Loquacious outlining…

My mother brought this up the other day.  She said, “Mary, you haven’t been writing lately.”  At first, the response was simple and to the point.  “You’re right.  I just haven’t had anything to say.”  Well, yes, that is the truth, albeit a heavily truncated version of the truth.  After dissecting that statement over the past few days, I believe I have a better, more thought out response to that: I had words to say (and correction: I have been writing…the ever-in-progress-novel).  I just didn’t know if they were relevant.

This brings me to the question of relevance and all that encompasses that.  I don’t know necessarily who is reading this (other than the president of my fan club, my mother) and sometimes, when wondering who your audience is (know your audience), you begin to question the validity of statements and tone.  Well, sorry folks, I’m done questioning.  I don’t know who you are but here we go…yippee.  Hi mom.

So while deconstructing that argument of validity, I began to outline what has been happening since the last post (I am too embarrassed to even check when the last post was, what I do know is that I have skipped every major holiday and avoided them in writing much as I did in ‘real life’).  A debriefing of sorts I suppose shall suffice:

• I fell into my standard holiday depression.  I am beginning to wonder if depression is something that will continue to plague me as the years progress and hormones continue to spiral out of control.  Dear women on birth control, I commend you.  I almost wrote a piece about that but decided for the male subscribers, that would be a little too much information.  Also, that requires having a partner (even random) to have said ‘meetings’ with and well, BC hasn’t exactly been necessary when your life can easily be lumped into four things: Work.  Sleep.  Eat.  Dog.  If someone ever wanted to case my house, it would take a mere matter of days for them to figure out my schedule.  Moving on…
• I am in a bit of a bickering match, or lack there of with my best friend right now.  We haven’t spoken in over a week and while we are two very stubborn individuals, my feelings are still gravely hurt and I don’t know how to piece the words together appropriately to tell her how I feel other than to say, you fucking pissed me off.  And never, I repeat NEVER put my dog in his crate again (that’s not what started the argument but it certainly did not help either).
• I don’t believe in New Year Resolutions as I gather they are most often broken.  I am instead relying on what I now call my New Year Responsibility.  What is that? you ask.  Well, I have not mentioned this as it’s not a very proud conversation but here it is anyway.  I am in a wee bit of debt outside of my student loans.  Put it this way, I spent the early part of my 20s being irresponsible and behind a bottle.  I didn’t exactly pay some medical bills when they were due and well, I want to buy a house at some point in my life.  Insert 2011 and Operation Get Out of Debt (aside from the hellacious student loans).  I am determined, budgeted, and have even acquired a Tri-Met pass.  Farewell car and downtown parking fees.  Hello public transportation and a slowly rising credit score.  I thought getting old was supposed to be fun…
• My life isn’t where I had expected it to be at 25-almost-26.  I didn’t expect to be married, kids, the white picket fence, but I figured I wouldn’t still be bartending my way through bartending.  I am tired…so tired.  I had to start seeing a chiropractor just to find walking comfortable again.  By the end of this year, I refuse to be bartending.  It’s time to make shit happen in more ways than just the credit score.  This year, I will find a job that doesn’t make we want to pull my hair out.  Hopefully one with a little piece of joy I refer to as health insurance.  Something that makes me come home at the end of the day NOT hating humanity.  I am sick of correcting grammar.  I am sick of booze.  And I don’t even drink the shit.  Maybe I should change the name of 2011 from Operation Get Out of Debt to Operation Make Life Count.  Yes.  That’s the spirit, Burger.
• I am single.  I don’t know really where to go with that but yup, I still am.  I didn’t think that would change and I have been the last person to act on that.  Maybe that is why I ignore New Years Eve and the debacle that is Amateur Night.  I am almost afraid that I enjoy being alone too much such that I purchased a new TV (hello HD) and now have streaming NetFlix.  Maybe life as a cave woman (in high definition) is the way for me.  Or maybe I should start getting out more.  Please, just please, don’t talk to me on the bus.  I am still from a New England family, a wee bit snobby, and am well-versed in firearms and self-defense.

