THANKFUL FRIDAY

When Chris and I moved into our house, it came with a large brush pile in the back corner of our backyard. After Chris died, I decided I was going to garden and put in some raised beds. Then I built a compost bin from wood pallets. Don’t ever do that, by the way. It was a terrible compost bin and eventually the wood pallets started to fall apart and collapsed in on each other. The brush pile from the corner got moved next to and into the compost bin. My gardening attempts were unsatisfying and I abandoned the beds. Eventually I broke them down and evened out the yard where they had been sitting, with the exception of one spot. It looks like we buried a body there. Meanwhile, the brush pile continued to grow. Michael and I built the firepit with the intention of burning off the brush pile and sometimes it looked like we were actually going to do that. The pile would dwindle a bit, but a tree limb would fall or we’d clear off the fence line and the pile would just grow.

Recently, over the summer, Michael and I cleaned out the garage and piled all the unwanted big trash items into the backyard. That pile has been sitting there mocking me for weeks. Every time Michael and I had the discussion about what to do with it all, the discussion would just be a great big circle of words without actions. It was too little to fill up a Bagster dumpster, but too big for regular garbage. So now, every time I looked into the backyard I saw two large piles of garbage and hate would fill up inside my heart. Finally we just decided to see how much garbage we could put into the back of Michael’s truck and pay to dump it someplace. Turns out, you can put a lot of garbage in the back of Michael’s truck and for fifty dollars, a place not far from us will let you throw it all into a compacter hole. I don’t know what this says about my life, but throwing stuff into that hole is the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.

After throwing away the big garbage, we came home and started burning up the brush pile. And for the first time since ever, when I look out into my backyard there is not a pile of brush or garbage out there making me scowl. We burned up all of the brush plus a pile of brush from our next door neighbor. If we want to have another firepit night, we will have to buy wood to burn. There’s nothing left to burn. This makes me want to twirl around with my arms open wide while singing The Sound of Music. I can see the potential of a backyard that is inviting and lovely to sit in, a place were we could entertain friends and just relax. Maybe we’ll eventually build a patio and buy real patio furniture and a grill that didn’t come to us free from Facebook market place.

At some point during our firepit night, I could see that this was going to be it for that brush pile and I was giddy. Michael said something like “So getting rid of stuff brings you joy, huh?” and it does. It is beyond pleasing to me. I love throwing things away. Sometimes a little too much. I threw away my power cord for an external harddrive during one cleaning frenzy. I do not believe I threw out Michael’s passports (yes, multiple) even though he has torn the house apart looking for them. I do think they are probably in the garbage, but I was not the one who put them there. But still…it could have been me. I just don’t see a need to hang onto a lamp that broke two years ago and is hanging out in the basement waiting to be repaired. I’m not going to repair a lamp. I am also not going to have a garage sale. Garage sales are their own special kind of Hell and I want no part in it. I don’t have the mental or physical energy for that. Park a dumpster in my driveway and I could cart stuff out to it all day.

It is a little disturbing how the act of throwing things in a dumpster can make me so gleeful. Maybe disturbing is not the right word choice. I’ve lived amongst the hoarding type my whole life and it has given me a great appreciation for less. I think there’s a bout of Swedish Death Cleaning in my future. I think this would be a great uplifting activity for those winter months when I have the winter blues. Today, I am grateful for the view from my kitchen window into the backyard and how it is no longer marred with a giant pile garbage.

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

It was the kind of place where you had to bring your own beer, but the fish sandwiches were perfectly fried. I sat at the bar, with a six pack, well, now dwindled to a four pack, of Abita sat under my feet. It was odd for this fish shack to have a bar, but no booze. The owner, Eric, was dark and broody and preferred his customers to take their food and go. This would might have worked if his niece, Sally, his only employee, hadn’t started the byob rumor to get customers into her uncle’s fish shop. I sat at the bar with my Abitas every Friday evening, sharing my beers with Sally, eating a fish sandwich and playing dice with Sally in between her waitressing duties. I was pretty sure Eric didn’t like me. I’d only lived in the area for about a year. Most people were still a bit suspicious, but Eric seemed genuinely irritated by presence.

This particular evening seemed extra irritating. It was hot and muggy. The air had that electrical smell it gets before a storm. Newscaster’s and weathermen were already talking about expected damages. No one in the fish shack looked particularly concerned, but customers were more inclined to get their orders to go. At 9 pm on a Friday night, Sally and I were the only two left out front with Eric banging around in the kitchen. I handed Sally my last Abita and said “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back and then I’m packing up to go.” I could see lightning flashing in the distance. Sally pouted and whined “It’s too early. Storm season is so boring.” Eric stuck his head out the order window and looked directly at me. “We should close shop early tonight, Sally.” I headed to the bathroom.

