grief. it's such an overwhelming emotion. it ranges the gambit; outright heartbreak, fear, anger, guilt. it appears to be the penultimate "bad" emotion.
it's beyond my rational mind. it's primal. it's consuming me.
i'm hoping that writing will help ease the tears. to tell someone how i feel rather than trying to rise above it, to be strong, to put her memory in a box. I need to verbalize this.
we are no longer one girl with two dogs. we lost the ever affectionate Kora Chops this weekend in an accident- a sting from a nasty texan insect.
Kora was my best friend. I know, it's sad. It's lame. She was a dog.
Kora was my companion. My constant companion. She was afraid of abandonment, and had to be physically touching me whenever I was home; resting her head on my knee or foot. She slept curled against my legs every night.
My husband travels often, 3-5 days a week.
I live in Texas; of the five couples we know in the state, the closest live 60 miles away. We do not keep in contact.
I have worked from home for the last three years, I do not attend any outside associations or clubs.
In the last three years, I've spent approximately 18 hours a day with her physically touching me, by my side. She was my saving grace, we walked, played and kept each other company over the years. If I was sad, she licked my tears and would clamber into my lap. When excited, we dashed around the house excited together. If I was ignoring her, she'd sneeze at me. Over the past five months, she's curled against me and placed her head on my growing belly, seeming to understand the changes that were coming.
Now she's gone. The house seems so quiet. There is no jingle from her collar, no claws against the floor. No snuffing or signs of her tearing around the house. It feels like a nightmare. Like I'm sleep walking through a haze of pain and confusion.
I look around constantly for her. I see her toys, food bowls, dog beds; I expect her to be there. Out of instinct I reach for her. I find myself sitting, listening intently, not even realizing that I'm listening for her. I look for her in the windows when I'm outside. I start in the night without her familiar weight against my leg. When I return home, I open the garage door slowly so as not to hit her, before I realize she's not there waiting for my return.
I feel hollow. I feel empty. I feel lost. I do not know how to fill my days now. I do not know how to cope when Mark is away and the house is silent. I do not know how long I can continue in Texas, so far removed from everyone. I am heartbroken.
I feel angry. I feel as though I've been robbed. This wasn't supposed to happen. She had fully recovered from such a horrible illness, she was so strong. I can't comprehend this to be truth.
I fear. I worry about Hercules, who has been hiding outside since this happened, that he will also be stung. I fear the unknown, the unexpected, the worst possible outcome. I'm terrified at the thought of Mark away from me and what could happen to him. I worry drastically over the baby in my stomach- that I will be unable to protect him from similar fates.
I feel so guilty. If only I had fed her immediately when I woke up instead of letting her run outside. If only we'd gone for a walk around the block that morning. If only I'd laid in bed five minutes longer. If only I hadn't let the pet sitters board her. If only we hadn't gone on vacation weeks ago. The butterfly effect-if only I hadn't lost her.
This is my grief. I cannot control it. The waves continue to wash over me. Hopefully the tides will subside in time.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
they are liars
the evening before our big two week vacation- we discovered i'm pregnant!
exactly three minutes of big eyes and speechless excitement were immediately followed by outright terror and questions.
-will a 9 hour flight be a problem?
-when do we need to go to the dr?
-how far along am i?
-do i need to stop taking my tumor medicine?
and then the realizations came crashing down
-not a single drink in the pubs!
-how will we keep the secret from family?
-we have NO IDEA what the do's and don't are
so we did what any couple who just spent a fortune on their one vacation of the year would do.
we got on the plane and headed to England.
England. land of un-pasteurized cheeses, uncured meats, bizarre locally caught fish, and local favorites like black pudding. likewise, we left a climate of 90 degrees for one around 30 degrees.
we got on the plane and headed to England.
England. land of un-pasteurized cheeses, uncured meats, bizarre locally caught fish, and local favorites like black pudding. likewise, we left a climate of 90 degrees for one around 30 degrees.
have i mentioned we knew nothing at this point?
i don't know what your experience with pregnancy is- but here's two tips in case you are considering it.
1- EVERYONE feels obligated to give you advice. DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM.
