sometimes you feel like a nut

things i did today:

- made some pumpkin soup with prepared pumkin pie mix- a mistake, but it turned out surprisingly OK
- bought some yummy 100% cotton yarn to make a summer sweater and if my camera battery charger were not missing, I'd take a pict. for you
- took one piece of chocolate to my nieces and nephew and told them the recipent would have to be the one who gave the biggest hug. i split it three ways
- scheduled a full day spa day for my bestest friend and me
- became a little thankful for a full day

in which i wax

melancholy. It's the new black for me. It's my skinny jeans. I like melancholy because I wear it well. It goes with everything I've got. It's a year rounder.

What I don't like it how things like a few seconds of a song can bring me just a smidge past melancholy into- let's call it- a trench. Oscar Wilde said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." I like his take, his not-to-put-too-fine-a-point-on-it. I know he wasn't exact. Some people are nowhere near the gutter and some haven't seen a star in years. Still, it sits well with me. At least... it did.

I pulled myself from the eternal and metaphysical gutter, but sometimes things like the light in a photograph can remind you of circumstances, words, star gazing. It's OK. I prefer the melancholy side anyway. I get suspicious of happy people, like really they just cry through the night so as to be so happy in my presence. Crying isn't something I do often and I'm not doing it now. This all is really about a song and how I wanted to listen to it, but after three seconds I had to turn it off- the images and words were just swimming too fast and I needed to slow them down if not stop them. And that my dears stinks, that other people can own something that you used to share or that was given to you. I want my melancholy songs without the tinge of extra melancholy.

in which i actually write a post

I skipped two major events in my posting this February. I'm making up for that now.

Most people don't like February. They think of it as a month that drags on in the middle of winter full of crankiness and visible breath. I've always loved February because it holds my birthday. February to me is like a jewel, like the best month every invented. It's different, spicy, unconventional with its 28 days and sometimes an extra. I like a month with spunk and I like February.

This particular one brought on my 30th year which means I was born in 1977 when disco was dying and Madonna was not yet the rage. I don't hold much to age in years and what the societal conventions say about them. But, the things that bother me about age are the things I can't stop, like time. I can't postpone the fact that at some point I will be past the age of having children and at 30 I still have no idea if I even want them. That is what bothers me about turning over a year. I'd just like time to hault and wait for me to get all pulled together, then let's start back up at 21, that was good year- and a good birthday.

The second February event, of course, occurred yesterday and I so gracefully floated over it because V-Day to me does not mean flowers and chocolate (If someone was here to give them to me I would not want them. Valentine's Day is lame-o and meant for middle American men who don't konw how to show love every other day of the year.). I've decided, through some events I haven't shared with you, that I want nothing to do with dating. Maybe it's because I'm so into this single life or because I think I've found the one I want yet my love is unrequited and I'd rather live in the moments I have with him then in the lifetime I could have with someone else because when I look in his eyes it's like every place I want to go and all the places I've never been.

her wet nose

My mother says there are rooms she can’t sit in, can’t linger too long in. The rooms must still somehow hold the shape of her body; carry the muffled shuffle of her paws. The kitchen is one of these rooms and now I think of my mother existing only in the hallways of the house, the den and her bedroom.

I miss her too even though the rooms I live in never held her. I know I’ll feel the emptiness when I return this weekend like the house has lost of a bit of its soul. It was going to be the weekend I was going to say goodbye to her, but her age couldn’t hold her. I’ll miss her soft ears, how she’d bend her head toward the side I was rubbing. And her wet nose, though I tried, sometimes in vane, to avoid it.

a sort of eulogy

It isn’t something I can talk about easily. I loved (love!) her very much. I raised her, taught her to sit, stay, come, heel and “be quick.” She’s too old now, can barely walk. The vet says we’ve been lucky to have a lab last 16 years. I think we were lucky to have her a day.

I can’t write this without crying. She’s alone right now, in a sterile place and tomorrow she will be gone. I want to be with her so badly it hurts. I want to hold her paw while she drifts off to a peaceful, painless place, but I can’t and it’s not fair to her to keep her alive until I can.

The decision is mine to keep her ashes or let them go. I know that I want them, but it will be so strange that after 12 years of not living with me, she will live with me yet not. I’m not sure I could look at her urn everyday. Where would I put it? And how could I explain to her ashes that I forgot to say goodbye at Christmas? That I there was just too much to pack and too many people to say goodbye to and that she was in the kitchen still, lying down probably, her arthritis joints too painful to move her to the door, her hearing too faint know I was leaving.

I can’t say goodbye to the old dog I’ve love so much that I spent hours with treats in my hand making sure she understood my words, cuddled next to her at night and slipped covers over her in winter, forgave and cursed her with every trashcan she disheveled, screamed at and searched for her for hours when she would “wonder,” bathed and taught her to “shake” to dry herself and petted and petted and petted.

I loved that dog. I love you Megan.

how do you say, “i’m looking at what i want”?

It’s a line from one of my favorite chicklit movies, Sabrina, and it is the most succinct way to summarize what the last month has been. I found what I wanted, in two places, in two very different ways, stared at them both, and let them slip through my hands. The first was a house.

It’s not hard for me to become obsessed- preoccupied with a thing- and a house is quite a lot of a thing to ponder over. I found the house on a drive by probably in early November, but it was more of a passing wish than anything. Then a friend had me stop and pick up a flyer on another drive by in late December and the lusting began. I got a realtor, researched mortgages, and got real with my finances and the debt I’d be placing myself in. It was a bit of a reality check.

I sought advice from everyone who’s been through the ordeal of buying a home and I listened, really listened, thinking that this was the one time in my life where Anna’s inner dialogue and preseveration should cease. I was told to look around, find out what I really wanted, and know what else was out there.

I became glued to the quick search application of a real estate website, drove around neighborhoods, virtually and actually toured other houses, but my mind was all the time painting, reorganizing, re-plumbing, and moving into the first house that started it all. The drive bys became purposeful and almost daily. I began doing Internet and in store pricing on washer/dyers, dishwashers, even wainscoting. Everything in my mind was already boxed up and I was a homeowner… except, I hadn’t actually done anything about it.

I cannot blame anyone but myself, my own fantastical thinking that the perfect one would up and come running to me, knocking down every barrier I put up and I would succumb because destiny meant for us to be together. And such was the subconscious thinking going on in my head. I just thought that first house, that first love of mine, would wait for me, would be patient while I got my commitment phobia under control, while I followed everyone’s advice and figured out what I really wanted. I just thought that house would wait for me.

It didn’t. It’s under contract and I’m under a cloud, have been for a week now. I have to slowly repack all my belongings in my mind and move from a house I barely got settled into. And the stove, oh the stove- it was 1950’s era gas and WONDERFUL. I would have bought the house just for the stove, and I said as much.

But, I’m learning now that when you feel something in your gut, when you feel pulled to something indescribably, you need to know how to listen to your self and to say with confidence and stamina to everyone else, “I’m looking at what I want.”