Caleb came home from daycare today with a fever of 102.5, which is odd because none of his other body parts appear to be out of whack. Normally, it goes like this:
fever + runny nose = sick,
or maybe
fever + sore ear = sick,
or even
fever + throwing up = sick.
So now I'm just all confused. Last night, he laid around like a fat tick on a dog, didn't eat his dinner, and went to bed at 7pm. This morning, he woke up acting normal but didn't want to eat his most-favorite breakfast of the month: applesauce. I did somehow convince him to eat a green ice pop, but mostly by pretending I didn't care if he ate it or not. (He's two. It's self-explanatory.)
Time to bust out the bleach and the hand sanitizer. I'm not necessarily a germaphobe, but I am the one in the house who always seems to get it the worst, and I get it the longest. If it were a contest, I'd be psyched about it, but it's definitely no contest. There is no blue ribbon for being the best at being sick; there's just a big trail of tissues and lozenge wrappers. Considering I'm back in school full-time with the majority of my classes on campus, please refer to Sweet Georgia Brown - ain't nobody got time for that.
In other news, my 9-year-old can't seem to remember to bring his notebook and agenda home from school each day. The kid can remember every combination of items on Minecraft, but can't remember to put two things into his backpack when the bell rings. I don't get it. The first mishap landed him three days with no Nintendo DS on the bus, which is usually enough to do the trick: he's got to remember three days in a row and then he gets his DS back. This time, however, on the last day of punishment he decided to forget his math homework at school, resulting in loss of DS and computer privileges. I hate this whole computer generation. I mean, I dug the shit out of some Ms. Pac Man, but "this whole electronic age is a bunch of bullshit," she types, ironically, into her wireless laptop.
Hey. Shut up over there. It's bath time.
Cherstin. Out.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
Some semblance of normalcy.
Yesterday, my husband and I worked on finishing the "new" office - the room that my dad had been working on before he died. We really didn't have an idea for a lot of the finished concept, so we ended up winging it. Minus a serious floam incident (that's spray-on insulation, for those not "in the know"), everything ended up just fine. That floam though...holy crap. That stuff is something else. So much floam escaped from behind the wall underneath the window that I had to remove the wall this morning and cut the floam apart with a huge bread knife. I wanted to eat it - you know, the whole bread knife thing - but I refrained.
The blinds my husband bought were the bees' knees - they really made the whole room pop. Probably not much has been said about "faux wood," and maybe not much will be said about them when we're all dead and gone, but if there is one technological advance that should be given more credit, it's faux wood blinds.
And floam.
Then we had another "great idea." Casually over cigarettes, my husband says something to me about how I could have the couches from the lanai and put them in my office, if I so desired. I jumped all over that like white on rice, and told him I'd take them as long as he'd help me bring them outside in the sunshine first so I could wash the grossness off them before bringing them into my pristine lair. (Okay, it might not be pristine but no one wants their office to smell like dog and cigarettes. Only the dog should smell like dog, and if the office smells like cigarettes, I'm going to wonder who's been smoking in there, which may, in turn, force me to light up in there just to test my theory, and before you know it, there's a burn mark on my new desk. Dammit.)
With the couches safely outside, I have brilliant idea #2 - let me clean the couches off with the hand-held attachment for the carpet cleaner. The couches can then bake and dry in the sun, and everyone wins.
Sidebar. We have had these couches since 2010. We got them when I was pregnant with Caleb after seeing them featured in a circular from American Signature Furniture. In our excitement over the cheap price ("THREE PIECES FOR $777!"), neither my husband nor I test-drove the couches when they were in the store, so we never realized the cushions weren't removable. Can you believe that? Non-removable cushions? When future generations are oogling over the concept of faux-wood blinds, I hope they forget about the abomination that is "non-removable cushions." Eek.