So there it is.  I’m sure somewhere hidden in that loquacious outline is a sense of relevance with all of you.  Or maybe a simple conversation starter.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I have a tendency to be redundant.  You heard (or read) me whine for over a year about a broken heart.  I am kind of in that “now what?” section of life when that heart is no longer broken, doesn’t belong to anyone, and though I may suffer from bouts of depression and significant solitude, I am happy.  I don’t know how to write when I am happy.  And I don’t want to write on a consistent basis when all I am writing about is the same thing, just reworked and reworded.  So I guess, Happy New Year.  Skordo says woof and Olive, well, she says meow and just peed on my bathmat.  Great.  At least she is consistent.
Wow.  I missed this…

The right lie…

I lied to someone the other day.  I knew it as the words came out that I was lying.  At the time, I didn’t know if it was necessary.  I had to sit on it for hours before finally retracting my statement.  Was it worth it?  Well, it never really is.  The audience wasn’t entirely worthy of the truth but at the end, I knew I had to give honesty where honesty was deserved.  Even to him.  Even if it was for the last time.

After the I.H., I wondered how long it would take before finally being comfortable with the notion of a relationship.  I questioned if I would ever be ready for that level of company in my life again, more than just for an evening.  I challenged myself to think outside of him, where we had been, and how far I have come from him.  Never will there be a light saying it’s done, it’s gone and over.  Never will I know without a reasonable level of doubt, but finally ridding myself of the distraction that his presence once left in my life was all I needed to say this is as ready as I have ever been.

This year has been a hailstorm of unnecessary proportions.  Even the past few months has been a challenge in and of itself.  Learning to deal – simply that: deal – with life alone again has brought out pieces of me that I had forgotten existed.  It has been empowering in a bizarre, flustering sort of way.  I surprise myself with bits.  And when I finally said “I’m done.  Enough.  Enough now.” the other day when taking my lie back, there was an honest smile where once a crooked, self-doubting grin had once been so at home.

But the lie.  I had lied when I said I didn’t want an emotional attachment.  I do.  I know myself now to be happy alone.  I don’t know if I have ever been this happy in my life, even with another body in it.  But this time, for the first time, I am by myself and so positively content.  Why would I want to disrupt that?  Who knows.  What I do know is that down the road, whether that road is tomorrow or next year, I want a presence in my life.  I want another level of happiness that can only be brought on by another.

So I lied to conceal that.  I don’t know why I did.  My knee-jerk reaction was to bottle it up and hide from it – from him – again.  But with that lie I knew it to be my last.  Whether it was the last contact forever or simply the last lie I could ever give him, I knew I was done.  It’s strange that a lie could draw out such a level of empowerment that it gave an extra boost to my step.  I bounced around the city the following day with a smile, knowing the reason for its presence being simply mine.  My decision that I made, alone.  It’s amazing that my little lie could bring something so right.

Maybe this is the ending to our book.  Maybe Berlin will never crumble again and I will never get the answers I have so wanted from you in order to give her the final words of prose.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I would rather live my life with a series of maybes, lingering on the last words of how the wall of Berlin fell but only for a moment, than to know Berlin only to be a myth.  I know where I will be and I will never let a heart push me to run so fast again…I will never be Elizabeth again, but maybe someday down the road, you will come to know me as Mary.

The lost August…

If given the opportunity to look back and reconsider the moves, Berlin, random places of employment, and buying a dog, I wonder what I would have changed.  A conversation over lunch today with a dear friend of mine made me question if this has all been moving full circle, or have I spent the past two years waiting for light at the end of the tunnel.  That light is quickly approaching and finally, for the first time in two years, I know without any uncertainty of heart, I am doing the right thing.

Would I have moved to Florida if I had known I would turn around and drive right back in 11 months?  Probably not.  Was it worth it?  Well, the monetary aspect – not so much, but the benefit of moving far outweighed the financial clinch it slightly strangled me with.  Did I need to spend a year living in humidity to realize Oregon is perfect?  Nope.  Absolutely not.  But did I go because something here was hindering any sense of progress and sheepishly, like a child, did I run home to my mother?  Yes.  Yes I did.  Was that right?  Not for all 24-year-old women, but for this one it was necessary.

