Sipping margaritas next to the ocean was nice, but the company was even nicer. Lee and I went to dinner last night with Michelle and Brian, and although it was a fun evening, there was a note of sadness. They’re moving on, and left today for Saint Louis and new adventures. I consider myself lucky to have their friendship, and even though they won’t be near I hope we’ll be close.
Lee and I adore Savannah and the life we have built here, but it is hard to see so many friends come and go. Two years ago, Anna and Jason moved across country. Last year, Dave left for Miami. Now Michelle and Brian. Soon, our friends Jamie and Cameron will leave too. I miss them all- but I guess the upside is that no matter where I go in the country, I’ll likely have a friend nearby. Except Texas. Someone – other than Lee and me – needs to move to Texas.
When my mom and dad bought Abbey for my birthday 12 years ago, they decided not to clip her ears. I’m so glad. When she was a puppy, you’d have to smile when you looked at her because her floppy ears were so much larger than her head. She’d look up at you, and you’d laugh. Not because she looked awkward, but because she was adorable.
I will miss those floppy ears. But more than that, I will miss her heart.
Abbey died this morning. She was such a great dog – but not just a dog. She was family.
She was a lot of things. She was a four-legged doorbell. You knew someone was coming before they even shut their car door because she’d bark to announce their arrival. I always enjoyed coming home, especially when I’d been away for a while, and there she’d be, sitting in front of the window. When she saw me, she’d let out a shrill bark and start prancing in front of the door. She always made me feel welcomed and loved. I tried to make her feel loved, too. Because she was. And always will be.
She was there for a lot of important moments, too. When I packed for college, I walked away from my suitcase for a little while, only to return and find her asleep among my clothes. I would’ve liked to bring her with me. She was there for my wedding. And she was there when I needed her – like when I was sick. She’d sit quietly nearby, and her nearness was comforting.
I wish I could’ve been with her today. At least she didn’t suffer long. She was a playful dog just yesterday, sitting at the table, waiting patiently for someone to sneak her a bite (which we always did). I just wish I could’ve told her again how much I loved her and how thankful I was that she was part of our family. I think she knew. And even though I couldn’t be with her, she’ll always be with me.
Sure, sure, the world’s most powerful leaders gathered and discussed ways to solve the world’s AIDS problem, bring democracy to the middle east, and save the turtles, but that has all been well-documented. Instead, I’d like to write about the G8 I came to know and love – the events that occured at the International Media Center as seen from workstation #56, my home for 5 days.
Every day began the same. The alarm would go off at 6:30, I would curse quietly, and get ready for work. Someone from the station would drive me downtown, where we’d see convoys of police cars, army humvees, lots of fences around federal buildings, and national guardsmen on every corner. I would show my ID to several people with guns, who would then allow me to get on the ferry boat which would shuttle me across the river where I would show my ID to more people with bigger guns. After a walk through a metal detector, putting my bag on the conveyor belt, and several body scans with a hand-held metal detector, it would be decided that I was indeed there to tell stories not to destroy democracy, and I would be allowed inside.
Today is my last day of rest before life gets a little hairy. With the G8 Summit coming to our area, and everything that may come with it, these next few days could be some of the most interesting of my career.
I did laundry, knowing I’ll have no time for that later, then decided to take a break and hit the beach. It was very windy, and as I lay on a sheet on the beach trying to read a book, I was being pelted by sand. The wind whipped the grains in my direction and before long, I became a sand dune. So instead, I packed up and read my book sitting on one of the beach swings, above most of the swirling sand. That was nice.
Tonight I’ve been trying to read up on the Summit and all the people attending (not just the world leaders, but their entourages) and feeling a little overwhelmed. I’m excited, but I just want to do a good job. I will be a very little fish in a very big pond, and I don’t want to get eaten.
How do you write about a wound you cannot describe?
Writing is usually cathartic for me, but I find I can’t write about this. But at the same time, what else can I write about? My new cell phone? The book I read? It would seem like a complete lie to pretend those were important right now.
I can say this: it hurts. Like when I was little and fell off the tire swing and the air was knocked from my chest. I tried to take a breath but couldn’t fill my lungs. It’s like that, but instead of struggling for a moment, you struggle for days to find air.
But I can also say this: I love my family and few close friends. When you’re lying there and can’t get up, you find their hands slowly lifting you, nudging you to walk. And you do. I’ve always known they would be there when I needed them, and they were. And are. And I’m grateful.
Ten years ago tonight, we were on our first date. We sat close in the movie theater. I had my hand on the arm rest between us in case he wanted to hold it. It may have been our first official date, but we’d experienced this closeness before. On that school trip to Atlanta, when we sat up the whole night talking. Or in creative writing class when we logged into each other’s accounts to read each other’s work and be moved by it.