Now, back to cleaning the cushions: Back when the couch was new, I was terrified of my water breaking, but when I saw the filth that came off that couch yesterday, I realized amniotic fluid would have been a blessing. The rinse water was black. Blacker than black. As in, "Hey, what's blacker than black?" Answer: "That." I immediately wanted to call up everyone who has sat on that couch in the past year and apologize.
Now the couches are in my office, and all seems right with the world --- except the lanai. It's too empty. I'm thinking about making some pallet benches. Anyone in?
Till next time,
Cherstin
The blinds my husband bought were the bees' knees - they really made the whole room pop. Probably not much has been said about "faux wood," and maybe not much will be said about them when we're all dead and gone, but if there is one technological advance that should be given more credit, it's faux wood blinds.
And floam.
Then we had another "great idea." Casually over cigarettes, my husband says something to me about how I could have the couches from the lanai and put them in my office, if I so desired. I jumped all over that like white on rice, and told him I'd take them as long as he'd help me bring them outside in the sunshine first so I could wash the grossness off them before bringing them into my pristine lair. (Okay, it might not be pristine but no one wants their office to smell like dog and cigarettes. Only the dog should smell like dog, and if the office smells like cigarettes, I'm going to wonder who's been smoking in there, which may, in turn, force me to light up in there just to test my theory, and before you know it, there's a burn mark on my new desk. Dammit.)
With the couches safely outside, I have brilliant idea #2 - let me clean the couches off with the hand-held attachment for the carpet cleaner. The couches can then bake and dry in the sun, and everyone wins.
Sidebar. We have had these couches since 2010. We got them when I was pregnant with Caleb after seeing them featured in a circular from American Signature Furniture. In our excitement over the cheap price ("THREE PIECES FOR $777!"), neither my husband nor I test-drove the couches when they were in the store, so we never realized the cushions weren't removable. Can you believe that? Non-removable cushions? When future generations are oogling over the concept of faux-wood blinds, I hope they forget about the abomination that is "non-removable cushions." Eek.
Now, back to cleaning the cushions: Back when the couch was new, I was terrified of my water breaking, but when I saw the filth that came off that couch yesterday, I realized amniotic fluid would have been a blessing. The rinse water was black. Blacker than black. As in, "Hey, what's blacker than black?" Answer: "That." I immediately wanted to call up everyone who has sat on that couch in the past year and apologize.
Now the couches are in my office, and all seems right with the world --- except the lanai. It's too empty. I'm thinking about making some pallet benches. Anyone in?
Till next time,
Cherstin
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Status quo: Art imitates life.
If art imitates life, please tell me which artist painted "Portrait of Two-Year-Old Pooping on Tile Floor," because I'd like to hang it in my husband's office.
Also, if it could be the version where just after the painter finished, the child steps in the poop, tracking it across the floor, so his mother scoops him up into the bathtub to wash it off, and while initiating said wash-off, the mother happens to turn around to see that the family dog has just eaten said poop, that would be great. If you could happen to capture the horrific look visible on her face at just that moment, that would be terrific.
Ahhh, art. Life. Children.
Other than the poop fiasco, things are going much better around here. I'm reading so much Chaucer that I'm starting to dream in middle English poetry, so that's weird but doable, but I found myself awake this morning at 4am. It wasn't that I just popped up on my own, but rather that I heard the sound of the dog wretching, so I jumped out of bed to let her out. While on the porch, I decided I'd have a cigarette: you know, celebrating 4am and all. What I hadn't considered was the internal conversation that would take place during the whole smoking thing.
I mean, we all know smoking is bad, right? That's been established. I remember my mom bringing reams of copy paper home when I was a kid - ones that had been misprinted or that they didn't need anymore. It was the paper with the holes in the sides, where each perforated sheet was attached to the one following it. The paper was a pale green. Anyway, I remember rolling out about 10 feet of the stuff and making these huge, obnoxious "No Smoking" signs, complete with pictures of blackened lungs and yellow teeth and dirty ashtrays with butts spilling out the top - you name it. I'm guessing they taught us that in health class - you know, "Fifty Ways to Aggravate and Convert Your Smoking Parents."