Then comes the question of Berlin.  It’s hard to give any fair assessment of what happened now as I am still living with a sense of confusion.  I know what happened, I know where things took a turn for an unreasonable amount of frustration and pain.  But if I could go back and change the one thing that set us into distance and strangers, would I?  Was that broken heart a risk worth taking?  Or was I simply a fragile heart traveling naively into territory that was not mine to walk in?  Albeit a brief moment of belonging, did that moment overshadow a year of my life?  To answer those questions sequentially, it probably looks something like this: no, yes, yes, and yes.  Maybe Berlin was strictly there to be my muse.  And I think that’s where I have kept him.

There was a month of absence from writing that I’m sure was noticed.  Over lunch, that absence was discussed, though the conversation had been had during that month, it furthered over gyros.  Why didn’t I write?  Here is your answer: I sunk into a depression that was so foreign to me, to even begin to explain it would only increase a level of frustration and make it even more real.  I tried to hide it, hide myself, and I am pretty sure I hardly left my apartment for four weeks.  Was it necessary?  Yes.  And finally when I came out of my coma, though into a brighter and louder world than I had remembered, it was better.  I was simply scared and I had nothing to be afraid of.  I was afraid of sharing it with anyone and kept it my own secret.  My world suddenly struck a daemon that was meant to be handled quietly and alone.  Mission accomplished.

Then comes the light at the end of the tunnel.  A month ago, I was miserable.  I knew what I wanted and it was a matter of finding that one thing, that one person willing to take a chance and give me the opportunity I had so desired.  Well, it happened.  Light is near.  Come January, my world will be a very different place.  However unusual and foreign it will be to me, I will remind myself of the lost August and what failed to happen then.  And if ever presented with a lost month again, I will not allow for it to stifle the one thing that keeps me.

We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares are set about
us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us.
We are set down in life as in the element to which we best
correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of
years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we
hold still we are, through a happy mimicry,scarcely to be
distinguished from all that surrounds us. We have no reason to
mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors,
they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abuses belong to us;
are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. And if only we
arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us
that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now
still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust
and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those
ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into
princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses
who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps
everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless
that wants help from us.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Fearless or fearful…

As a repeat victim of identity theft, I wonder how much we should make available of ourselves online.  If you read the last blog, you are probably wondering what I am not willing to put online.  Certain things I am not ashamed of, even more so if they raise a valid point.  Well, my friend challenged me.  She won.

Once you hit your mid-twenties, dating becomes a bit more challenging I have noticed.  My best friend (aptly titled the BFF from here on out as I am not that witty with monikers before 2pm) has some serious balls.  I have complained about this before (yes…whined, complained, bitched) that as we age, the market gets slimmer and slimmer and opportunities to meet new people are not as easy as being drunk in college, class, or walking down a campus street.  Yes, we live in Portland.  Yes, we both have jobs (though I refuse to date customers – won’t happen.  Ever.) that could open up a dating pool.  And yes, we live ‘active’ social lives.  Her social life is a bit more vibrant than mine as again, I am lacking her fearless set of balls of going to a bar alone to have dinner and BAM! – she meets someone new this week.  Love her.  Admire her.  And am often in fear of her.

So we (excuse me, she) decided to try online dating.  OK, let me be clear about my opinion of online dating: it scares the absolute shit out of me.  Yes, I have Facebook and a very dormant MySpace page.  I have a blog.  I online shop (though am fearful of it now due to the recent identity theft).  I google map my life pretty much.  At any given moment, I can find what I want online.  In conversation with customers a few weeks ago, we wanted to know how meth is made (not for personal consumption but to see exactly what the process is and why crack-heads are so nimble).  I grab my faulty Blackberry Storm and within a minute, the “recipe” was in hand.    I don’t want to put my height online, have to classify my weight as either slim/slender or athletic (I run, but I also eat?).  I don’t want someone to already know what I absolutely despise or love for that matter.  I want to have something to talk about over our first coffee together.  Dear gods of the internet, I love you, just not enough to try dating through you.  The BFF is again the woman in charge and she gives it a shot.  I sign up on the same website though avoid putting a picture up, don’t even fill out the ‘about me’ page or even the ‘looking for’ section as I know I am not even window shopping here.  This is research.  She on the other hand is shopping.  Go to town.  She has a couple of dates over the course of a few weeks and though skeptical of the realm of online dating, has proven so far to be victorious.

What did I find?  Well, as this was far from shopping, I just wanted to see what was out there.  If I were in the market for someone much older than I who enjoys long walks on the beach and taking the sailboat out on the weekends all the while discussing his markedly rising cholesterol level, then I would have absolutely scored.  The pickings are slim if you are picky, fearful, and cautious to the notion of online dating.  It made me wonder though, are we there yet?  Are we at the age when it is time to settle down and find someone rather than play the field, play hard to get?  Is the party over and we should resort of the fact that shit, we are adults now and maybe we should start dating them?  Or at least like them?

I look back before I could even drive and I remember what I thought life would be like.  I had always figured I would be married (Young Mary, you almost did it), have a child, and would never have spent a year living with your mother in South Florida amidst Yankee hell.  But I was naive, and I am probably better for it.  I know now that children will never be in the cards for me and I am content with that.  I recognize certain parts of the country are not designed for this Oregon blood, and when in picking a date, I should not approach it as I do shoe shopping.  Though beautiful and tall, they are going to seriously hurt and are not appropriate for dancing or long-term wear.

The Booty Call

For the past month, I have been struggling to determine which direction to take this blog into – love (or lack there of), moving (presently: still), politics (ew), or sex and dating (hmm…).  For over a year, my life was focused on moving and where to go next – where I belong.  Not to say I have exactly tackled that notion but for the moment, I am content.  What happened last week seems to be a natural transition into some moderate level of relevancy in my life.  This is happening.  I am single.  Lord, save us all.

Being single marks a strange turn in my life.  Yes, I did it for the past year but let’s face it, I was living with my mother.   If you knew her, you would understand the responsibility it takes to peacefully coexist with that woman on a daily basis is an entity unto itself.  Prior to living with A, I was with The Ex.  It’s difficult to even remember life before that so naturally to be alone (finally), has presented itself with a strange level of challenges and triumphs.  And I must say, I am relishing in this single embodiment.  My apartment is currently a disaster but it’s all my mess.  I occasionally allow Skordo to sleep on my bed with me.  I have been watching seasons of House for over three weeks now and dammit, I pity the person who tries to alter my remote control state of mind at 1AM on a Tuesday.

Then comes the bizarre scene that is dating.  Allow me to make this clear: I hate dating.  It’s confusing, annoying, I can never figure out what to wear and is there protocol on what I am supposed to eat when out to dinner?  My last name is Burger.  I eat.  A lot.  I refuse to nibble on a salad just to look dainty.  Embrace me and my cholesterol level.  I hate the awkward first kiss, the “when should I call/text?” game (which is an entirely annoying system unto itself), and the general game that dating is already.  One would think that you could sell yourself better than a used car salesman sells a car.  No.  This is not the case.  Or maybe my forehead is still reading: I am judging you for your continual truncation in text messages, your clear needy behavior (I get it, you’re single.  I am too.  I’m planning my week, not my year.  And no, I’m not ready to meet your mother), and I know if we were to have sex, I would probably not want you there in the morning.  Wow.  This is hardly an online dating profile…

And then comes sex.  We have all been there.  There is an undying level for intimacy that doesn’t pass whether you are single or attached.  Many of my single friends (excuse me, the three of them) and I all have that go-to for, well, sex.  It works.  It’s emotionally painless, and requires little to no effort on a grandiose scale.  But what happens when someone new suddenly makes you into the booty call?  Someone you may very well be interested in and willing to pursue on a further level?  Someone you would actually want there in the morning to have coffee with?  My married friends, I commend you.  Still not jealous, but good work.

So I am at work on Thursday night.  It’s moderately slow and I look over and see the tell-tale red light flashing on my phone.  This is normally a spam e-mail at this hour so I was pleased to see the text message icon flashing.  Let’s call him CH (gold star to the first person to figure that out).

CH: Hi 🙂

Me: Hey.  How are you?

CH:  I’m good – you?

Me:  Working 😦

CH: Stiff drinks for us then huh?  🙂  haha

Me:  Yes, absolutely.

CH:  When you off? (This needs a verb!!!!!)

Me: No later than midnight.  Too late?

CH:  Probably not 🙂 text me when ur done. (Again, truncation…painful)

Many of you are probably already catching the error here.  And yes, I did too.  Immediately.  But in my work mind, I kept going until I realize oh shit, this is a booty call.  I get off work and am home in bed (alone) by one.

2:41AM CH: You up?

No.  I am not awake.  Nor am I going to wake up, get in the shower and shave my legs only to get off, get a couple hours of sleep, and do what I know to be the walk of shame to my car outside your very nice waterfront condo.  Herein lies the problem:  I liked this individual.  Not that I want to dive into some massive relationship but I would have pursued a few more evenings and the “let’s see where it goes” game.  Yeah, I can put myself out there for that.  I think I can handle it.  So how do you appropriately tell someone you don’t look at them as the booty call without scaring them off?  I have other people I can call if it’s just that.  I just like being near you.  And for some reason that makes me want to gather the answer, you intrigue me.  This is Mary, signing off from Disasters in Dating.  I’m not shaving my legs for a week.

Waiting for the sky to turn…

I haven’t exactly been at a standstill, but thoughts have been piled and jumbled into an odd level of catastrophe over recent weeks.  I am still trying to process the next step, challenge, and endeavor.  Not to say that today was any remote view of clarity, but it left for hope on the horizon.

As mentioned in the last post, I have been struggling with the next chapter of this blog.  Well, it’s not only the blog I am pulling right now.  It’s absolutely me too.  This is far different than last year though.  I have exactly what I wanted.  I am where I want to be.  I could do a song and dance about my love affair with my apartment and restaurant downstairs, but I will refrain for the time being.  Rest assured, a future homage to my landlord will be documented.  Heavily.  I am just quiet now and this is odd.

A conversation sparked a thought that has been long resonating.  This is a topic I have been wary of broaching but I feel the time is appropriate.  You have seen me through the worst – the end of Berlin – so why not venture through what is left and where this heart is heading now?  I don’t see too much harm in that.  And quite frankly, with the exception of changing Skordo’s diet, finally getting cable (praise Comcast), and going to Corvallis to see The Asshole, nothing else is outwardly different in this life of mine.  So here it goes.

Are you looking for love?  Am I?  Is anyone ever?

There is something to be said about the active/inactive pursuit of happiness.  I have found over the past month that this solitude is far more welcoming than I would have expected.  We have covered that though but it goes further than that.  At what point do you begin to create space for someone else in the life you are creating?  And if so, do you try to find it or just let it happen?  Well, these questions were proposed to me today and I was surprisingly quick to answer.

I am not looking.  The knee jerk response from the other end of said conversation was “is anyone ever looking?”  Well, yes.  There is an odd level of desperation hidden deep down.  No one wants to admit it.  Some do not possess this notion and some do.  I know women looking for love, a partner, a dinner date, or a man to bring her flowers.  I also know that other woman that takes strange joy in her quiet evenings, waiting for the sky to turn black and to only be surrounded by candles.  These candles are not meant for another but only for herself.  She will listen to the same song over and over again, eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the floor, then take a run at midnight strictly because she can.  There are no words spoken in these moments, just silence and thoughts bouncing through her head.  But she is happy.  And that was all she wanted.

How is that solitude disrupted though?  Where does it come from?  Suddenly, love walks in just as unannounced as the newspaper.  How do you reconstruct to make it fit in this life that is already perfectly whole?  Better yet, do you want to?

I am challenging myself with my series of ‘maybes’ again.  Maybe I want this, maybe I don’t.  Maybe I am not ready for it again.  Maybe to force yourself to choose which side of the fence to be on is irrational and obtrusive.  Maybe any level of pressure on love will only create a hailstorm of unnecessary proportions.  Maybe it has always been there waiting to make itself known.  Or maybe, it’s just that:  Love, you may be now.

That is my window. Just now
I have so softly wakened.
I thought that I would float.
How far does my life reach,
and where does the night begin

I could think that everything
was still me all around;
transparent like a crystal’s
depths, darkened, mute.

