2006-03-12 @ 1:30 a.m.
Iím just back from a long walk around the Village. First to the Hess gas station to buy some mini-donuts. Gotta keep my girlish figure. And then a stop at the Village Hardware. Its really the only place, within walking distance of my apartment, which has Free Range Man Viewing. But it was mostly old geezers today and if they want to see me, they can just check out my sMatch.com ad and send me a wink if their pacemakers donít get fritzed out by my effervescent beauty.
I then headed up to the cemetery. I always have to cross the street right before the entrance because Married Guyís wifieís parents live right across the street and Iím always afraid Iíll accidently see him there, you know, schmoozing with the in-laws. I remember once, wifie, in a rare moment of candor, told me she thought her parents liked Married Guy more than they liked her. I didnít want to crush the little flower and tell her thatís pretty much how everyone felt, so I just thoughtfully nodded my head and pretended like we were having a real Hallmark moment. Was I being a phony? Perhaps, but considering how she had treated me the other 98% of the time, I didnít really feel that bad about a little method acting, especially since it was for the feelings of an incredibly pampered yuppie wifie who didn't appear to appreciate what she had.
The cemetery was uneventful, which I guess is a good thing. No flesh eating zombies flinging open the doors of the mausoleums, ready to make short work of an Irish Leg OíLamb with Reeboxs on. The snow had just melted in the last two days, making way for various flower bulbs to start forcefully pushing their way through the soft, mushy earth. There were even the more hardy Snowdrops actually courageously blooming despite the fact that weíre supposed to be getting snow once again towards the middle of the week. But, I guess at this point, thereís no turning back. The days are getting longer. The sun is getting higher over the horizon (I only know this because its no longer blinding me in the morning when I first wake up). And Iíve been hearing the glorious sounds of geese honking as they fly in ďVĒ shapes towards Canada.
We actually have quite a large geese population locally for most of the spring, summer and fall. I live about a block and a half from a pond with a small chunk of land in the middle nicknamed Hamburger Island. We get lots of geese and ducks there. Of course, in the good old days, before government intervention (you know, since they donít have much to do elsewhere), we used to be able to feed the ducks and geese. But then, in the last two years, signs have sprung up all around the pond telling people not to feed the waterfowl because it might interfere with their ability to know how to feed themselves. And that is sad, because I used to walk down and feed them all the time when I lived in the Village before. I especially loved in the early summer when the geese would have their babies and those silly babies were so naive that they actually would come right up and eat bread crusts right out of your hands. But damn, then they kept expecting me to come feed them, over and over and over, like E.v.e.r.y.d.a.y. Because obviously they couldnít figure out how to chomp on grass and eat algae and bugs by themselves, which of course, screwed up the entire eco-system in the Northern Hemisphere, all because I had thoughtfully offered up a few crusts of bread.
Hopefully you wonít look too closely at the signs around Hamburger Island, because if you do, just after the little asterisk, in tiny print down by the bottom you'll see, ď*In case youíre wondering whoís responsible for the 'Do Not Feed the Waterfowl' thing, just go knock on wittyís door. Ask her. Sheís the one. And boy are the Mallards ever pissed!Ē
I did manage to get across the street from the cemetery to the pond with nary an angry Wood Duck attack, although just when I got to the other side, an SUV drove by and a kid yelled ďHEY!Ē and waved his arms at me, which of course, totally spooked me out. Why? Because for a split second I wasnít sure if it was one of the ďFeed the DuckĒ supporters who always try to bombard me with globs of spackle (which simulates fake bird poop, kinda like the PETA people throwing fake blood on Paris Hilton's fur coat) when they drive by. Because after all, I'm responsible for the chink in the waterfowl food chain and ducks canít go food shopping at Wegmanís.
My other thought was....ahhhhhhhh!!!!! Was that Married Guy and Kidlet driving by? Was it? It sure looked like them. Is he going to turn around and come back? Should I start seeking shelter by swimming out to Hamburger Island in the 33 degree water and hide amongst the trees? Because even though it was only brief, it did look like my beloved Kidlet. I havenít seen him in over a year and that would have been an important year in terms of growth. When I last saw him, even though he was a Freshman in high school, he still only looked about 11 years old. He was small and physically immature and shorter than every girl in his 9th grade class. Who knows what has happened in the last year? He could have grown a goatee and built a six pack for all I know. My heart was pounding after that though. Eep.
