IN REAL LIFE. Or, "the time I deactivated my Facebook."

With all the blase-bullshit going on, I chose yesterday to deactivate my Facebook account which left me time to actually get some writing done.  Yes, I blogged, but in addition to the blog, I also jotted down and fleshed out a few story ideas in an attempt to squeeze something delicious from my cerebrally-controlled phalanges into the pages of another speculative fiction anthology.

(Thanks, Duotrope - hopefully my "annual fee" will actually pay for itself considering you started charging in January and it's now September.  Better late than never.)

Strange, though, the feeling of "disconnectedness" I have when I don't have a Facebook window open.  It almost mirrors the feeling I had last weekend, only this time it came as a result of my own decision; yet I still feel like I owe people an explanation or something.  Which I don't.  Considering most of the people on my "friends list" have roughly 300 people on their "friends list," so they won't even notice one is missing.

(I'm almost willing to bank on that.)

The strange part about it is that I'm no longer sure where to get my news...or my dog videos.

And now I'm back in writing mode, which translates roughly into the panic one feels when they load their grocery cart with food for the week and then realize--after the cashier has rung their purchases--that they don't have their wallet.  Meaning, I have a super cool idea for a story, I just don't know where to begin.

So the whole "living sans Facebook" thing is a reality, and so far it's a good one.  I'm honestly not sure if I'll ever go back.  Maybe I should have passed out some contact information before I took off--there are a few people I'm going to miss--but if they are crafty enough, they should be able to find me.  I mean, hell, there's always Google Plus.

(Okay, that was a joke.)

Cherstin, out.


 

Bittersweet symphony. As in the song.

Or maybe as in my life.

If they say, "Pride comes before a fall," I guess there's no point in ever feeling confident and secure in your station in life, and that includes committed relationships.  Or maybe you can feel secure, but even if that's the case, you'd better not mention it.  At all.  To anyone.

Because just days or weeks ago, I can't remember which at this late date, I was talking about my husband in a hypothetical sense, as in, "He and I are married, but that doesn't mean that tomorrow he won't change his mind."  Of course, I shuddered as I said that, thinking it was inconceivable.  Unimaginable.  I would have thought it to be next to impossible.

And now I'm not so sure.

So - did I, somehow, bring this shit upon myself just because I made an off-hand remark in a different context?  After a weekend of him taking the kids on vacation, then not sending pictures or calling in some sick attempt to "punish me" for not going, suddenly I'm seeing another reality and it ain't pretty.  It's a reality that involves time-sharing.  A parenting plan.  And the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach, but not for reasons you would think.  I'm not mourning the imagined separation of he and I, but rather what kind of pain and confusion it would cause our two-and-a-half-year-old son.

Yes, our son should be way up there on my list of concerns, but why wouldn't I be worried about myself and our relationship?  Why wouldn't the loss of our marriage cause me to feel the same knot in my stomach?

He went on this vacation despite the fact that something wasn't right ahead of time.  The night before they left, my husband went to bed without telling me goodnight.  First of all, I'm usually the one to go to bed first, but I'd lost track of time in my new office.  Even if I do go to bed first, I always always always tell him goodnight.  I give him a kiss.  I ask him if he wants his alarm clock set for the same time the following morning.  The usual.  What kind of person sneaks off to bed and leaves their wife awake in the back room?

So that was the first sketchy act.  Of course, it didn't mean much at the time but coupled with the events of this weekend, it means everything now.

Imagine, if you will, chastising a spouse for not being able to go on a road trip because he or she has work or school commitments.  Would you?  Would you essentially tell the person you love that they are in effect ruining the weekend?  Letting the kids down?  Breaking promises made to family and friends?  Keep in mind, this is coming from a man who has considered going down the entrepreneurial path and opening his own business, so he has been willing to consider a future where his own commitments may prevent him from spending his "free time" away from the home or office.  Yet when it's me who can't get the time -- who can rarely get the time -- to pack up and drive 13 hours each way to watch a football game, it is simply unimaginable.

I was treated as a pariah, and I'm not being overdramatic.  Not only did he leave on bad terms, he stopped for a hotel just three hours away from home.  As in, "I'd rather leave immediately and sleep anywhere other than at home, even though it's going to cost me a hundred bucks."

Saturday morning, he called me to find out if my mom and step-dad were stopping up there as they'd mentioned they might do six weeks ago.  After that phone call (and the news from my mom later in the day that they were also unable to make it), I never heard back from him.  I talked to him Saturday morning around 11am and didn't get another phone call or news of their whereabouts until they strolled in the door Monday night around 7pm.

And you want to know what really gets me?  You want to know the thing that really burns me up?

The first words out of his mouth were these:  "Why didn't you call me all day?"

If I would've had a brick to shit, I would have.

You know what happens to a strong woman when you shun her, make her the bad guy, and don't call her for almost three days?  She realizes maybe she's better off without you.  She realizes that life is more simple without cleaning up your dirty dishes and your food-covered wrappers that you leave every night on the end table.  She realizes that she misses her children, and that she'd pick up after them in a second--she actually misses their messes--but you?  Not so much.

She also realizes that if she has married into a family that is so quick to pass judgment and condemnation simply because she couldn't make a fucking three-day vacation, then maybe this isn't exactly the family she should have married into.  God forbid, next time, she get sick.

I'm here again.  The same crossroads.  The same shitty suspicion that something isn't right with the world.  The same shitty suspicion that made my ears burn.  The recipient of the same "Fuck her:  she's not here, so forget about her" advice.

Maybe my heart would be broken if I weren't so pissed.  Instead I spent the first day of the weekend worrying if the boys were okay, the second day wondering what his excuse would be, and the third hoping and praying that the boys just made it home safe.  Today, with the kids at school, I started being pragmatic and making plans for my own future.  I have never lived my life in such a way as to imply that I needed him - it's a two-way street.  But there is only so much that a person can take and only so much they can be shit on before they decide it might be a good time to pick up, dust off, and GTFO.

So, to wrap it all up, a great big thanks to everyone who took the time to give my husband such excellent advice this weekend.  And dear husband, as for your plan ahead of time to "not share any pictures or videos" with me if I didn't come?  So glad that worked out for you and you were able to "stick to your guns."  Yeah, you showed me alright, and for that, I hope you remember that you reap what you sow.

A is for ...

another time, another place.

I saw a post on Facebook yesterday.  It turns out that a stranger on a Facebook resale site was attempting to find a new owner for her brown sectional sofa.  Although I don't need a couch, during the course of reading her ad I couldn't help but notice that the final sentence said something to the effect of "...pick up only in Port Charlotte, on *** Street."

(*** Name of street has been asterisked to preserve greatness.)

Cool side story - I used to live on *** Street.  Although I'd never seen her brown sofa before, I took a good look at the picture, particularly the 12" x 12" white porcelain floor tile and the wall jutting out behind the couch.  I saw her small dog in the background, and behind it, a sliding door exactly where my sliding door once stood.  It went out to a small porch, the one with green indoor/outdoor carpeting that used to get soaked every time it would rain.  I remembered how I used to peel back the edges of the wet carpet, thinking that would help it dry faster.  I never spent a lot of time on that back porch despite the aluminum furniture - the front porch was always where it was at.

The house wasn't much when I lived there.  Four walls, jalousie windows, a few attempts at decent furniture.  The bed didn't have a headboard or footboard, and navy blue sheets covered the windows in the master bedroom.  I painted the walls to waive the deposit.  I was so poor, some days the only thing I consumed all day was a pot of coffee and a half gallon of milk.  But of course, I always managed to scrape up change to buy cigarettes.

I was poor but I was proud.  I remember a bright winter day, listening to an Offspring cd while I stood on a ladder outside in January.  The sun was warm, the music was loud.  Things were pretty simple back then.

I listened to a lot of Linkin Park in that house.  This morning, my 2.5-year-old son and I heard some in the truck this morning on our way to daycare - still reminds me of *** Street.  Always has, always will.

I wasn't overly happy with my life then, but I look back now and remember those times and smile.  It was my last time living a life where no one called me "mom."  *** Street is where I lived when I joined the Army:  I left at 5am on July 5, 2001, and I never stepped foot back in that house, yet it was a huge part of growing up and an enormous part of who I am today.

I had to ask.  I emailed said stranger via Facebook and asked if she happened to live at 3662 *** Street.  I told her I had once lived there -

I didn't expect to hear back, but she responded.

She lives at 3667, probably right across the street.

I told her I hoped her life turned out as great as this.   :)

Backyard bliss.

I finished "the semester before the last semester of my bachelor's program" last week, and I'm anxiously awaiting new classes to begin.  I have one week left:  one week of freedom, one week of relaxation, you name it.

What it really boils down to is that I'm playing a hell of a lot of Candy Crush Saga on Facebook, then acting shitty when it's time to pick up the kids because I feel like I wasted the whole day.  Hmph.

(*Note:  I'm not shitty to the kids.  Ever.  Okay, rarely, but only when they deserve it.  Playing "good cop, bad cop" is tough, because I'm always "bad cop."  Always.  Okay, sometimes.)