2-DO NOT TRUST THE INTERNET.
that said- all of our extremely limited knowledge during this time period was gleaned during our limited moments to connect to the internet.
can you imagine where this is going?
Spotting? yeah. that happens. according to actual doctor's, it's even normal.
according to various internet diagnosis'- including one from the National Health Service- i was experiencing an ectopic pregnancy of twins and needed to go to the doctor IMMEDIATELY.
Serious cold due to the much lowered immune system and drastically different environment?
Makes sense. In America, you take some cold medicine, anything from the tylenol line, problem solved. But in England? Slightly different story.
imagine if you will....
My throat is swollen and raw due to mucus sliding down it, i can't stop blowing my nose. I'm a picture of the best kind of miserable. We ask a clerk in the pharmacy what I can take for a cold while pregnant.
He directs me to paracetamol.
What? that's for fever and mild aches.
I'm SICK. I explain I need something for the cold and head towards the "cold/flu" section.
At which point he starts SHOUTING after me, "YOU CAN'T TAKE COLD MEDICINE! IT'S DANGEROUS FOR THE BABY, YOU'LL HARM IT"
Across the shop.
I can't even describe the looks i got, and the comments regarding the Starbucks cup in my hand.
the "english" internet sites i had access to confirmed the clerks belief that no medicines were safe and left me terrified. (interesting fact, that other countries have their country id on their sites, but not the US. like .uk for England, and .de for germany)
i took nothing.
instead, i had a nasty cold for the entire vacation.
i suffered seven mile walks through fields and pastures in the rain, touring castles and the freezing cold tunnels in the white cliffs of dover, countless hours with friends and family NOT drinking in pubs, and was vaguely miserable whenever in between bouts of morning sickness.
fortunately i finally returned to America and was assured that i could treat the cold. and i did. and i stopped being quite so miserable.
damn you clerk and english websites! Damn you! You are liars!
fortunately i finally returned to America and was assured that i could treat the cold. and i did. and i stopped being quite so miserable.
damn you clerk and english websites! Damn you! You are liars!
If there's one thing i've learned so far, it's that those women who say that pregnancy is a wonderful experience, that they loved it, that they felt such a connection with their baby-
they are also liars.
or possibly just forgetful. perhaps repressing the memories?
Monday, June 10, 2013
evicting the tuna
I've spent the last 6 months evicting a tuna.
Let me tell you, that little sucker is one big pain in the ass. Add in the fact that most laws are in favor of the tenant, and well, it's a miracle I've made any progress.
As you might have realized, the tuna is an unwelcome guest. It first made it's appearance about 9 months ago. It was the typical rowdy annoying houseguest that felt the need to get too up close and too personal while systematically destroying everything it came in contact with.
How can a tuna be this disruptive you might ask?
It's simple really, because the tuna is really a tumor, it's just that Mark's accent makes it sound like a tuna. Which makes it more bearable considering it's located in my brain. At the base of my pituitary gland. It's not cancerous. I repeat. It's not cancerous. It's treatable. It's BEING treated. But goddamn is it a disruptive son of a bitch.
And then there's Google. Google is just about the worst thing in the world sometimes.
The tuna has a real name. It's very long and I can't spell it. When the doctor told me the name, I committed the first 18 letters to memory and figured I'd be able to find it online later. While this may seem a rookie mistake to those in the medical know, I was unaware of my gaff.
What I didn't count on? Another disease that is a side effect of full blown AIDS sharing the same first 18 letters as my condition. Google, in it's infinite wisdom, decided this must be my search topic and sent me there.
Which led me to believe, obviously, that I also had AIDS. I actually fainted at first. Why, I kept wondering, why would they only tell me I had a brain tumor? Was it some sort of law that you had to tell people in person? Fortunately, just before I lost the will to live, my iPhone managed to autocomplete the CORRECT syndrome.
SUCH a relief. I mean, kind of. I still had a brain tuna. But I didn't have AIDS anymore. All in all, that was both a good day and a bad day.
For the record-
I really thought it was Texas. I did. I believed it with my whole heart, which is likely the most telling testament about how deeply I loathe this part of the country!
