the weight of regret

Having seriously considered a new and potentially appealing circumstance, the original one, even if good, will never be quite the same. The shade of the question, "What if?" ever lurking in the corner. -- Rikki Gensheer

limbo

For those of you who don't know, I'm writing from limbo. I'm homeless -- the situation with the door-banging neighbors (I'm sorry, referenced posts removed) having become untenable -- but certainly not friendless. Not friendless by far. In fact, I've got a surfeit of friends who without discussion have offered the same line over and over, "I have a spare room. Come stay with me. As long as you like." It's overwhelming and wonderful, all this love directed at me. So much so, I whistled today on my way into work, much I might add, to the amusement of my boss.

"What's wrong with you?" he wanted to know.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm happy?"

And all day long. "Did you hear Jill whistling this morning? I think there's something wrong with her."

What he doesn't know, what I didn't know, is that I may have been lonely. Not sad lonely, but isolated in my own thing a bit lonely, leaving cabinets perennially open, shoes in the middle of the hall and the bed always unmade. Because who cares, right? A dinner of cereal from the box is a fine meal. Or so I thought.

But right now I'm living with two good friends who have dinner ready when I get home, space for Fred on their couch, post work conversation to spare and room in their Sunday wash for a few of my whites. My life has improved drastically in limbo and I'm having a hard time finding the motivation to leave.

But here's what I know: I'm open. In this uncertain space, I feel the freedom to wait. The right situation will present itself. The most-best decision will be an easy one. And I will land on my feet in a better place than I could have ever fathomed for myself. It's all in God's hands and that has ever been the most comfortable spot of all.

In the meantime, Rikki is making her grandmother's soup for dinner. Audra and Satchel have a bed to spare. Esther's promised a weekend of wine and laughter. Molly and Cara and Monica can't say enough about their extra rooms while Betsy ups the ante with a pool and Pamela keeps stressing that her fish needs a sitter.

If you haven't ever been to limbo, I highly recommend it. No passport required. Traveling companions, a must. Itinerary? Pleasantly undetermined.

Night, y'all!

bug snappers

The bees behind my house are big and fat and perfect. Harmless buzzers buzzing busily (if sluggishly) about until I notice that they're chewing holes in the poles that hold the roof up over the porch.

But whatever.

I rent.

Yesterday, one hovered, drunk on wood, needle to nose (or whatever sniffs on one of those) with Fred, and it took all the pup's willpower not to SNAP that brave and foolishly curious bee. Fred's great joy in life is chasing bugs and SNAPping them and this bug was just begging to be bagged.

"Nooooo Fred," I said low and though he vibrated visibly with bug snapping fervor, he sat super still, only his big, bug eyes growing a bit bigger, a bit buggier. If you can't bite them, be(e) them.

"I said 'No,' Fred."

Thing is, if he could manage not to mangle the wee monster (and the bee, in a last act of good would agree not to attack its assassin), I'd let him get one. Because I want one. I want me a big, fat, perfect bee to die a perfectly natural death, leaving a perfectly preserved bee body, so I can gift it to my and Fred's friend Audra, because she loves snapping bugs, too.

Who? Me?

The Grup Career, or Take This Job and Allow Me to Do It From Home, With Occasional Snowboarding Trips

If being a Grup means being 35, and having a job, and using a messenger bag instead of a briefcase, and staying out too late too often, and owning more pairs of sneakers (eleven) than suits (one), and downloading a Hot Hot Heat song from iTunes because it was on a playlist titled "Saturday Errands," and generally being uneasy and slightly confused about just what it means to be an adult in these modern times -- in short, if it means living your life in fundamentally the same way that you did when you were, say, 22 -- then, let's face it, I'm a Grup.

Oi.

flowers of apology & dogged lies

Thank you all for your concern. It's nice to know that in a pinch I could email any of you to call 911.

Which is a good thing to know, because the saga continues. . . .

The next night Robin and JD knocked on my door bearing flowers, apologies and excuses: Robin is on medication and really shouldn't have been drinking, but it was his birthday and so, you know. . . .

Yes, I do. And Fred does. And so do the police, the neighborhood and now, the blogosphere. We all know.

The flowers are pretty, but as predicted, they have outlived the peace, because the very next Monday there was a repeat of the yellingbangingslammingscreaming, though this time at 2 a.m. and thankfully, not on my door, which is the only reason I didn't repeat my call the police.

When I saw JD the next night, I asked if Robin had celebrated another birthday.

What?

The yellingbangingslammingscreaming?

Huh? Oh! No, that was me and my friends.

Mm-hmm. (Me, purse-lipped and eyebrow raised.) As it turned out -- Can you believe it? -- dogs chased JD and his friends down the street as they were coming home from the bar. Dogs! Big, mean, dogs, with snarly mouths and wicked teeth and generally unpleasant dispositions. Robin wasn't even with them.

A few hours later, I saw Robin, beaten and scabbed up like he'd run into a brick wall with his face, which is precisely what he said he'd done (highly possible, possibly doubtful), and he apologized again -- not for the ruckus after the run from the dogs (because, of course, the dogs don't exist anywhere but in JD's convoluted fabric of lies which he thinks I actually believe, not that Robin was there anyway), but for the demons that haunt him and cause him to drink and then subsequently stumble face-first into walls thereafter to be followed by the yellingbangingslamingscreaming -- a feeble exercise in exorcism. He just can't help it. But this last bout was a sign from God, he said. He can't drink, he said. He knows that now.

Apparently, everyday is a birthday for Robin.

And apparently, God's being free and easy with the signs, but as with all things God, the meaning is left wide open to interpretation.

I see the signs, too. And my signs say to meet with a real estate agent. This week.

---

\Ope\, v. t & i.

To open.

Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach and sunsets show? [Poetic] -- Emerson.

Jill! Jill! Ope! Ope the door! [Inebriated] -- Robin.

(dictionary.com)