When I came out, the place was deserted. Half the lights were turned off. I could hear Eric in the kitchen washing up the last of the dishes. “Hey…um…did Sally leave? I’m just going to grab my stuff….Eric?” I yelled hoping he’d hear me over the running water. I reached down for my bag, but the strap had gotten wrapped around the heavy barstool next to it. I bent down and tilted the bar stool with my shoulder and freed the strap, struggling slightly with the weight and number of beers I’d had. I stood up a little unsteadily and turned around and then ran right into Eric’s not so soft chest. He grabbed my upper arms to steady me and when I looked up at his face, he was looking down at me with one eyebrow raised. “It’s raining.” He said. I paused and could hear the rain hitting the metal roof. “Yup, it sure is. You know…I’m only at the end of the street. I think I can get a little wet.” I said. Thunder cracked suddenly and I jumped, again bumping into Eric’s body. This time I jumped back like I’d been scalded. Jesus, Cindy, get it together, I thought to myself.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, but really I’ll be fine. Plus, I’m pretty sure I am the last person you probably want to be trapped in a storm with.” I said. Eric chuckled. “Why would you think that? I feed you every Friday night and you talked Sally into going back to school. I’m just not warm and fuzzy, I guess, but I like you just fine.” It was the way he said that last bit. It made my mouth go dry and my breath catch in my throat. Then Eric leaned down close and said “I probably like you more than I want to like you. In fact, I knew you’d be a pain in my ass the first time you walked in that door.” I don’t know, maybe it was the beer, but at the next boom of thunder, instead of jumping back, I jumped forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and planting my lips on his. He didn’t seem all that surprised by my action because his large hands went straight down to grip my ass.

And that is when I woke up gasping and realizing that I could probably write a decent trashy romance novel. In my sleep.

FAST

12/52

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The other night I had a dream where I was HUGE pregnant. Like I could have that baby at any moment pregnant. I remember looking down over my expansive belly and barely being able to see the tips of my toes. I was that pregnant. A group of us were wandering around a department store. I know my Mom was there and maybe my sister-in-law. I don’t really remember who was present, but it was suggested at one point that we all go swimming. “I don’t have a swimsuit.” I said. Then Mom said that I should just buy one and I was appalled at the idea of buying a new swimsuit to fit this engorged belly. “There’s no way I’m spending money on a new swimsuit I will only wear one time. I’d rather swim naked with my white round belly gleaming like a full moon.” Then I woke up. I have no other recollections of the dream other the heaviness I would expect to feel if I were huge pregnant.

I’m about to birth something I don’t want to spend any money on.

It might have to do with how I will probably be working from home by the end of Friday.

It could also just be a commentary about my genetic disposition of money spending.

Some time, way back in the Fall, Michael and I were driving down State Line when we passed a really nice rake just laying by the side of the road. “Did you see that?!? That was a really nice rake. We should go back and get it!” These words that sounded exactly my dad speaking just poured so easily from my lips. Michael looked at me sideways and said “You’re kidding right? We’re not going back for that rake.” I laughed and said “Of course I’m kidding.” Except I kind of wasn’t. Months have passed since this incident and I still have regrets about not going back for that rake on the side of the road. I can clearly see my Dad shaking his head in disappointment. “Oh Cindy. You just left that perfectly good rake on the side of the road.” The three of us were packed into the truck on Sunday. We had moved some furniture for JP and he’d given us his chicken coop, which we’re going to modify for our chickens. It’s not quite big enough to fit all four, but we got ideas. They are good ideas. Michael turned the truck onto the onramp for the highway and I noticed one of those gas station squeegees. “Hey! There was a gas station squeegee laying on the side of the road back there!” I practically yelled over the Cabbage’s head. Michael just shook his head and said “I am not stopping to pick up that gas station squeegee.” I waved it off and said “Oh, I didn’t expect you to stop. I was just noticing.”

But in one tiny corner of my heart, I kind of expected him to stop.

I can’t help it. It is in my genetic code from BOTH parents. Ask my mom why she keeps a small shovel in the back of her car. It is not for burying random bodies. It is for digging up interesting (weeds) plants that she sees on the side of the road. My Dad came home from work one time with a six pack of beer. This sounds like a normal sentence to most people, but my Dad never bought beer. There was never any alcohol in my parents house until us kids were old enough to bring it. I remember asking Dad in a very teenager snarky tone “Where did you get that beer?” Dad shrugged and said that he found in the parking lot of the grocery store. He found an unopened six pack of beer in the parking lot. I just shrugged and said “weird” and totally believed him. He said he was going to make biscuits with it. I am forty four years old and I know this is the equivalent to Tom’s “My hamburger flew out the window” story, but I am still 98% sure that Dad found that six pack in the parking lot.

I know you’re surprised to read about my urge to stop and pick up random junk off the side of the road considering I am known for constantly purging things from our home. My genetic coding has forced me to become this amalgamation of a human who kind of wants trash but also wants it far far away. We are at level 2 here at work and when they make the decision (probably Friday) to move us to level 3, I will be forced to work from home. I have a feeling that I will be doing a lot of moving of the trash far far away while I am home for the next unforeseeable future. This is either going to be a great opportunity for practicing Swedish death cleaning or day drinking.

Probably both.

* The title does not match the content. I started to write about intermittent fasting but decided that no one wanted to hear about me starving myself for sixteen hours a day. I was too lazy to change the title. Interpret.