Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Rumination, no. 7 | Rainy Day Thoughts

Life has been hard lately.  This is not something that gets admitted often on the blogsophere, or at least not in those shiny happy blogs I tend to read.  But, the truth is that sometimes life throws you a curve ball, or several, all aimed unfairly at your groin and knee caps.  This downward spiral of all around shittiness began when my musician husband broke his thumb, and we were forced to cough up an unexpected and unaccounted for lump of cash for medical care, followed by that horrifying date with the IRS and another unplanned for briefcase full of dollars to part with, made particularly painful because a broken thumb means a month-long break from teaching guitar lessons in order to heal.  And then, the local cigar shop Wolfman has fallen in love with, and which Wolfman has been offered a partnership in, was robbed.  Excuse me while I lay down some Laheyisms.

You know what you get when two shit-tectonic plates collide?  Shitquakes, Julian.  Shitquakes.
You just opened Pandora’s shitbox, Ray.
We're in the eye of a shiticane here Julian, and Ricky's a low shit system!
Do you feel that Randy, the way the shit clings to the air? Shit Blizzard.

I’ve been coming home from work lately to an empty house, and one forlorn pooch.  And it’s gotten cold again the past week, and drizzly.  I tend to wrap myself in an afghan immediately upon walking in the house, and wear it draped about myself like a shawl.  I rummage through the kitchen and wind up eating the same thing for dinner as I did for breakfast—half a grapefruit and toast with peanut butter.  And, as usual when I am alone for too long, I find myself trying to imagine what my life would be like if I’d stayed single.  It’s never a thought that lasts for long; there are too many reminders of my husband throughout the house—his sunglasses in a basket on the kitchen counter, his lighter on the coffee table, that list of biodiesel ingredients on the refrigerator.  But Lunchbox and I don’t do much talking.  His excitement when he greets me is tinged with desperate loneliness, so we walk together in the rain (he doesn’t mind so much), and then eat our biscuit and dinner respectively, and then snuggle up on the sofa and wait—for that man we both love to come home, for the skies to clear, for life to throw us a bone.
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