I thought the humidity, hideous skin reactions, terrible allergies, the blinding headaches, the weird weight gains, the absolutely crazy mood swings, the constant dehydration (dehydrated??? me?? after a decade in the desert i was dehydrated HERE? in a swamp???) i thought it was all me adjusting to this swamp.
Nope, it was just the tuna.
And a thyroid problem (courtesy of the tuna)
I haven't a clue what that means. The thyroid thing. The tuna bit was obvious. I mean, once I stopped blaming Texas.
Let me tell you, that little sucker is one big pain in the ass. Add in the fact that most laws are in favor of the tenant, and well, it's a miracle I've made any progress.
As you might have realized, the tuna is an unwelcome guest. It first made it's appearance about 9 months ago. It was the typical rowdy annoying houseguest that felt the need to get too up close and too personal while systematically destroying everything it came in contact with.
How can a tuna be this disruptive you might ask?
It's simple really, because the tuna is really a tumor, it's just that Mark's accent makes it sound like a tuna. Which makes it more bearable considering it's located in my brain. At the base of my pituitary gland. It's not cancerous. I repeat. It's not cancerous. It's treatable. It's BEING treated. But goddamn is it a disruptive son of a bitch.
And then there's Google. Google is just about the worst thing in the world sometimes.
The tuna has a real name. It's very long and I can't spell it. When the doctor told me the name, I committed the first 18 letters to memory and figured I'd be able to find it online later. While this may seem a rookie mistake to those in the medical know, I was unaware of my gaff.
What I didn't count on? Another disease that is a side effect of full blown AIDS sharing the same first 18 letters as my condition. Google, in it's infinite wisdom, decided this must be my search topic and sent me there.
Which led me to believe, obviously, that I also had AIDS. I actually fainted at first. Why, I kept wondering, why would they only tell me I had a brain tumor? Was it some sort of law that you had to tell people in person? Fortunately, just before I lost the will to live, my iPhone managed to autocomplete the CORRECT syndrome.
SUCH a relief. I mean, kind of. I still had a brain tuna. But I didn't have AIDS anymore. All in all, that was both a good day and a bad day.
For the record-
I really thought it was Texas. I did. I believed it with my whole heart, which is likely the most telling testament about how deeply I loathe this part of the country!
I thought the humidity, hideous skin reactions, terrible allergies, the blinding headaches, the weird weight gains, the absolutely crazy mood swings, the constant dehydration (dehydrated??? me?? after a decade in the desert i was dehydrated HERE? in a swamp???) i thought it was all me adjusting to this swamp.
Nope, it was just the tuna.
And a thyroid problem (courtesy of the tuna)
I haven't a clue what that means. The thyroid thing. The tuna bit was obvious. I mean, once I stopped blaming Texas.
Monday, March 4, 2013
aka: the saga of Harry
aka: the cat who lived.
"Oh you have cats? I thought my eyes were itching a little," stated our host last night.
Mark nods while I stammer, "No. Not really. Well kind of. It's a yard cat."
"Sarah tried to kill it" Mark states to Eric.
Great. Now it's my turn to explain.
Mark moved here fourteen months ago. He left behind nearly all of his possessions. But more importantly, he left his cat. A pure black shorted haired cat who acts like a dog. Named Barney.
Mark loves that cat. Kora and Hercules simply can't compete (though they don't lack for trying).
On a dark and stormy night two weeks ago, the abandoned cat pack outside (don't ask) grew in rank by one. No longer a kitten. Not quite a full grown cat.
A pure black short haired cat. A Barney kitten.
It presented itself on the front steps and proceeded to yawol at the top of its lungs. I felt sorry for it, but more distressed as Hercules and Kora tried to launch themselves through the floor to ceiling windows by the door. *Kora once jumped through a 9' wide by 53" window. It was incredibly expensive and I've been wary ever since.
Mark's heart melted immediately. He was out, chasing the Barney kitten with warm milk and turkey.
"Can we keep it?" he asked, "It's horrible outside. Don't make me leave it there."
