life, find my passion.
Afterwards, there are two hours of DIY TV. I cannot put many of the things I learn into practical practice, not right now anyway, but maybe someday the information will be useful and I do love to learn new things. During the commercials, I usually cook my meals for the upcoming week, but I took care of that on Friday.
It’s only now going on noon. I’ve already cleaned the house and made yet another intentional I-ran-out-and-need-to-go-the-store-in-my-sweats-but-at-least-I’m-leaving-the-house shopping excursion (for cat food).
A Sunday ahead of mixed emotions, empty space and empty time. I have such a strong desire to connect, but no one to whom I wish to connect, a semi-self-imposed conundrum of which I am acutely and painfully aware. I haven’t told you of the visitor at my back door the other day, and I will not, because it simply serves to add more to my fray of disarray. Nothing positive can come from the encounter, and if I tell the story, I will have to go into the darkness. The visitor that needs to arrive – my holiday wish-granter/potential house-buyer, Gary – has not (yet?) made an appearance or a call or a connection.
At the end of the day, at the end of the weekend, I have no answers. Well, I guess I do.
I am depressed. I am not happy. I am unsatisfied. Dissatisfied. Waiting. I am depressed. I am prone to depression. I know it. I’ve been here before. And I’ve dug my way out. And I will again. At the same time, in the meantime, I abhor self-pity. And pity, in general.
I really don’t feel like writing anymore, now or ever. What’s the point? You, my readers might be reading this because it’s like watching a train wreck. Awful as it is, you can’t help but look, right?
I’m toying with the idea of a pre-emptive New Year’s resolution: stop writing until I have something good to say. Something good to share. Just as I feel inspired and motivated by these TV shows, these actors, these doctors, these artists, I want to inspire and motivate. And participate. Until then, maybe I should just sit still and be quiet. Maybe even sleep.
Guess what’s on TV? A movie about a teenage who rescues an animal shelter.