I guess I am still trying to forgive myself

It’s 1990. I live in the tiny back room at my Grandpa’s for the time being. The room that you could get to by climbing up the back servant’s hallway off the kitchen. The room with the electric organ that I used to mess around with when I was a little kid, before things got so serious.

Being such a giant house, man- that room was cold! I’m reunited with my family after abandoning them that night to take solace with the Travers. Sometime’s I think I’ll never forgive myself for that. Inviting another family into our personal business. I’ll never forget Lauri’s mom giving my mom a hug in the Traver kitchen, and it had an unfortunate stink of pity to it. My mom is stronger than anyone I know, and she didn’t need anyone’s pity. Even moreso a testament to her strength was the fact she just let it go. I put her in that position and she responded gracefully, as always.

I’ve got a lame ass boom box on which I listen to the Cure or Depeche Mode. I cry sometimes. Sometimes I go to the mall instead—for God’s sake, I’m only 16. Sometimes before bed, I lean against the wall heater- one of those big grates you only see in an old house like that. It warms my back and I think it all might just be a great adventure for a minute. Didn’t I always want to live at Grandpa’s after all?

Just a mini for Jane

Last night was terrible. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find my inhaler. I ripped my place up, and I mean everywhere. I was at the point where I was dipping my hand a half foot down into the couch cushions. Ran out to my car at 2:30 am –ish. No luck. So I finally went with green is the aura color of the lungs. Visualization. And I laid back down in my bed next to Keith. Just relax and see it. No crying- that’s not helping. I tried to focus on something to make me happy—this man makes you happy, Caryn. And I lay there, gasping for breath, but more gently as I watched him sleep, and my lungs settled down. And all of a sudden he asks me, “Where is your inhaler?” Here’s me, “I don’t know, I’ve looked everywhere.” Then he says, “No… HERE is your inhaler- it was under my pillow.”

life seemed to be a fault of grace

Ever wonder if a morning bad attitude sets off a whole world of hurt? Mornings when Keith’s here, we barely talk. I guess it’s just our routine. Both our cell phones are set to go off at 6:20am. We both hit that initial snooze, and then he gets up at 6:25. I usually hit one more snooze and halfway doze/worry about whatever work related issue has played the starring role as far as keeping me up all night off and on. I head out with the dogs right at the same time he is heading to his truck, and we share a sweet goodbye kiss and a “Have a good day” or “I love you”, and he always looks adorable in his baseball hat, which he only wears to work.

Today I came out to the living room, and I was like, “Really, guys? REALLY?” Five empty beer cans in front of where Paul was sitting, four in front of Keith. Yes, I retired immediately following the Super Bowl, and left a sinkful of dishes, but I hauled a slew of beer cans out to the kitchen and disposed of them before I went to bed, and this morning I was just disgusted. I didn’t expect a visit from the dish fairy as I slept, but I would have been appreciative of just some beer can disposal. For Pete’s sake, we’re 35- could it possibly be time to grow up, just a little? This whole diatribe went down only in my head, of course. Which I imagine is for the best. Anyone for whom I’m willing to buy and prepare Walleye must mean a great deal to me, seeing as I hate seafood. And everyone has a bad morning, especially on a Monday after the Superbowl, right?

Dishes are done and I am about to finish the surface clean and wrap up the last of the beer cans. All’s well that ends well. And it must be love that I bought walleye for him, seeing as I hate fish.

Charlotte sometimes

Christ- I miss my best friend.

I have this odd feeling that everything’s about to change, and I’m not sure why.

So back when I was with Scott, I used to get so pissed off about the whole Mary Pat in our faces all the time gig. I mean, you probably wouldn’t have been able to tell I felt that way; I even kind of liked her on some level, but there are a couple times where I can recall being pretty disenchanted with her existence. I can remember being curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine one afternoon, and old MP barging into the house unannounced, behind Sean. Can’t really call that out, right? I mean, seeing as Sean was her child and whatnot, and she was there to help him with a school project. Don’t get me wrong, though—I’m no pushover. Scott and I had a very loud discussion about it later that evening. If you guessed I was the louder one of the two of us, you’d be right. I can be a bitch as much as the next girl.

Anyhow, I don’t know what it is about tonight… I had a great time with everyone at S & S earlier. I’m just in a funk. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. But the thing that really sucks is that I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. Keith does a fantastic job of being a best friend to me. But he’s at the Bandits game, and as good as he does, he will never be Ria. And I haven’t had any Ria time in a while. Maybe it’s just getting older. I guess everyone loses touch, at least for a minute, right?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6P5NNK3vGU

I hope this doesn't sound superficial, but even if it does, it really isn't

I got the most beautiful new coat yesterday. A dark, charcoal gray wool number—almost like a pea coat in style. I was out shopping for boots with my mom, wearing my tan suede ¾ length that reeks of stale cigarette smoke and is dotted with numerous petty stains. I mean, nothing major/offensive stain-wise. It wasn’t like my chocolate brown suede that I spilled chicken grease all over almost 4 years ago, shortly after Sammy was born when I made the two roast chickens and the spinach manicotti and twice baked potatoes for Geoff and Kat so they wouldn’t have to worry about what was for dinner for a couple days. I guess the foil pan didn’t hold out so perfectly as I was transporting the chickens up the driveway and through their kitchen, although I didn’t notice at the time. I looked at my coat the next day and was like, “Wha’appen??” Now that was a serious stain, and that jacket was retired immediately. And when I say retired, I mean retired. I still have it—it’s hanging in my living room closet, just waiting for the day when Mr. Clean invents a magic eraser that combats chicken grease on suede. So my present, still-in-circulation, tan suede… … while my lackadaisical spirit perceives it as a charming, beatnik-esque garment, the reality is it makes me look like a bit of a slob. This was evidenced by my mom’s palpable excitement at all the fabulous winter coat sales at Eastern Hills mall. It was adorable and fun at the same time. She was all, “Try this one on” and “Ohhh, how about this one? Hmm… I don’t know if I like the buttons” and “How do your arms feel when you go like this?”

So yesterday, I got a new coat. And I absolutely love it. It may sound lame and superficial if you don’t know where I’m coming from (in addition to clichéd), but I felt like a million bucks today. The coat had something to do with that. Or maybe because I knew my mom was happy I had a nice, new coat.