I'm not going to revisit, but the next SEVERAL conversations about what I started lovingly referring to as "that damn cat" painted me firmly into the evil stepmother of animals category.
Seven days ago. Compromise. The garage door is raised about 6". The cat comes in and is swaddled in a king size blanket in the corner. It's given food and water. It stays the night.
Morning. I check on the cat. It yawols unrelentingly at me. Seriously, it won't shut up and it's got food and water and it's buried in the back of the garage. My head hurts and it's freezing in the garage. Fine I figure. But i'm closing the garage. No use everyone freezing. I hit the button.
At which point, the unthinkable happens. With literal catlike reflexes the cat bounds towards the lowering door. It was like watching some terrible tennis match, my head turned just in time to see two legs and a tail crushed under the door and wriggling.
I FREAKED OUT.
Frantically I'm hitting the button, which first squished it again and then raised the door. At which point it's off like a cat out of hell and I, in pj's and no socks in 30 degree rainy weather, I am after it. I'm positive I've broken it's back, it's positive I tried to kill it. It's 7am. For the record, the neighbors think I'm nuts.
I lose it in the bushes.
I reflect.
Mark is going to KILL me.
He loves it. Already it's more loved than myself, and on my first true interaction with it, I've maimed and possibly killed it, and definitely lost it.
"You did this on purpose! You knew I loved it! You're a sadist, a Hilter of kittens, a Kitler!" -he screamed at me while rushing past to search for his wounded kitten.
Fast forward to me, tears streaming, on the bridge. At which point, the cat prances out from under the bridge. I blink at it. It yawls loudly at me. It crawls in my lap and glares at me.
We have, at this early stage already defined our relationship.
I begin to squeeze it (gently dammit! looking for damaged organs)
It bites me. I glare at it.
This appears to be as good as it gets.
*For the record, the cat is fine. It lived through two solid days of me picking it up every five minutes to check for damage- which resulted in me getting bitten a few more times. Apparently, cats don't like being poked. I've named it Harry, the cat who lived.
"Oh you have cats? I thought my eyes were itching a little," stated our host last night.
Mark nods while I stammer, "No. Not really. Well kind of. It's a yard cat."
"Sarah tried to kill it" Mark states to Eric.
Great. Now it's my turn to explain.
Mark moved here fourteen months ago. He left behind nearly all of his possessions. But more importantly, he left his cat. A pure black shorted haired cat who acts like a dog. Named Barney.
Mark loves that cat. Kora and Hercules simply can't compete (though they don't lack for trying).
On a dark and stormy night two weeks ago, the abandoned cat pack outside (don't ask) grew in rank by one. No longer a kitten. Not quite a full grown cat.
A pure black short haired cat. A Barney kitten.
It presented itself on the front steps and proceeded to yawol at the top of its lungs. I felt sorry for it, but more distressed as Hercules and Kora tried to launch themselves through the floor to ceiling windows by the door. *Kora once jumped through a 9' wide by 53" window. It was incredibly expensive and I've been wary ever since.
Mark's heart melted immediately. He was out, chasing the Barney kitten with warm milk and turkey.
"Can we keep it?" he asked, "It's horrible outside. Don't make me leave it there."
I'm not going to revisit, but the next SEVERAL conversations about what I started lovingly referring to as "that damn cat" painted me firmly into the evil stepmother of animals category.
Seven days ago. Compromise. The garage door is raised about 6". The cat comes in and is swaddled in a king size blanket in the corner. It's given food and water. It stays the night.
Morning. I check on the cat. It yawols unrelentingly at me. Seriously, it won't shut up and it's got food and water and it's buried in the back of the garage. My head hurts and it's freezing in the garage. Fine I figure. But i'm closing the garage. No use everyone freezing. I hit the button.
At which point, the unthinkable happens. With literal catlike reflexes the cat bounds towards the lowering door. It was like watching some terrible tennis match, my head turned just in time to see two legs and a tail crushed under the door and wriggling.
I FREAKED OUT.
Frantically I'm hitting the button, which first squished it again and then raised the door. At which point it's off like a cat out of hell and I, in pj's and no socks in 30 degree rainy weather, I am after it. I'm positive I've broken it's back, it's positive I tried to kill it. It's 7am. For the record, the neighbors think I'm nuts.
