A.L.O.N.E. (again)

I am currently eating a really lovely dinner.  Penne pasta with a sauce of goat cheese, spinach, and garlic – on a bed of spinach and sprinkled with parmesan.  I have a glass of Coppola Director’s Cut carbernet, which is a nearly perfect complement to the food. 

I made the whole recipe (which I found online in a burst of inspiration to cook better meals for family), and I took one serving.  The rest is sitting on the counter.  My oldest child doesn’t live at home anymore, so I didn’t really expect her to show up.  The teenager left a few hours ago to go to someone’s house – I don’t know who he/she is; it hardly matters.  The preteen is also at a friend’s house and probably won’t bother coming home until later.  The husband has a rare night off, but since I didn’t do a celebratory dance when he came home (because I don’t give a shit, to be honest), he has locked himself in his bedroom (most likely with some sporting event, but when he’s feeling sorry for himself, he usually just sleeps).  So … here I am, again, eating dinner alone.  I don’t even know why I bother. 

Wait, I just reread what I wrote, and I think I have any answer to the “why do I bother” question.  Just because my husband doesn’t participate in my life anymore, and just because my children are happy, healthy people who hang out with their friends rather than their mom (obviously), their absence doesn’t mean I should enjoy my life any less.  It doesn’t mean I should eat shitty food or not create ambiance with French music and wine when I eat.  I usually even light a candle when I eat, especially if I’m alone.  Weird?  Maybe, but it makes me happy.  I have total control over my surroundings, I can read the newspaper uninterrupted, and I can write my blog. 

Would I rather have a group of people to talk to while I eat?  Absolutely.  Would I prefer to engage in raucous discussions about life occasionally? Well, yes!  But it seems I don’t have much of a choice.  I’m not going to force my children to keep me company; that’s not their job.  One of these days, when I don’t have to be so tied to this place, I’m going to show my children what it’s like to really live.  I can’t wait.   

Fuck Me

I woke up last week (Wednesday, to be specific), and I had aged 10 years overnight. 

I wish I was kidding.  I wish I was being overly melodramatic.  But I swear to god, allah, and the easter bunny  that I looked at myself in the mirror, and some shit went down while I was sleeping.

Medical Emergency #1 was my hands.  They were swollen so badly that when I made a fist, I couldn’t see my knuckles.  What the fuck?!  My hands looked all arthritic and fat and fucked up.  Immediately, I started thinking, “what did I do?!”  The day before, I replaced some bathtub sealant, so I thought maybe that was it.  Allergic reaction.  Or maybe a reaction to black mold (bathroom … who knows).  But every day since then, my hands have been fucked up.  So (of course) I web-diagnosed myself.  Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Just wait.  I know that I tend to be a little hypochondriac  (for good reason), but this shit is real.  I’ll get back online and tell you when I have an official diagnosis.  My hands are fucked up.  I haven’t been able to put a ring on my fingers once since that day. 

And my face.  Holy shit, man.  I look 100-years-old.  All these fucking wrinkles – deep motherfuckers – have sprung up in the most disadvantageous places.  All you have to do is look at my eyes, the window of the soul, to see how fucked up I am.  They are bright red, puffy, and black.  I look like I’ve been on a three-day bender which culminated in a fist fight.  Pale, fleshy, and confused.  That’s how I look. 

I should probably just put myself out of my misery.  Age spots, fat, memory loss, angst … can a girl get a break?!  This is some bullshit.  I want a refund or a reset or something.  No amount of concealer can hide this bitch which is old age.  

The Book Thief

Fucking Wordsmiths.

I am reading The Book Thief.  I have read a lot of books.  That last sentence is quite understated, because I am a book junky.  It is a hobby of mine.   I happen to have two degrees, a minor, and a graduate certificate related to reading books (not bragging, just to set the stage here), and I have never read a better book than The Book Thief.  I may be sometimes prone to exaggeration, but this is not one of those times.  Markus Zusak has crafted a masterpiece.

It’s different and compelling and artistic and funny and sad and innovative and extraordinary and insightful and different.  And I keep making myself NOT read it, because I don’t want it to end.  I hold on to the little nuggets like a starving child and just inspect them and consider them and try to remember them so I can sometime, anytime, EVER do something so impactful and important. 

Most people who impress me do so with honesty (because it’s so rare), but I think Zusak did it with creativity.  He presented a very familiar subject to me, but he fixed it in a formulated phrase – formulated it, sprawling on a pin, wriggling on the wall – (to steal from T.S. Eliot).   I can’t believe how much the book took me hostage and made me want to read it, but not want to read it too fast.  I want to savor every single morsel.  Slowly.  With enthusiasm.  

My jealousy eats me alive, while my gratitude overwhelms.  Markus Zusak has stunned me.

  Thank you, sir.

The Book Thief

I'm not done with it yet, but I'm just going to say that The Book Thief is really fucking good.

Death is the narrator?!  This is book I've been waiting for.  Death is definitely the narrator in my life.  (That's not as weird as it sounds.)  The book is weird and short-attention-span and truncated and brutal.  I like it.

It makes me a little bit mad that I can't do something creative like Markus Zusak.  Typical.  I'm ordinary, experiencing something extra-ordinary.

At least there are people alive who can make that kind of magic, because I don't seem to be one of them.

I've also learned a bunch of new, exciting words (after I made fun of my son for taking German):  Here they are:

• sau:  pig (you know, like sausage)
• saumensch:  pig woman (like a stupid, worthless, fat bitch - even if none of those things are true)
• saukerl:  see above - but for men
• arschloch:  asshole

I am going to do my very best to drag these terms into the common English vernacular, as (especially high school students) love to insult people in weird ways. I'm going to make it happen.

In the meantime ... read the book.