I could keep even the stars
within me; so immense
my heart seems to me; so willingly
it let him go again.

whom I began perhaps to love, perhaps to hold.
Like something strange, undreamt-of,
my fate now gazes at me.

For what, then, am I stretched out
beneath this endlessness,
exuding fragrance like a meadow,
swayed this way and that,

calling out and frightened
that someone will hear the call,
and destined to disappear
inside some other life.

Rainer Maria Rilke

A tangent of unnecessary sorts…

Ever so slightly, this is beginning to feel like life again.  The vacation is over.  Employment has begun and the boxes are dwindling to a few scattered towers that may as well say ‘find home for me’.  I forgot how much stuff I have.  Simply that – stuff.  But this is it.  This was everything I had asked for.

Before I moved, I had a customer in Florida tell me that home is not going to be as good as I had remembered or even expected.  Well, this man was right.  I am not going to sit here and say it is better because that would be dripping in sarcasm.  There have been moments marked with tears and questions.  I have sat in my apartment, staring at the boxes wondering what have I gotten myself into.  I have wondered if this is even right.  Then today happened just to remind me why I moved back here.

I started work.  Great.  Splendid.  I am slowly creeping into a routine and though it is not my ideal schedule (mornings…), it feels as life is beginning.  It certainly relieves a great deal of stress knowing that rent will be paid, shoes can be purchased, and Skordo will have a new bag of food to eat.  But with employment and a new schedule comes something I had forgotten about: the joy of not being at work.  Tonight, I had that aha! moment.

As work ended tonight, I knew Skordo would be itching for a long walk.  A dear friend of mine called as I was leaving said place of employment and as she and I both have dogs, we decided to take the pups for a run tonight.  Well, my running is sorely out of shape as I am even more out of shape but we tried.  Either way, all it took was running down Naito Parkway along the riverfront to remind me why I came home.  And as we walked the dogs the last leg through the blocks of downtown, climbing our way back to my apartment, a semblance of home and accomplishment washed over me.  This was right.  The boxes were worth it.  The tears were worth it.  This damn city is perfect.  And the year away from here was ever so necessary.

I moved to Florida to accomplish something, we all know that.  Well, it took three days of being home to finally know without a shred of uncertainty of heart to know that this body of mine is no longer feeling the weight of Berlin wading through its bones.  Even after seeing him and possibly shedding an unnecessary tear (I haven’t the slightest clue where the waterworks come from but I will embrace this change of heart and show of emotion), I know that wall is no longer a part of me.  I tore my own wall down and finally forced his out.

But back to today after my excessively truncated tangent of a sorely unnecessary night in my life (though freeing, I must say).  I am home.  It finally feels real.  And as I sit here typing these words, I can glance up, see the city lights out of the many windows of my apartment, and know this is what was supposed to happen.  As alone and strange as it feels, just to sit barefoot at my table, a cup of green tea at my side, Skordo on my feet, and Olive perched in her window, reminds me to never lose sight of this again.  I had my Gretel moment.  I scattered the breadcrumbs of what I could have sworn to be irrevocably broken, only to gather them up one last time simply to say I am home.  The next time this heart breaks, I’ll invest further in vacuums, less moving equipment.

Static interference…

Home.  In Oregon.  Again.  Let’s see if I can start this over.

I could sit here and write the emotions of the drive, the feelings and tears I shed when my heavily caffeinated body crossed the Oregon border, and the cursing words out of my mouth when I arrived in Portland, smack in the middle of rush hour.  I won’t though.  Briefly, I will give you a recap of the last week and a half of my life:

Tuesday June 1:  Pulled over by a state trooper 20 miles into Oregon.  I am (and I quote) charming.  Arrived in Portland.  Flipped the bird to a few drivers then realized this is not South Florida.  Note to self: must be nice again.  I’M HOME!!!  It’s cold…

Wednesday:  I’M HOME!!!  It’s cold…

Thursday:  I’M HOME!!!  I’m still cold…

Friday:  I’M HOME!!!  It’s cold and raining…

Saturday:  I’M HOME!!!  Where are my movers?  I want my socks.

Sunday:  Moving company gets an earful.  I try and to no avail.  Must allocate a raincoat.