I lose it in the bushes.
I reflect.
Mark is going to KILL me.
He loves it. Already it's more loved than myself, and on my first true interaction with it, I've maimed and possibly killed it, and definitely lost it.
"You did this on purpose! You knew I loved it! You're a sadist, a Hilter of kittens, a Kitler!" -he screamed at me while rushing past to search for his wounded kitten.
Fast forward to me, tears streaming, on the bridge. At which point, the cat prances out from under the bridge. I blink at it. It yawls loudly at me. It crawls in my lap and glares at me.
We have, at this early stage already defined our relationship.
I begin to squeeze it (gently dammit! looking for damaged organs)
It bites me. I glare at it.
This appears to be as good as it gets.
*For the record, the cat is fine. It lived through two solid days of me picking it up every five minutes to check for damage- which resulted in me getting bitten a few more times. Apparently, cats don't like being poked. I've named it Harry, the cat who lived.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
ROLO!
it would have been embarrassing had it occurred by itself. fortunately for me, it didn't.
i've had a couple drinks. i won't lie.
my best friends are there. we're all camped out in the theatre room. we're catching up, sharing stories. drinking. laughing. you know. like friends do.
me: John 3:16 is a Bible verse right?
Serenity: how do you not know this?
me: well that's what i thought.
Serenity: you call yourself a southerner
me: it's printed on the the bottom of Forever 21's bags
Jennifer: what? you're kidding?
me: serious. saw it this morning. at least, i think i did
Jennifer: funny. considering they sell slutty clothes and preach Jesus
Serenity: sounds typical.
Mark: you think?
me: i think so. i'll check, the bag is in Ashley's bedroom
at which point i hop up from my spot on the couch. i fail to register the horror on my friend's faces and i prance upstairs. i grab the bag, and stop by the kitchen for a snack on my way.
mom: oh my god! did you....
--this was said loudly, across a crowded room. the unfinished question hangs in the air--
me: huh?
--i look up from my plate--
Ashley (or any one of the teenagers now looking at me in horror): what is on you? oh god!
at which point i realize everyone in this room is now gesturing (with horror) to my butt. i twist to look down at my rear. which i realize is covered with brown...."stuff" it's liquid-y, it's a couple shades of brown.
it looks nasty and warrants all of the attention i'm receiving.
me: what the?
mom: you might want to go upstairs
me: the hell is on me?
mom: sarah, you might want to go change
me: omg.
then i leave.
and change clothes.
and discover there's melted chocolate and caramel ALL OVER my pants.
now let's rewind.
the night before, my dear sweet husband finished off a bag of rolo's while we were watching tv. he was sitting on the couch. the couch i was sitting on at the party.
i
was
sabotaged.
by my own husband.
at a party.
fortunately for us all, it takes more than that to embarrass me. especially when i still needed to address the Forever21 thing.
"He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.”― Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere
the scene: my parents huge christmas partyi've had a couple drinks. i won't lie.
my best friends are there. we're all camped out in the theatre room. we're catching up, sharing stories. drinking. laughing. you know. like friends do.
me: John 3:16 is a Bible verse right?
Serenity: how do you not know this?
me: well that's what i thought.
Serenity: you call yourself a southerner
me: it's printed on the the bottom of Forever 21's bags
Jennifer: what? you're kidding?
me: serious. saw it this morning. at least, i think i did
Jennifer: funny. considering they sell slutty clothes and preach Jesus
Serenity: sounds typical.
Mark: you think?
me: i think so. i'll check, the bag is in Ashley's bedroom
at which point i hop up from my spot on the couch. i fail to register the horror on my friend's faces and i prance upstairs. i grab the bag, and stop by the kitchen for a snack on my way.
mom: oh my god! did you....
--this was said loudly, across a crowded room. the unfinished question hangs in the air--
me: huh?
