Last night at 11:00 they started jackhammering in the street below us.
This morning at 6:00 car horns were already honking.
Sounds of the city, not even sifted through trees, permeate the apartment through the open windows.
And with every heavy truck that rumbles past, I smile.
My carry-on just got searched. I was all tingly expecting them to go to the bag of sex toys and hold up the nipple clamps.
Apparently my liquids and gels half-filled a gallon zip bag. Apparently I’m only supposed to use a quart sized bag. They let it slide because I’m polite and friendly and I have awesome hair.
Also, the security worker smiled when she asked me if there was anything sharp and pointy in the bag and I said, “No, Ma’am.”
I changed my door hanging today. This morning it was a metal basket of pansies. Now it is a grapevine wreath with orange and yellow leaves and berries.
Because Miles gave me flak when we walked outdoors this morning saying, “Momma, it’s not summer anymore. You have to change the door. You have to.”
I’ve spent today seeing my last clients for a week and doing laundry. Tonight I pack myself up for New York. I pack the boys’ bag to spend the weekend with their father who arrives tomorrow afternoon and will stay until Sunday morning.
Oh, and Daniel called at 2 PM to inform me that he could only get a reservation for Thursday night at the Holiday Inn. Not Friday. Not Saturday. Is there anything I could do to help him?
Right, like offer my apartment for him to stay in when I’m out of town. It’d be one thing if I was in town and he had to crash on the futon and he had nowhere else to go and he took total responsibility for the boys and didn’t leave them with me so he could go out with friends.
But that’s not what happened in the past. And I’m NOT in town this weekend. So how can he really think I’d be okay with him in my space with my private things and full access to whatever he wanted?
Best part is: He called the hotel today. He’s had his plane tickets for at least two weeks. BEST part is that his wife is the marketing manager for a five-star hotel.
Can I fall on the floor laughing/screaming now?
Hot damn, I’m in a good mood now. My client just emailed me to tell me about the lifting of the liquid and gel ban from airplanes. Thank dog. My toothpaste can come with. I’m bottling everything in trial sizes, though, just in case.
Yay for not having to check a bag. Yay for not having to spend one extra minute in LaGuardia, which gives me a headache. Yay for liquid-ish presents which will be delivered in person rather than by mail. Yay for bringing my own lube.
Not that it’ll make going through security any easier, because I will have sex toys and various apparati and apparently I still can’t bring coffee on board, but at least now I know.
I must be going out of town. I got my hair cut today and my waxing appointment is tomorrow. I may sneak in a pedi, too.
Update: I did get a pedi, and my toes are gorgeous. I also had my girl wax my underarms, which I normally don’t do because last time she did them they broke out and I had raw, red underarms for like, four days. Yeah, so guess what happened. I’m so effing stupid.
It’s just getting longer: The To-Do List. I’m looking at the sheet of paper divided into three parts: What to pack, what to buy, what to do. All before I leave in five days while also cleaning my house, keeping up with laundry, packing the boys’ bag for the time I’m gone, not to mention seeing the clients I’ve got scheduled and a few more who will call Monday and Tuesday, I’m sure.
Of course I’m procrastinating. Of course I will also need to make arrangements for transportation to and from the airport. Shit, I just remembered about that. Sucks to live in a place where that is such a big deal. Stupid farmland.
I’m excited about the visit, but anxious about the scheduling. I want to spend time with everyone and I know that someone will be left feeling shafted. Not in the good way.
Last week, when Miles decided to test the sharpness of the scissors by poking them straight into my yoga ball, effectively shredding the thing, I took him with me to buy a new one.
“This costs $13.00. Do you know how many quarters that is?”
They are both into the quarters, thanks to the monstrous gumball machines poised at the entrance to every store we visit. Gumballs, and by extension quarters, are great motivators.
“How many quarters?”
“How many are in a dollar?”
“Four! 25, 50, 75, 1.00!”