Monday:  Holy shit, I live here.  I need a job…

Tuesday:  This futon is killing my back.

Wednesday:  Must.  Find.  Employment.

Thursday:  Moving company finally makes contact (a further post will describe in great detail my contempt towards this company and the scathing complaint the South Florida Better Business Bureau will be receiving).  Saturday or Sunday.  No more camping with internet, electricity, and my (lifesaving) landlord’s microwave and dishes.

Friday:  Still raining in Oregon…packed wrong clothes.  I must have been more of a Floridian than I thought.  Employment?  Please?

So that’s it in a nutshell.  Here I am, writing on the floor of my apartment, Skordo asleep on the murderous futon (at least someone enjoys it), and Olive perched on the window sill behind me.  There is a lone lamp on the floor.  A bookshelf to my left with not a single book but a candle, Buddha statue, and my other laptop.  The walls are blank but they are mine.  Tomorrow, this place will be a nightmare of liquor boxes.  I will sleep on a bed again – my bed.  My books will make their way back to shelves that I will yet again put back together.  Lamps will be placed on tables and my savior – my landlord – will have his dishes, spare microwave, and blanket returned to him.  But Saturday?  Where did Saturday go?  Still in it, and I wanted more than a nutshell of Jack Frost description.

I went home today.  Yeah, I know…I am home, but not home home.  As I found myself wide awake at 5 this morning, walking Skordo against the brisk Oregon morning chill, I decided I needed to get out of town for a day.  I packed him in the car, locked the cat in the bathroom (even though I hate the futon, I still have to sleep on it tonight and sure don’t want to sleep on cat piss.  Again), and began to drive south.  As I crossed the bridge into Corvallis, a flood of old memories hit me like a force of bricks.  I didn’t cry, but I did choke back a lump.  I don’t know what this move or past year has done to me but for some reason, I will cry now.  The secret is out – I have a heart.

I drove the streets I learned to drive on, passed the school where I had my first kiss, had coffee with my surrogate family, and finally made my way to the house of the man that raised me.  I was in need of something familiar today.  He gave that to me.  Simply put, this is the best man in the world.

As we sat in his backyard, our dogs chasing each other until they were panting in the wading pool, I realized this was the right decision.  I knew the simplicity of excitement could overbear the clear and present path and maybe have interfered with the difference of right and wrong.  Not now though.  Not this move.  Not this time.  This was finally right.  At last.  As much static plagued my life in Portland the first time, it won’t be a cause of disruption or interference this time.  I’m home and this is mine.  I am alone for the first time in over two years and it is strange but this solitude is welcoming.  There is an air of simplicity right now in that I have nothing here other than this room of random stuff and my animals.  There is a vacancy in my heart where once love stood so proud.  It’s strange the reflection between heart and walls now.  I may very well miss these blank walls come tomorrow…but I won’t leave them blank.

To write a life…

I remember when I was little, I had an idea.  My idea was that if I moved away everything would be perfect.  Everything would make sense.  Everything would be better.  All I had to do was leave Oregon.  Oh Little Mary, you were a silly girl.

I was six years old when I first moved away from Oregon.  It was right after my father had died and my mother and I moved to Washington D.C. to be closer to her family.  We spent two amazing years there before moving back to Oregon.  D.C. will always be considered some strange idea of home, as Oregon has always been.  Once we moved home though, I spent the next 16 years fighting to leave.  It took me 14, but I finally left Corvallis.  Once I left Corvallis, I felt right – like this was what I had been missing all along.  Then I left Portland for here.  You know that story though…you know why I left.  Now let’s get to the fun part of why I am going home…and it’s not what you think.

Every time I move away from somewhere, I know myself well enough to know I am running.  I do this, I get that.  I burn enough bridges to the point that I cannot fathom a day in that world anymore.  I haven’t done that here.  Aside from quitting my job in a fashion that I am in no sense of the word proud of, I am not leaving a stone here unturned and am leaving life exactly how it was when I arrived.  OK, only a bit more tan, with a few extra pounds on (A, we need to stop eating brownies), and a heart that isn’t clenching in despair.  I finally wrote a life out that I have been proud of.  I was honest.  I was fair.  I was oddly mature about men (maybe my cynicism is getting the best of me but quite frankly, nothing here was enough to impress me…or keep me here) and was able to walk away when I knew it time.