--i look up from my plate--
Ashley (or any one of the teenagers now looking at me in horror): what is on you? oh god!
at which point i realize everyone in this room is now gesturing (with horror) to my butt. i twist to look down at my rear. which i realize is covered with brown...."stuff" it's liquid-y, it's a couple shades of brown.
it looks nasty and warrants all of the attention i'm receiving.
me: what the?
mom: you might want to go upstairs
me: the hell is on me?
mom: sarah, you might want to go change
me: omg.
then i leave.
and change clothes.
and discover there's melted chocolate and caramel ALL OVER my pants.
now let's rewind.
the night before, my dear sweet husband finished off a bag of rolo's while we were watching tv. he was sitting on the couch. the couch i was sitting on at the party.
i
was
sabotaged.
by my own husband.
at a party.
fortunately for us all, it takes more than that to embarrass me. especially when i still needed to address the Forever21 thing.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
we sold out of Jack Daniels
it's been a shitty week. it's been a number 7 week.
anyway, we want our drinks. we want to relax and watch british crime dramas. we want to unwind. dammit- we're earned it!!
as in Jack. Jack Daniels.
it's friday night and we've just bought coke. we're looking for the Jack.
because jack and coke is a special soul soothing drink. it really does have magical healing powers if consumed in exactly the right amounts. (drink it in the wrong amounts and you'll find yourself with only one shoe puking on a cactus in a strangers yard. you have been warned)
"we don't sell HARD LIQUOR here ma'am" says the clerk in an extremely snotty voice. for the record, she's standing in front of a wall of xmas wines. a literal wall. of wines. yet i'm out of line wondering where the liquor is.
Mark pulls me along before I can respond.
We drive to the liquor store- for the record, it's called BIG DADDY'S LIQUOR BEER WINE
it's at this point that Mark discovers he doesn't have his wallet. so he can't come in for fear of risking the, "i'm not selling this to the two of you if both of you don't have ID" line.
yeah. it's happened to us. repeatedly. we're both over 30.
anyway, we want our drinks. we want to relax and watch british crime dramas. we want to unwind. dammit- we're earned it!!
i enter. i run through the aisles- wines, wines, beer, fruity shit, gin.....i'm getting closer. i see the "whiskey" aisle. i slow to search for the familiar bottle and...... i turned the corner, and i'm at tequila.
what? that can't be right.
I circle back for a slower pass. Jameson, Bushmills, Glenfiddich, Highland Park, Chivas, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Wild Turkey, Canadian Mist......and tequila.
i'm perplexed. i circle again. and again. i'm getting frantic. this is the only liquor store around and i simply can't find the Jack. i need the jack. i need to leave, Mark is waiting on me. we need to get home. it's been a long week. i stop between the Old Parr and the Bushmills. which is where i'm standing when a clerk approached me and asks, "can i help you?"
"where's the Jack?"I ask immediately.
"umm" at this point he STEPS BACK AWAY FROM ME. "we sold out of Jack Daniels. you're the third person to ask. please don't yell at me. there's a big game."
What? I have no words. They have a bottle of Johnnie walker blue on the shelf and no Jack Daniels. JOHNNIE WALKER BLUE. but no Jack. No Gentleman Jack. Nothing in the Jack line. not even a mini bottle.This is madness and I simply cannot comprehend.
I consider leaving empty-handed. yet i know that alcohol is required to deal with the week's events. required. it's been a shit week. i'm not leaving this store, the only liquor store, without alcohol.
"You could try Jameson" the clerk offers sheepishly. I hide my disgust. I sigh. i pick the closest bottle, defeated. (It's Old Parr btw, i do not recommend it).
I pay. i leave.
back in car, Mark starts driving us home.
"Jesus, that took forever"- Mark
"they didn't have Jack"- Sarah
"what?"- Mark
"seriously. sold out. big game or something?"- Sarah
"sold out? well what's that then?"- Mark indicates the brown bag i'm clutching
"Old Parr" -Sarah
"What?"-Mark
"Old Parr. I don't know. i gave up, we needed whiskey, there was no alternative"-Sarah
"why did you buy it?"-Mark
"we needed it. i feel like a junkie, but we need drinks tonight and i didn't know what else to do"-Sarah
"you're an idiot"-Mark
"WHAT? i did this for us! would you rather i bought nothing?"-Sarah
"yes. why would you buy that?"-Mark
"you said we must have drinks! what was i supposed to do? why are you so impossible?" Sarah
"Why wouldn't you go to another store?"- Mark
"I swear, we're been six months here and you've learned nothing. there are no other stores! this was it, our only option and i did the best i could!"