“Four for one dollar. Thirteen dollars times four quarters. Let’s see. Ten times four is what?”
“Forty quarters in ten dollars. How many more dollars to thirteen?”
“What’s three times four?”
He counted on his fingers.
“So let’s add forty and twelve. That’s how many quarters this ball costs”
“Fifty-two quarters?! Do you have enough money?”
“This time I do, but I need you to respect other peoples’ things. If you break something it’s your responsibility, even if it was by accident.”
“I understand. I’d better save some more quarters.”
I’m sitting on the ball which we took turns pumping up two nights ago. It smells like goat cheese.
Stupid terrorist plots.
I wonder if I can survive five days without my face wash and moisturizer.
Cos I’m telling you now, there’s some fucked-up shit going down for it to be okay for me to travel with my knitting needles and scissors on a flight, but be forced to check my Aloe & Citrus face wash.
Seriously, you can even travel with up to 4 oz of “personal lubricant.” No cleanser, though. Must find a way to avoid Baggage Claim at LaGuardia if it kills me.
Balls. Fucking balls.
(Actually, I’d better leave those at home, too.)
I’m totally scattered this week. Trying to get lots of work so my trip to NYC is as carefree as possible, trying to finish three knitting projects so I can start another yummy bag, looking online for the gorgeous yarn which will make said yummy bag, all while feebly attempting to catch up on blogging and writing for cash.
Uh huh. You’d think I’d just chain myself to the computer and write the damn stories. I want too much. And I think, “Just 10 more minutes of knitting and I can finish this section!” “I can pick up gifts for New Yorkers tomorrow.” “It’s really okay that my bed is covered with balls of yarn and stitch holders and knitting instructions because it is Fall and I am the organizer of the moms knitting group.”
We met today for the first time, me and another mother, at her house. It was built in 1845. It was incredibly messy. For some reason, I love seeing how messy other peoples’ homes are. I envy them the ability to not obsess about it. I always feel like my house is unbearably messy. It totally isn’t.
I think it’ll be fun next week, when we have a couple other moms (previous commitments today) join us. Then maybe I won’t end up talking so much about myself. I’ve determined to not reveal much personally at these things. Especially since I’m secretly dating Bendy Daddy, who is known to them all.
Of course, next week will be the day before I leave for NYC. Try keeping that kind of excitement under wraps. Maybe by then I’ll be closer to wrapping up Clapotis. Focus!
I don’t quit.
I am awfully stubborn in my determination to make things work. I come by this naturally, from my father. He will spend two weeks poking around the control panel of the dishwasher, forcing the family of eight to hand wash dishes until, finally, he finds the problem and fixes it. Or buys a new dishwasher. The man exhausts all possibilities before he throws in the towel.
I’m like that.
Sometimes it’s a good thing. I’m persistent in my work and my clients reap the benefits. I enjoy coming up with new ways to think about old problems. And when I make a commitment I will do everything it takes to honor it.
Sometimes it’s not such a good thing. I over-analyze. I exhaust myself thinking of ways to solve a problem, change a situation or make it work to my advantage, when I probably should walk away and forget about it.
It’s like my marriage: Counseling and homework and communication exercises and all that. I did them. I tried. I kept going. And I still felt horribly betrayed and hateful toward the person who wasn’t smart enough to realize that I will suffer nearly anything as long as it’s not a secret.
The problem wasn’t him, it was me. But I kept trying to get okay with being deceived and humiliated. Surely there must be a way to just let that go.
I let him go. I made him go.
The fact that he continues to deceive me and disappoint our children is a testament that I made the right decision.
Letting go of something or someone is hard for me because it is tantamount to admitting failure.
I do not fail.
I miss feeling secure with a partner. I miss believing in someone and trusting them with my life. I miss doing something particularly unpleasant and enjoying it, simply because I was not alone in my misery.
There are times when I am very alone.
And I do not want to admit failure.
So I keep going.