I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all "what they hell?" and "who needs this angst?" Yeah - those were the days.
So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I'd really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?
"Why would you ask me that?" I mumbled into the desk.
"And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?" he continued the interrogation.
There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. "Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend." Oh. No.
You see, it's one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don't have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.
So yes, I'm sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we'll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I'm foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.
Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)
And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I'm not cleaning the sparkle off things, I'm looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that's the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don't tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You'd never sleep again.)
However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we'd have to - gasp! - walk because I don't have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.
An hour later, we'd hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you'd realize what a huge deal this was.
Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says "Drink your tea" over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors' houses - the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering "What is the big deal?"
Plenty. It's been a long couple of years. It's good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn't holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn't feel angry about anything.
I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I'd concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It's irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it's the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.
I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn't count my steps. I wasn't biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don't think I was even pursing my lips.....
Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I've had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I'm just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.
I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.
I love the richness of Colin Hay's voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.
Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!