I did cautiously continue my walk. But I was thinking about the fact that I do everything cautiously. I sneak around...I hide from people....I avoid confrontations....I'm purposely quiet so people wonít pull me into situations. And its all because I feel like everytime I dip my proverbial toe into something....like confronting my Dad about his thieving wife or confronting Married Guy about my feelings, I pretty much set myself up for a big emotional smack down. Is that how it is for other people? Are all confrontations do or die situations?
Because that's how it feels for me. I get all jittery when my emotions start to rise. Its almost as if my rights and feelings donít matter. And Iím fairly certain it has to do with how I grew up. I did argue with my mom when I was younger, but she never fought fairly. Like I would get angry and then she would get a chest pain and then everything would suddenly be null and void. So I never really learned how to express my anger. And now, after all these years of swallowing my feelings, my anger is like some old rusted overflowing toxic waste container, oozing out of various cracks. Thereís a lot of it. And Iím scared of it. And if this were a Bruce Willis movie, weíd be seeing an extreme close-up of the rusty hinges on the side of it getting ready to snap under the pressure. Eeek!
Itís funny how during the day I cope with it fairly well. Iím like the queen of teaching people to love, help and empower themselves at work and I even give pointers to my coworkers like the Two Jennifers who came up with a really interesting topic this week: ďIntelligence and mental illnessĒ. I didnít say anything when she said that, although I felt like she was implying that if youíre mentally ill, ya better forget about having many more IQ points than Jessica Simpson. I donít even think she realized how insulting the topic was. I mean, have you ever seen a list of people with mental health diagnosis? Theodore Roosevelt (depression), Abraham Lincoln (depression), John Nash (schizophrenic), Vincent Van Gogh (Bipolar). Winston Churchill (bipolar). Michaelangelo (bipolar). Virginia Wolff (depression).
So I usually try to work things out while Iím walking. Right now Iím very manic...and manic means that my anger is closer to the surface and that means Iím awake at like at 3 a.m. writing novels and trying to come up with a cure for AIDS. But then Iíll also sit up and wonder why I'm so angry. And things will really go awry when Iíll think of doing something really stupid like getting back in contact with Married Guy because Iím so damn lonely. Yeah. I've actually been thinking about it lately. In fact, Iíve even been going to the mall the last couple of weekends because I know heíll be there at a certain time.
ďAĒ had told me a couple of weeks ago that since I never confront anyone, that theyíll always be walking around waiting for me to bump into them, so I thought, ďHey! Why donít I just start purposely bumping into them and then maybe Iíll realize that Iím not really THAT mad and everything will be hunky dory.Ē Although I don't think that is quite what "A" had in mind.
But it seemed to make some sense when I was laying on my couch at 3:30 a.m. last night looking at the peach colored streetlight streaming in through the lace curtains in the living room. (Iíve been unable to sleep in my bedroom for over 3 weeks now. Why? I have no idea). Naturally I realize the possible risk in my plan, since last weekend when I drove to the mall, you know, on my mission to ďjust to bump into" Married Guy, and say ďoh hi, its been awhile. Whatís new?Ē. And even though it was only about a 7 minute drive, by time I was pulling into the mall, I had already managed to compress about 3 hours worth of rage into a 7 minute drive. Not a good sign. And I sure didn't want to prove my coworker right in the mentally ill=stupid theory.
So after my walk today, I actually called my friend out in California and we talked for about an hour. I donít have anyone on the East Coast to chat with and it really does take its toll. It was nice to have someone listen and not be judgmental. I was, in fact, laughing while telling her about a guy I could see over across the street. Here the snow had just melted and it was only about 50 degrees out, and yet he was out blowing up a plastic kidís pool in his shorts. I thought....what an idiot! Its supposed to snow again midweek, but then I realized that once you get just a hint of spring (flowers bursting forth and geese flying north) in these parts, people are just ready for a new start.
And maybe so should I.
Anyways, hereís a picture of Guardcat out on the porch enjoying the sun for her 8th kitty birthday yesterday.
Happy birthday, Guardcat!
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty