On Romance

To be honest, I have rebellious thoughts regarding my relationship.

I fantasize about secretly purchasing one of the gorgeous, low maintenance condos that looks out over the local golf course, and transforming it into a perfect personal retreat with spare but customized furniture.. a comfortable and attractive sectional from restoration hardware, a queen bed with a lush, expensive mattress piled in feminine prints and pillows, a gleaming kitchen with quartz counters and a single set of two pots, two pans, in pretty pastels, non-toxic, non stick ceramic that wont be waiting for me in the morning crusted with the greasy residue of *somebody’s* ground sausage or chorizo.

Soft music plays in my retreat. I go out on the terrace at sunset and watch the stubborn people swat balls into the twilight several yards away. The writing desk is near to the fresh air, the view. It has a cup of pens and pencils, notebooks and my laptop waiting for me. A couple lush, thriving plants infuse the air with oxygen.

And for at least several months there is *No* *TV*. Im on detox- It’s Valentine’s Day and in real life the damn screen is blaring again. .. more stuff I dont care about. I wanna read my Karen Russell short stories without having to put on earmuffs to block the sound or I mean, since it’s Valentine’s Day, I donno, be kissed all over? Have a sensual massage? Have an erudite conversation that isnt about wearying politics or how he is updating the technology at work or bizarrely interrogative questions about my business which I -believe- are a good faith effort to show interest but feel sort of like barked inquisitions from an angry officer?

This year isnt romantic. Last year wasnt romantic. I could take control and make the evening not so… plebeian but having to take control is not romantic.

Im not going anywhere… not like leaving him, but Id like to be able to mysteriously disappear when he isnt engaging me properly as a partner which feels like the case far too often.

I like that he will take on chores I hate. I like that we have text exchanges everyday while he is working. I like his touch. His face.

But I dont like that I wait and wait while he engages in years worth of escapism from his personal baggage. I dont like that I havent had a decent holiday in years cus his emotional cowardice makes him stubbornly escapist whenever expectations get notched up a bit. Im pretty tired of accepting less than I deserve when it’s like, fucker, worship me. Im not gonna be cute and willing to be close to you forever… not if you keep watching that fucking tv.

Sometimes I wanna run to Italy. Have dinner with a handsome stranger. Feel looked at. Feel fascinating. Shit.

He’s a very good friend of mine and I never want to hurt him but it hurts to feel the world close in and yearn for something different. I want to be excited, to be taken by surprise by my partner.

Maybe that condo, then. Yeah.. a feminine retreat. I have a right to reset the dynamic if it proves unsatisfying. Its not a crime to build a better world. It’s not a sin to make him earn his place in it.

Bah. Bring out the earmuffs. Now where did I put that book?

Christmas Bizarro

This passage may entail a bit of hyperbole but it follows a factual set of circumstances.

 I came across an article this morning describing the Christmas craft fair held at the empty mall last weekend.

That wasn’t in and of itself unusual, what was odd is that we were there, at that exact same spot the night before this alleged craft fair and there was nothing.. I mean nothing going down. The place appeared haunted in fact. No lights, no wreaths, no signs, just a large cavernous building hosting a shuttered Great Clips and a stubborn little Bath & Body Works, a flickering glow in a few acres of dark mall.

We were there because in my confused and vulnerable Black Friday frenzy, I decided J.C. Penney might yet be lurking inside, even though they actually closed that down before we moved here. I went and peered in the glass. Dark. Eerie. If the fortune telling machine from ‘Big’ had been in there, it wouldn’t have been surprising.

The ensuing craft fair was not even a whisper on the breeze (or a flyer on the door). And yet the local news has PICTURES of the event in full thrum 24 hrs later.

They kept it a big ass secret. And that’s not the first time.

Last year we had an address on Snake River Drive for the Episcopalian Bake Off and Craft Fair, but despite driving frustrated oblongs up and down the road, the address we had appeared not to exist. 

We stopped at a gas station to ask but the woman behind the counter just looked us up and down and finally said we better ask Leroy.

I figured Leroy was the manager but he turned out to be a customer sitting next to the window in the shitty plastic seats with a cup and two open containers of chaw laid out before him. His hands and face looked like those of an entity forged in craggy stone and  he was staring into the middle distance with a frown. I lost my nerve a little, but Chris went up and asked about the fair. 

Despite Chris initiating, Leroy directed all of his communications to me in the booming voice of a stone Solomon. He wanted to know who had sent us.

“Um, Debbie…behind the counter? She thought you might know where to find this place.”

“Debbie Keaner or Debbie Munroe?” Leroy rumbled majestically.

“Um, i donno, she’s right over there… behind the counter?” I pointed helpfully.

“I see, I see…” Leroy said without looking, then he chawed for a bit, and spit. “I dont attend church functions. They don’t do me no good.”

“Well this is more of a crafter’s fair, but we can’t find the address…” Chris read it off to him.

“Oh, that’s up yonder-” said Leroy, suddenly growing animated, and he proceeded to dash off a list of instructions breathless in their scope, and remarkably lacking a single recognizable land mark.

We attempted to clarify, but got the same list of instructions and around that time we made like good Americans, thanked him, gave up and went home to watch television.

So much for that.

This week we couldn’t find the holiday deals at Big Lots and after some back and forth with a rather cagey employee determined that the ads flyer next to the store door was just a front and the *real* flyer could be obtained at the checkout desk.. -if- you knew the secret handshake, that is.

I dont know what the deal is but a couple of greenhorns can get themselves in a lot of trouble asking too many questions. Clearly Santa has some kind of clandestine network at play here in the lawless west, and who are we to try and ferret out the elusive elf? I will leave hand made  goods and other dark arts to the shadowy realm of the episcopalians. No good ever came of nosing about where you dont belong.

-A

Dust Off This Old Jacket

Hi there.

It’s been forever since I put words here.. lifetimes ago, really.  But I downloaded the Counting Crows ‘This Desert Life’ album, and have been plunged into a massive revisiting of old haunts and memories. And here I am.

This is a bit like knocking on the doors of what could be a ghost town, to see if anything stirs inside.

Just putting words down feels good. There have been some things I have wanted to tell an intimate audience of strangers sometimes, lately. With all the newness and adjustment always taking place I miss that sense that someone is listening… not just to my everyday voice saying words, I have that but that I can tell the truth, right from the heart of me, and have someone or something receive it.

Amy Hit the Atmosphere…Track 3. Depressing in the good way. Sing your heart out and exorcise that shit. That’s what I’m talking about.

 

-a.