Monday, December 14, 2020
Tuesday, November 10, 2020
David and I have been dating for almost 18 months and making crispy tofu still eludes me.
His current shifts have him working until late--8:00 or 8:30PM and I take a lot of pride in having something delicious on the table when he comes home. Eggplant parmesan, homemade root vegetable pot pie, stuffed squash and mashed potatoes--anything that gives me something to do in the evenings and makes it so he has something to look forward to after a long shift on a snowy evening.
Tonight I've been trying to make a crispy tofu stir fry and the tofu turns out fine, I guess. But it's not what I wanted for him.
It upsets me more than it should.
* * *
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
It's not an unusual thing. He's usually up by 5AM and comes in to kiss me goodbye before he leaves. Usually I'll wake up just enough to have a conversation with him I'll forget by the time my alarm goes off. Sometimes I'll say something insane and make him laugh before he leaves ("Why are you putting catheters in the cats?" was one of his favorites).
This morning somewhere between telling me about taking out the garbage and doing the laundry, my eyes drift open and I grab his hand.
"I was dreaming about magic," I tell him.
An old acquaintance from college likes to throw this in my face whenever she sees me reacting to a baby crying in public or a toddler having a meltdown on public transit.
I'm never reacting for the reason she thinks.
I've tried everything I can to get her to stop talking about it, to stop making the joke. There were lots of things I wanted in my early 20s and there were lots of things I thought I wanted in my early 20s. This is a small hurt, but an old one, and I've learned how to deal with it.
Sometimes it's easier to bear someone's unthinking cruelty than explain why it's cruel.
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
"Well, I also told her I wanted access to medical grade marijuana for recreation."
Sunday, March 22, 2020
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
"No," my brain corrects me. "Not barfing. It's purging all that awful stuff you just put into you body."
That "awful stuff" includes some leftover mac and cheese and a piece of fried fish from last night's birthday dinner. I also ate a slice of leftover birthday cake and had a glass of wine.
It's disgusting. I'm disgusting.
I can't stop thinking about how good it would feel to get it all out of my body, quickrightthismoment before it gets digested.
I'm fantasizing about it as I write this.
I still think about purging.
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
To start, it's full of my stuff. My books, my art, and my mother's rocking chair are all out in the open again. Shelves of DVDs are not considered decoration. While it's certainly lived-in, it's also tidy and cozy.
I've only been here for a few weeks, but it already feels more like home than the apartment my ex and I shared for three years.
The biggest change is that there's music in the house again.
It's been over three years since I've been able to turn on an album without first having the check with my ex about whether or not it would overstimulate him. (it would) Or ask if he was planning to turn on television or a video game (he was). Or inquire about whether or not he wanted to talk about anything (he never did).
Granted, a lot of it is Patsy Cline, Billie Holiday, and with the occasional interlude into The Smiths when I'm feeling really awful.
It's a start.
Every moment that I spend with him feels precious.
He gets me a glass of tea and does something to make me laugh. On the radio, Amy is singing about love being a losing game and in this moment, I don't even care if she's right. This doesn't feel like losing game. It doesn't feel like an ending.
It feels like a really good beginning.