Mark turns the car into a driveway- "No? what's this?"
we're sitting in front of the Bottle Shop. He then gestures across the road.
I can read the letters "Randol Mill Beverage" on the sign.
"Six months we've been here Sarah"
It would appear that there are several liquor stores by our house. (we're the purple dot)
I can read the letters "Randol Mill Beverage" on the sign.
"Six months we've been here Sarah"
It would appear that there are several liquor stores by our house. (we're the purple dot)
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
at home in an alien land
i've been silent. i admit it. this year has been a whirlwind. there was an immigration. there was the purchase of a new (read: additional) house. there was a crash course in how to be a landlord. there was a 1200 mile Grapes of Wraith-esque move. there was a very itchy welcome to Texas party. there were fleas. there was the great pool incident of 2012. there was a narrow escape from induction into the Stepford wives community. there was the death of a car, and the subsequent replacement. there was unpacking. there was settling. there was a wedding! there was laughter. there was a second wedding 6 days and 2500 miles away. there was work. there was exhaustion.
there is the ever present struggle to become at home in an alien land.
it's been six months in texas. 11 months in the US together. Mark appears to be adjusting to the US. I still don't quite have the hang of Texas.
Sarah: i want to go by that place, the extra/surplus/stuff-you-need-and-can't-afford-place
Mark: the bathtub place?
Sarah: no, the richland hills place. north-ish. i think.
Mark: oh. that place. i think it's closed on Sunday
Sarah: that's retarded. what kind of big DIY store is closed Sunday? it's one of the two weekdays allotted to DIY. that would be counter to all profitability
Mark: I don't think they consider themselves DIY
Sarah: they don't offer install services, and they sell items to be installed. therefore, they must assume you are DIY. therefor DIY. come on. let's go
Mark: fair. but they're still closed.
Sarah: they can't be closed. we covered this.
Mark: It's Sunday. This is Texas, self appointed God country. Closed.
Sarah: Lies.
Mark: Look it up. We'll go, but if it's closed you're in trouble.
<after some internet searching>
Sarah: that the fuck? why would they be closed? when else but Sunday would God want you to work on your house? he certainly can't be smiling on those fuckers sitting around watching football and drinking beer!
Mark: you realize the first time we went there was a Sunday. It was closed. you knew this.
Sarah: No! it was after 6. that's why it was closed. not sunday related at all
Mark: that was the second time dear.
there is the ever present struggle to become at home in an alien land.
it's been six months in texas. 11 months in the US together. Mark appears to be adjusting to the US. I still don't quite have the hang of Texas.
Sarah: i want to go by that place, the extra/surplus/stuff-you-need-and-can't-afford-place
Mark: the bathtub place?
Sarah: no, the richland hills place. north-ish. i think.
Mark: oh. that place. i think it's closed on Sunday
Sarah: that's retarded. what kind of big DIY store is closed Sunday? it's one of the two weekdays allotted to DIY. that would be counter to all profitability
Mark: I don't think they consider themselves DIY
Sarah: they don't offer install services, and they sell items to be installed. therefore, they must assume you are DIY. therefor DIY. come on. let's go
Mark: fair. but they're still closed.
Sarah: they can't be closed. we covered this.
Mark: It's Sunday. This is Texas, self appointed God country. Closed.
Sarah: Lies.
Mark: Look it up. We'll go, but if it's closed you're in trouble.
<after some internet searching>
Sarah: that the fuck? why would they be closed? when else but Sunday would God want you to work on your house? he certainly can't be smiling on those fuckers sitting around watching football and drinking beer!
Mark: you realize the first time we went there was a Sunday. It was closed. you knew this.
Sarah: No! it was after 6. that's why it was closed. not sunday related at all
Mark: that was the second time dear.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)