The spring rains started about a month ago and the backyard is beautiful.  It's a tropical oasis of sorts, complete with non-native trees which I insisted on having because they were different:  Drake elms.  Ugly as sin and bare in the winter, a beautiful, living canopy the rest of the year.  The kind of tree you unconsciously duck your head to walk under, even though you don't need to.  The shade of green that makes you swear the branches are tinting the light underneath.  Breathtaking.

For years, I've been a fan of bird feeders.  I've got two in my backyard that are a few years old that I honestly spent about $60 a piece on, and that might have been back in the days of my 10% off Lowe's employee discount pricing.  I'm a bird-a-holic.  They're peaceful, they're productive, they're chipper, ... they are everything I'm not before 9am noon.

Having time free from schoolwork and APA papers has left me with a lot of time to bird-watch, so I started spoiling them a bit.  I bought three new feeders for the yard:  two of the window variety complete with heavy-duty suction cups, and one long finch feeder for the little guy I see trying to tackle the big seeds in the regular feeders.  To lure the wary travelers to my window feeders, I bought them some dried mealworms.  I thought that sounded rather enticing, if I were a bird.

So far, nothing but a random night-time frog has been brave enough to visit the window feeders.  He (or she) was a mess, with bird seed stuck all over him/her.  It was enough to warrant an Instagram photo, that's for sure.

Say "cheese."

Anyway, it had come to its senses by morning and was nowhere to be found.  +1, frog.

The problem, which I haven't even begun to touch on, really topped out today.  Squirrels.  In the trees.  On the fence.  On the ground.  Squirrels were everywhere, and suddenly my fury with them has come to a head.  It's a standoff.  I've considered adding squirrel baffles to the feeders in my trees, but I can't figure out how to make them work.  First off, they're expensive.  Second, I have my feeders hanging in a tree.  There's really nothing to "baffle" the baffle around.  Plan B.

I tried shooting them.  All of them.  Every squirrel.  I even watched a few videos about how to field dress a squirrel so we could eat them for dinner.  (Waste not, want not and all that.)  But that's too aggressive.  It got my blood boiling today, and who wants that when they're supposed to be relaxing?  (Side note:  time to adjust the windage on the pellet gun.  I didn't hit squat, PETA.)

Plan C:  going to Lowe's to purchase materials to build my own bird feeder pole.  Safe, easy, relaxing, squirrel-free.  Plan goes into effect tomorrow.  Once it's finished, the only thing to piss me off for the rest of my "vacation" will be Candy Crush Saga, where the drama continues to unfold.

Also, shouldn't I be writing or something?  Wouldn't that be more relaxing?  More productive?  More riveting?  Yes.  Andddd yes.

Cherstin, out.

Update: The Desk.

Update:  The Desk is worth at least $3,200.  There is one on Ebay right now for that price that has been refurbished and half the drawers don't work.  I found out it is Asian Rosewood.  An Asian Rosewood Partner's Double Pedestal Desk.  Un-freaking-believable.

Moral?  Good things come to those who wait.  Hooray!   :-)

Cherstin and Desk, out.

The Desk.

If I were a superstitious person, I probably would have given up yesterday.  I would have turned around in the parking lot of the 7-11 and just come home.

I have been searching for a desk for quite some time, utterly convinced that the L-shaped, glass monster in my office was giving off nothing but bad mojo.  If it wasn't the desk, it was definitely the chair.  It was in the style of a tractor seat.  Plastic.  No arms.  Plastic.

Did I mention it was plastic?

When I left the house yesterday morning, nearly a half-hour late, I stopped in at the 7-11 to pull some cash out of the ATM.  Okay, I can't lie:  I also wanted a Starbucks Frappucino (in the glass bottle) and two Krispy Kreme donuts.  I pulled into the nearest available parking slot and grabbed my planner from my purse, flipping through the plastic "customer loyalty" cards to find my bank card.  It wasn't there.

I checked the entire contents of my purse:  there were a pair of sunglasses with one lens popped out, but no bank card.

Hmm.  This was a conundrum.

I realized there was a Publix behind me, and I had a check book.  Terrific.  I knew "cashing a check" was pretty old-school, but I always remembered that Publix had a Check Cashing service back in the day, so I pointed the truck in that direction.

Publix does, indeed, cash checks, but they only cash a personal check up to $75.  Not good, as I needed exactly twice that, and there went my idea of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Back to the truck I went, headed to the bank.  If anyone in town knows what an upstanding, responsible citizen I am, it must be the bank.  Indeed, I was able to cash a check at the bank, although I admit I had to ask the teller how to do it.  ("Write it out to 'cash' or to yourself, then sign the back," she said politely, smiling as only bank tellers do.)

