Single Bliss...

Last night, I ate cold pizza for dinner.  I put salt on it as if cold pizza requires more salt. Kevin got some pieces of crust.  I put on an old sweater of my mom's and some sweatpants.

I took an hour nap on the couch. I have another infection and it's kicking my ass.

I woke up, watched cheesy Hallmark movies, and then decided to read.

I bought a copy of Maya Angelou's Letters to My Daughter a couple of weeks ago and just started reading it. It's great.

I turned off the TV, turned out all the lights in the living room, got ready for bed and snuggled in my full size bed with book in hand.  Kevin plopped down on the floor next to the head of the bed. He started snoring immediately.  He's had an infection, too. A poopy, squirty kinda infection.  The Pottinger household is a mess.

I laid down in the middle of the bed. Head propped on all four pillows. Tucked my legs under my two comforters, adjusting my body to the feather mattress under me for maximum comfort. I read a couple of paragraphs, and looked at the clock.  I typically go to bed at 11, but tonight I felt a need to turn in at 10:30. Light off, I told Kevin I loved him and rolled over, pillow between my legs. My phone went off.  It was my friend Anthony, wanting to know if I was up to talk. I called him. We chatted til 11:20. I hung up and snuggled in, falling asleep immediately.

I woke up this morning at 7:15.  I peed with the door open after feeding Kevin. I grabbed his leash, walked out the door, and walked him for a half hour in my sweatpants and Mom's old sweater. I got ready for work. I gave him some treats, and headed out the door for my day.

I didn't have to think about anyone else and their needs.  I didn't have to sneak out of the room to chat with my friend.   I didn't have to share my pizza or be judged for adding salt/Hallmark movie/sweatpants and Mom's sweater.  I don't have to share Kevin.  I don't have someone asking me to turn out the light so they can sleep.

Being single has it's lonely times, sure.  But the non-lonely times are pretty awesome.

Wedding weirdness.

You never really know how you've effected someone until the day they introduce you to their new spouse and say, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

John Sheetz go married this weekend to a wonderful woman named Bekkah. They were married in a Lodge in Wakulla Springs, FL. It was perfect for them. The ceremony was beautiful. They offered communion.  I took it.  I interpreted it as a show of support for the new couple in their life together. The bread was tasty.

I've known John since we were 12 years old. We were on newspaper staff together.  We were really great friends in high school.  He was my adventure friend, and we'd end up going for long bike rides or to art galleries together.  One of my fondest memories was the two of us, riding our bikes from my house to a park on Haverhill and up Military Trail back to my house.   Senior year, we wandered around Palm Beach Island with our friends who had all been nominated for Pathfinder Awards.  I was off to tour the world with Up With People. They were all making plans for college.

During my tour, I got emails from John.  He was in Europe. He had decided to travel, too. We emailed back and forth over the year. Me from Prague.  Him while working on a boat in the Mediterranean. Me from Finland. Him from Stratford Upon Avon. I got postcards from him at home, telling me that I should go here or there. I was always jealous of his adventures even while I was having my own.

I had never met Bekkah, but thought I knew her pretty well through facebook posts. Halfway through the reception, I cornered John and pointedly told him that neither I not our friend Katie who was there had ever even met Bekkah. He introduced Katie and her husband. Then me. She said, "I've heard so much about you." He said, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

Who knew?  Certainly not me.  It's rare to get an opportunity to hear how you've effected your friends. It was nice to hear.  I think it's something I need to say more.

The thrill is gone.

I think I'm burnt out on improv.

Our torrid love affair was going strong.  Something changed recently, and I can't put my finger on it.

There's so much good stuff going on in my improv world, but I'm disinterested.  I dread going to rehearsal. I dread shows.  I love improv, but I hate it right now.

I see posts for shows. They're so exciting!  They use exclamation points!  And fun words!  And fun pictures! YAY!  SHINY!  IMPROV! IT'S ALL MADE UP, GUYS!

They make me want to stab my eyes out.

If I never do another countdown/shaking hands/hokey pokey warmup, I may be fine.

If I never have to kill myself to get to a rehearsal after an 8 hour shit show day at work followed by carrying my 42 pound dog down three flights of stairs so I can pick up his shit before shoving shit food in my piehole while driving, I might be good.

I am now part of two troupes and I don't want to do any of it. I love the people. I love the art form. But I'm just toast right now. Darkly burnt toast that you can't even save by scraping off the surface and putting on lots of jam.  You know.  The fruit stuff, not some hastily put together show with 15 troupes who get 5 minutes of improvisation a piece.

Maybe I'm too old for this shit. Maybe I'll be better when getting home at 5:30pm isn't pitch black and makes me want to curl into a ball and watch NCIS marathons until I go to bed at 11 to try and get a good start to another grindy day at work.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Ch-ch-changes...

One of my oldest friends from middle school is getting married this weekend.

My grandmother is moving out of her house this weekend.

I got my bloodwork back from yet another doctor and my glucose levels were high. Diet time. Exercise time. Change time.

I hate change.  I hate getting old.

The good thing is I asked my mom to get me something from Grandma's house.

It's a light switch plate.

On it is the figure of a cartoon tennis player.

The light switch is his penis.

It was in my grandpa's shed.  A shed full of memories of Grandpa and I painting crafts. Me painting in there by myself after he died. The smell of plant food, gasoline, and craft paint.  I can't walk through the garden center at Home Depot without flashing back to him teaching me how to do detail work on the faces of the Santa and Mrs. Claus he bought for me to paint by myself.  I wasn't very good, but he made me feel like I was the best craft painter to ever paint crafts.

I'm gonna miss that house.  I'm gonna miss that shed.  I'm gonna have a great time at the wedding this weekend with my pup, and my friends from middle and high school.  I'm gonna hike and enjoy life and forget the fact that the home that has 30 years of memories in it will soon not belong to my family. The wall that has pencil marks for height for my aunts, uncles, cousins, brother and sister will be painted a fresh coat of white.

I had a dream the other night that I bought the house and raised my kids in it.  Kevin frolicked in the backyard. Then I looked at the MLS and realized I could never, ever afford to have that dream come true.

It sucks, but I know my Grandma is going to be happy in her new home. I'm happy for her new adventure.  And I really, really want that light switch cover.