Saturday, July 11, 2015

odd

I so love solitude, the sound only of the refrigerator, my own breathing, the cat purring, eating, digging in the litter box, occasionally my neighbors' lawnmowers. Solitude is where I can hear my own voice, figure out what it's really saying.....

Ah, crap. I'm trying to be too poetic.

Here's a truth I just need to say: Today and yesterday, I felt so lonely that I turned on the Food Network and then the Learning Channel (Oh Lord, I watched Say Yes to the Dress) just so I could hear other people who are totally not like me talking into my living room.

I haven't been lonely (except for a few years in the late '90s and the aughts when my then little daughter suggested I was lonely for my lost self) since about 1987.

Lately
Lonely

I have to admit that I'm lonely for my friend Laura who moved cross-country to Seattle starting June 28. Two cats in her car. The trip was kind of hard (Yes, I'm singing "Our House" in my head as I type). We've been friends for twenty years, spoken at least once a week, more recently connected almost daily.

She's going to have a wonderful life - bookstores, coffee shops, art classes, maybe a cool, low-maintenance condo.

But I think maybe she took all the air with her when she left.

There. That is all.


Wednesday, July 8, 2015

neighborly love

I know I'm a terrible neighbor. I neglect my house (the way I neglect my body) with shingles flaking off my roof, siding that needs a good power washing, a paint-chipped garage that has more skin flaws than my face.

I haven't done the "pruning" of the giant weeds in my front yard that will keep things from looking like a lazy recluse lives in my house (oh. wait.).


When I see my neighbors, any neighbors, I do wave and smile and ask how they are and mean the question and tell them their dogs are pretty or their babies look happy or the grandchildren have great charm.


Sometimes, though, I try to dash into my house without speaking, laptop bag swinging from my shoulder, my kitty waiting for me at the door, head butting my hand as soon as I walk in.


Friendliness doesn't make up for the state of my two structures, house and body.


And yet....


And yet it's a discouraging old world.


This is a very small thing.


My neighbors, I'm not sure which ones (well, I'm pretty sure), let their dogs poop in my yard near my garage, next to the alley where I take my trash Monday nights before garbage pick up.


I haven't had a dog since sweet Bridget the smelly and senile Schnauzer died in 2004, and she didn't live long enough to see this house. She died right around the time I closed on this and the house I sold. So. No dogs for a decade.


When I had a dog, I didn't mind scooping up the poop in the backyard, and when I took Bridget for walks, I always carried bags with me for those times when she decided to poop in public (in her case, usually on the public sidewalk because that's the way my sweet, black girl rolled).


Recently, I bought a not-cheap spray from the pet store, a "deterrent" for pets and wild life, have been coating the grass with it. I think it's been working, but this summer is all about the rain. Wash away, wash away.


I am grateful that today the neighbor waited until after my yard guys mowed to let his/her dog defecate in my yard. At least the poop wasn't smashed into the grass this time, so when I donned my yard gloves and shoveled it into the plastic bag the dog owner should have been carrying, I didn't have to work too hard scooping it up.


Of course it rained after the mowing, so the poop was wet and particularly ripe.


I talked to myself as I tied off the bag and set it on the bricks behind my garage, under the lip of the roof where the rain we'll be getting later won't reach it.


"I'm just so discouraged," I muttered (even though another neighbor had people in her driveway doing things. She doesn't have a dog). "I know I'm a crappy neighbor, but you people disappoint me."


Although this dog poop business is a small thing, it adds a layer to my current desolation, a sense that people who pretend to be friendly disrespect me so much they allow their giant dog and their tiny dog to poop in my yard and leave it there for me to clean up.


I'll keep spraying the deterrent after every rain and hope that the day I finally paint the garage, wash the house, fix the roof, prettify the yard, the stranger pooping stops.


If it doesn't?


Well, shit happens.


not a book review

It's been awhile since I've written here. Or to be more accurate, it's been awhile since I've clicked "Publish" when I've written here. I just can't seem to feel anything I write is finished.

Maybe this time.

I'm rereading a book a friend recommended to me fifteen years ago that I couldn't seem to get through then. My friend Cat recommended it to me a couple of years ago, and we've been talking about its premise off and on since then, though I hesitated to try read it again. Finally, I checked it out of the library, and I'm battling my way through it. (Already I can feel myself judging the quality of this blog post. Terrible crap.)

It's not an easy read for me, especially since a previous library patron underlined in ink certain passages that she found relevant (don't ask how I know it's a woman; sometimes I just know things) that I think are bullshit or trivial.

This book is about a personality trait that I most likely have, though I'm in the habit of thinking I'm just a wimpy, whiny, shy, introverted (introverted & shy are not the same thing), bratty, picky, fearful, neurotic recluse (Good golly, Elizabeth! I hope you don't carry those words around in your body. Also, you sure are self-absorbed).

I hate the book, though the information is helpful. I'm only just beginning chapter 3, having trouble figuring out what is wrong with me (because, of course, it's never "their" fault; it's always my fault, whether it's author, friend, colleague, random person at the grocery story). I reached a passage where the author attempted to push an amazing theory a bit further by emulating another researcher/writer, and I shouted, "AHA! It's her adverbs! She uses too many adverbs and uses them badly [ha! adverb!]." (I overuse adverbs and adjectives, so who am I to talk?) Then I laughed and laughed.

"The highly sensitive editor in me does NOT like the writing style of this book," I muttered to Pickles Katz.

I'm going to try to make it at least through chapter 5, which is called "Social Relationships: The Slide into 'Shy'," but so far, this book makes me feel worse about myself instead of better.

(This was originally (another adverb!) a Facebook status update, but I decided to spare people who might be sick of my recent, long updates, which are the result of what my friend Cat calls "mulling" as well as my tendency toward excessive self-disclosure.)