Maybe You Can Barrel Through

We all knew it was bound to happen. I had that moment. The moment when I’m standing in my tiny new kitchen and I realize that I have two tiny drawers and no others. Y’all don’t know this about me, but I like to cook. And eat. Anyway, there is no way I’ll get all of my kitchen tools in the provided spaces. I’d thought about creative options and one by one, realized they weren’t practical. It looks like in the end, I can add two wire shelves, one in the laundry closet and one in the water heater closet and I may be able to figure the rest out.

There are two cabinets beneath the counter and two beneath the sink, and three above the stove. One is blocked by the mangled plug for the above-stove microwave. I have nowhere to store dishes, or food for that matter. My counter is teeny, limited to my stand mixer, coffee maker and bean grinder, and the toaster oven. Add a dish rack and the water filter and I don’t know where I’ll prepare food. I cut open a spaghetti squash in the living room.

I had a truly shit day at work. I yelled at our IT guy. He’s kind of a moron and doesn’t get much done. Of course, as I type the same issue I’ve complained of for a year is still not resolved and my boss is even starting to get frustrated. I submitted some resumes. I have no pretense about being underutilized and underpaid. I do a few things well. My job is one of them.

Then after I got the dinner going, caught the fucking cat, eating the cooking ground beef out of the pan. She was very grateful for her warmed steak tartare. She sat there licking her mouth in the postage-stamp sized space of empty counter and looked like she wasn’t even scared. I sprayed her with the water bottle I keep in there for just such occasions. I tried not to enjoy it too much. We then ate ¾ of a pound of ground beef with spaghetti squash and vodka sauce. She did not get her usual evening can of wet food. I tried not to enjoy that too much either.

I share a bathroom with a 12-year-old boy. He’s gross, but more subtly so than he used to be. He does have a tragic habit of knocking all of the stuff from the sides of the tub as he flails about like a growing octopus. He’s not particularly graceful, and at 5’6” and 12, it will be a while before he grows into himself. He’s his mother’s son.

I got an email from the kid’s school. He’s being a shit. He has that capacity. For all his empathy, intelligence, wondering Liz Taylor eyes, and deep, thoughtful kindnesses, he can be a little shit. Apparently he’d sat in class and refused to work. You read that correctly. I had his teacher send me all of his delinquent work, complete with instructions, so that I could be the bad guy. I fucking hate being the bad guy. I sent him a volley of texts telling him what he had to do when he got home and felt furious and helpless because there is no one now to back me up. Not that there ever really was, but that’s not how it felt right at that moment.

They were both trying to get me to murder them. Then things got quiet and the kid apologized and took responsibility for his crap and the cat crawled into my lap and curled up. It wasn’t that bad, right? Surrounded by some of the best people I know, even if they are mostly on the internet, I’m reminded that I’m strong and they love the fuck out of me, or at least the me in print. And they tell me so. And I believe it. And that’s the real magic. I think they see me. And I owe that to my friends: Jason, Amanda, Mercy Rose, Chad, Derry, Jimbo, and Sadler. They brought me the best music of my life and my tribe. I sure do appreciate that.

So after tucking myself into bed last night without a single trick-or-treater to speak of, I did it. I had a moment of complete self-pity wondering how long I’d have to make this place work. In my bed, surrounded by boxes and boxes of stuff, I felt sorry for myself. Where was my unflagging optimism? It was with my friends and loved ones who keep telling me (and had told me for 2 years) that the decision I’d finally made was the right one. They were all tucked away in their beds, probably not alone and probably not lonely. I wondered what made me so hard to love. I’m stubborn and willful. I’m “brash and opinionated”. I’m fierce and strong and smart. Some of those are good things. I’m also passionate and kind and empathetic and loyal to a fault. What is wrong with me that here I am, toeing things out of my way to make it to my empty bed?

Then I felt selfish and ungrateful. All of this around me that I’ve earned and worked for and all I can do is say that it’s not enough. I had to remind myself that my things and my life and my… me are enough. I am so enough that it’s terrifying. I had to remind myself that there are so many who are not as lucky as me. People going to sleep tonight in a shelter with their kids, while mine slept in his bunkbeds in the next room. We have food and water and electricity and internet. I hate having to give myself that particular pep talk. That pretty much lasted until I went to sleep. I woke up better. I’ll keep trying to do that every day. One day I’ll wake up and forget that I have to do that every day.