When the time came to move here, we all know that I moved because my heart was broken…blah, blah, blah.  Noted.  Got it.  But when it came down to the wire and I was forced to make a decision about the next great move, whether it be Key West, Oregon, Maine, or Washington D.C., I made the decision with a level head, an empty heart, and the clearest of mind.  It may have very well been the first time I have ever done that.  Never once has there not been a man pulling me somewhere – in heart, action, presence, or simply memory.  Nothing.  There is nothing there.  It is a strange void but that void was what I needed to finally, at long last, make a decision for myself.  So home it is.  Oregon home that is.  Portland – in all of its majestic beauty – you won.  I don’t know if I am much of a prize but you are getting me back.  I promise you, I will give you the best of me this time.  I won’t try to burn down the St. Johns bridge as I had so vehemently attempted our last time around.

So why Oregon?  Aside from instate tuition, the great mountains, Pacific, my friends, strange little family, and a streetcar that makes me happier than A’s brownies, it came down to this:  it made sense.  I have never been happier than when I was in Oregon.  I have never been more miserable either but let’s face it, that is bound to happen anywhere.  I didn’t try last time.  I lead a life that could make anyone take brownies for granted (hormones are getting the best of me today).  I could make a life for my animals and me anywhere and be happy now, I have figured out how to do that, but the only place I want to do that now is home.  My home.  My rainy, Christmas tree stamped home.  Palm trees, you aren’t cutting it just yet.  Maybe when I reach the age of enlightenment/retirement, I will come back here and die in this humidity ridden state, but I’m sure not there yet.

To Florida, thank you for allowing me in your state for the past 11 months.  You have been, well, interesting.  Thank you for furthering me, for pushing me to better myself, and for showing me who I really am, and what I really want.  Also, thanks for letting me win a bet.  I did not get plastic surgery.  My friend, you owe me $20.

And we’re off…

A friend of mine left me an interesting comment the other day.  While he pointed out the obvious, I feel there are parts of my story missing in it…the parts I never felt the need to address before.  Yes, I needed to grow up.  Maybe that’s why I moved here.  Yes, I felt life to be a mundane existence hence fleeing from a broken heart to try something new.  And yes, I have made some decisions in the past that I am not so proud of but I will never say I regret them.  They all lead me to something, whether that something be something new, a better person within, or simply learning from an ill-fated action.  So where now?

I will open this by saying that I have a fever of 100.4 right now.  I quit my job yesterday and I feel this may be karma biting me in the ass.  If my words end up being a bit on the jibberish side, well, my head and throat are on fire and Skordo is testing my nerves to the extreme right now.  Onward march though…

I am moving home earlier than initially planned.  This is starting to parallel my move here in the sense of I had made a plan to leave on one date and ended up leaving early.  Am I running again?  Not this time.  Moving here, I absolutely did.  We already know that.  Leaving here though, I have nothing to run from.  I lived a life here that I am strangely proud of.  I grew up in a manner at which was entirely necessary, and finally, I took a few risks.  I did things I never thought I would.  I took that playing safe card and threw it out the window.  And you know what?  It didn’t break me.

Last week, I encountered an opportunity to be outside of myself a little bit.  Maybe that ended up leading to the progression of my new-found set of balls, but I took a few risks.  And at the end of each action, I found myself smiling.  I did what was right for me, I took care of myself in a way the Year Ago Mary would not have, and I had some fun.  I suppose I played my ‘risk worth taking’ game again.  I like that game though.  I didn’t win.  I didn’t lose.  I finally enjoyed.

Off we go now though into the great abyss of packing, boxes, allocating housing (my two new least favorite words:  breed restrictions…Skordo is a damn cat), and prepping my car (and my sanity) for the great drive again.  Maybe I continue to tell myself this is right because there is a part of me that can’t quite believe it.  Maybe I am still trying to motivate myself to do any of this, but I certainly set the ball in motion yesterday.  Or maybe, I simply am ready to start over again.  Either way, something beautiful will come out of all of this.  I am curious to know what that something beautiful is.