So 4 o'clock in the A.M., I'm standing outside in the pitch black having a smoke, waiting for the dog to finishing hurling, and I start thinking about my life and what I'm actually doing. And it hits me - I'm almost 40 years old, and I'm pretty sure I've heard news reports before about people in their 39's and 40's dying of cancer attributed to smoking. And I start asking myself why? Why can't I shake this? And part of me says, "Well, look at your mom. She's got good genes - she's still smoking and she's fine." And then the other side of my conscience answers, "Yeah, but your grandfather and your father died from throat cancer. And your other grandfather died of colon cancer. So that's three strikes right there in your family branch."
And then I just get mad and swear I won't smoke anymore ... and I don't ... until 7am when I wake up for real.
So that sucks.
Anyone else out there pushing 40 and still doing ridiculous shit they should have stopped doing right after high school? If you're one of the ones who successfully quit, how many times did it take you before it stuck? I've tried to quit before, and I'm good at quitting, but I'm horrible at not picking one up six months later and insisting I can just have one.
In other news, there's an open mic night at school on Thursday. I'm reworking one of my short stories, seeing if it can be spun down to a comfortable reading length. Hooray. :)
That's me, in a nutshell, and I'm out.
Also, if it could be the version where just after the painter finished, the child steps in the poop, tracking it across the floor, so his mother scoops him up into the bathtub to wash it off, and while initiating said wash-off, the mother happens to turn around to see that the family dog has just eaten said poop, that would be great. If you could happen to capture the horrific look visible on her face at just that moment, that would be terrific.
Ahhh, art. Life. Children.
Other than the poop fiasco, things are going much better around here. I'm reading so much Chaucer that I'm starting to dream in middle English poetry, so that's weird but doable, but I found myself awake this morning at 4am. It wasn't that I just popped up on my own, but rather that I heard the sound of the dog wretching, so I jumped out of bed to let her out. While on the porch, I decided I'd have a cigarette: you know, celebrating 4am and all. What I hadn't considered was the internal conversation that would take place during the whole smoking thing.
I mean, we all know smoking is bad, right? That's been established. I remember my mom bringing reams of copy paper home when I was a kid - ones that had been misprinted or that they didn't need anymore. It was the paper with the holes in the sides, where each perforated sheet was attached to the one following it. The paper was a pale green. Anyway, I remember rolling out about 10 feet of the stuff and making these huge, obnoxious "No Smoking" signs, complete with pictures of blackened lungs and yellow teeth and dirty ashtrays with butts spilling out the top - you name it. I'm guessing they taught us that in health class - you know, "Fifty Ways to Aggravate and Convert Your Smoking Parents."
So 4 o'clock in the A.M., I'm standing outside in the pitch black having a smoke, waiting for the dog to finishing hurling, and I start thinking about my life and what I'm actually doing. And it hits me - I'm almost 40 years old, and I'm pretty sure I've heard news reports before about people in their 39's and 40's dying of cancer attributed to smoking. And I start asking myself why? Why can't I shake this? And part of me says, "Well, look at your mom. She's got good genes - she's still smoking and she's fine." And then the other side of my conscience answers, "Yeah, but your grandfather and your father died from throat cancer. And your other grandfather died of colon cancer. So that's three strikes right there in your family branch."
And then I just get mad and swear I won't smoke anymore ... and I don't ... until 7am when I wake up for real.
So that sucks.
Anyone else out there pushing 40 and still doing ridiculous shit they should have stopped doing right after high school? If you're one of the ones who successfully quit, how many times did it take you before it stuck? I've tried to quit before, and I'm good at quitting, but I'm horrible at not picking one up six months later and insisting I can just have one.
In other news, there's an open mic night at school on Thursday. I'm reworking one of my short stories, seeing if it can be spun down to a comfortable reading length. Hooray. :)
That's me, in a nutshell, and I'm out.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
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.
(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.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, August 2, 2013
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. :)
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. :)
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