I pulled out of the bank at the same time I was supposed to be arriving to pick up the desk, so I decided it would be a good time to call the shop and let them know I was on the way.  The guy I was meeting answered the phone -- I asked him, "Hi, is this Mister X?"  (Not his real name.)  He said, "Yes."  I said, "Hi, this is Cherstin, I'm the one who is picking up the desk this morning?"  (I'm not sure why I said that as a question, but I did.)  He said, "Yeah, okay, I'm on the other line right now so I'll have to call you back."  All I could say was, "Uhhh, okay, bye."

Now, I'm not sure about you, but at this point, I really questioned why I was about to drive 30 miles to pick up this desk.  So far, everything in its entirety had been working against me.  Was there even a desk?  Was I walking in to some sort of Craigslist trap?  Should I alert the authorities?  Should I stop to set up some kind of Last Will and Testament?  Even better:  I decided to stop at Dunkin' Donuts.  (I'd written the check at the bank for $50 more than what I needed for the desk.  Brilliant.)

Eventually, he did call back, and when I finally found the Auction House where the desk was located, I did have an initial "second thought" when I first saw this monstrosity.  It sat alone in a packed warehouse full of other people's discarded items, and it was huge.  Was it too big?  Is there such a thing?  I wasn't sure.  I just knew that I'd come to far and been through too much to turn around.  I said, "It's perfect.  I'll take it."

We--the desk and I--made the trip home and I only had to stop once to fix the straps so one of the three desk pieces wouldn't fall out of the truck bed.  I say I only had to stop once, but in reality, it was a double-duty stop:  I also had to turn around because I was headed the wrong way on the interstate.

If that was fate telling me, "DO NOT BRING THIS DESK INTO YOUR HOME," I pretended not to notice.

After some cussing and heaving by me and some rolling of eyes by my husband, we managed to get the desk inside to its new home, where it belongs.  Now I might be biased, but after a nice coat of furniture polish, I'm fairly certain we got this desk at a steal.  It's solid wood (which goes a long way to explain why it nearly broke my arms and back), it is a double desk for two, complete with drawers all over the place.  It has carvings and wooden handles that are also carved and it is absolutely the bomb.  It is the desk of all desks.  It is a behemoth.  If I were going to sell it, I'd ask around $4,000.  I'm not even joking.  It's 72 inches long, 42 inches wide, and it is going to keep me happy for years and years and years.  I love it, and that's what matters.   :-)

The moral of this story should be something like "don't give up on your dreams," or "never settle for less than the best," but it could also be "big desks rock."

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Cherstin and Desk, out.

  

Et tu, Brute?

While my mind swirls around thoughts of "Emergency Management and the Terrorist Threat" (that's chapter 9 from Introduction to Emergency Management, 4th ed.), I have come up with a short list of, oh, about thirty household projects to distract me from the joy of schoolwork.  One of these projects has come in the form of an office renovation.

Thanks to a new book I haven't even cracked yet, Daily Rituals:  How Artists Work, I have decided that the majority of my procrastination episodes have to do with this uncomfortable desk and chair I've been using for the past year or so.  The L-shaped, glass-top corner desk seemed like it was going to be the right desk for me, as did the plastic, modern-looking white armless chair I decided to order at the same time.  Let me tell you:  If you spend more than 3 hours a day sitting at a desk, do not opt for the modern, minimalist look.  It's all about comfort, baby.  You don't see commuters driving a plastic bicycle with a steel seat to work, so don't kid yourself that a plastic chair is going to be comfortable even if it does have a built-in butt groove.

In all reality, this beast of a desk I am going to pick up today at 11am could probably not be more wrong for this space.  My office is approximately 8' by nothing, and I'm putting in a six-foot desk.  I'm not even sure how this monstrosity is going to get through my front door.  But the picture and accompanying photo on Craigslist says it all:  ornate, vintage, $150 or best offer.  These are all things I can work with.

Finishing the painting and baseboards in the office?  Ehh, not so much.

Why is it that we I can become so excited about the out-of-the-ordinary tasks, like driving to pick up a new desk that probably weighs 300 pounds, but I can't seem to finish the mundane, boring tasks I start?

Probably because I'm so awesome, that's why.

Anyway, I'm on the hunt for an Allen wrench to begin the taking-apart of my current desk.  I think I have the perfect spot for it in the kitchen, replacing a small table I spray-painted last evening.  Now where am I going to put this table?

Cherstin, out.