Tonight we had dinner. We dressed up, and I wore my new necklace with it’s beautiful, large jewel and even larger significance. We went to a nice restaurant where a woman played piano in the corner and candles lit the room. We couldn’t stop holding hands across the table. I hoped we looked like a couple on our first date again, because it felt a little like that. Exciting. Fresh. But so much better because it was strong and real. And good. And tonight instead of kissing me on the forehead and saying good-night, we can curl up together and look forward to another day of love, another ten years, another ten decades if we’re lucky.
I’ll admit, it was a little strange. I recently took a quick trip to Fitzgerald to help my parents say goodbye to our old house there. It wasn’t really difficult because I’d only lived there full-time for 2 and a half years, and no one had lived there for the past two. But it was still where I went when I went “home” during college and part of me was nostalgic to be closing that door.
To make things even stranger, the house was bought by someone I went to highschool with. Who has a wife and a child. And is now living in my highschool house. Having parties at my old pool. How odd. How grown up. I suddenly feel a little old. I’ll bet his toddler daughter is living in MY room.
Though it’s strange, I’m happy about it. I had good memories in that house, but it had been sad to see it vacant. The once immaculate yard had lost its shape and the rooms felt empty and hollow. Houses need life inside to be homes.
I’m also excited about my folks’ new house. Brand new, with a big deck and a mountain view. If only it were closer instead of farther away – but we’ll always make time to visit. It’s what families do.
One year ago today, I got that phone call – the one telling me you were on the way. Your Mom sounded excited and nervous all at the same time, and that’s how I felt too. I couldn’t wait to see you after all these months.
When you were born, I remember thinking how squirmy and cute you were. After all the necessary people held you, I got to hold you and you sweetly blinked up at me with the eyes of perfect innocence.
But the true joy has been watching you grow. I was always excited the afternoons your Mom brought you to work. I’d steal you away and we’d sit at my computer and play with all my toys. We’d play peek-a-boo with my stuffed animals, and you’d smile like it was the best game you’d ever played. I know you smile for lots of people because you’re a happy baby, but you always make me feel that at least for the moment, the smile was just for me.
The other day I was having a bad day at work, and someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was your Dad. He’d come by to visit and brought you along. Just the sight of your smiling face made my day brighter. I held you and kissed your baby cheeks, and felt better. You’re just that sweet.
Happy birthday to a very special girl.
…call me Betty Klutz-er.
I don’t know WHAT is up with me tonight. I wanted to try a new, fairly easy-looking chicken stir-fry recipe. But very shortly into the cooking, things began to unravel.
I needed a measuring cup, and when I opened the cabinet a mixing bowl had shifted and fell out, shattering on top of my glass cake safe, breaking it as well. Glass went everywhere – and not just the big pieces that are easy to see, but tiny shards that you can only find when the light hits them just so.
I suspended culinary duties to clean up the mess, which took considerable time. I know I didn’t get all of it because there were just so many tiny pieces.
Back to cooking. I needed a lid from a lower cabinet, and when I bent to get it I banged my head on a towel rack. I was about to put two frozen egg rolls in the oven, and when I tipped the box on it’s side so the egg rolls would slide out, a large shard of glass slid with them and cut my finger. The box had been sitting open when the bowl broke.
With a paper towel clamped to stop the bleeding (it was a really small cut, but stubborn) I made rice, carefully inspecting it as much as possible to make sure no glass had gotten in the open rice bag. Then I spilled rice everywhere.
I bent to get a wok from another lower cabinet, and banged my head again.
I finally cooked the recipe, and things seemed okay. The dish was decent – not a flop but I’m not sure it was worth the work.
Lee pulled a hair from his rice. Sorry.
I ran my hands through my hair a few minutes later and found a piece of rice stuck in it. The rice and I must’ve traded.
When Lee took his last bite, he suddenly started starting spitting it back onto the plate. “Piece of glass,” he said between sputters. GREEEEAAAT.
Tomorrow – take out food.
I had to work today, which kind of sucked. But when I walked in the door of my house at the end of the day, I was greeted by the aroma of dinner sizzling on the stove. The living room was clean, the dining room table was free of clutter and sitting on top of the table was a vase full of fresh flowers.
In the kitchen, Lee was hard at work cooking dinner. Skillet rice, seasoned pork chops, salad. Nearby, a batch of chocolate chip cookies cooled on the counter. A peek into the backyard revealed freshly mown grass. Laundry was tumbling in the dryer.
Okay! Okay! You win the home husband award!
Lee and I have always argued amicably over which of us would get rich first, each hoping the other would so we could be the one to stay at home. I must admit, it was very nice to come home from work today with so much of the house in perfect order – although I’m always happy to come home to Lee. That’s the best part anyday. I’d come home to him in a trash heap.
