A Home Away From Home Away From Home

My husband and I have been married a little over six months now… and yeah, that’s still weird to say. It seems to me that much of our generation is having a hard time picturing ourselves as “grown-ups,” which is probably not unique to our generation, but we feel like it is our personal struggle because we’ve got social media and Buzzfeed to document and hashtag it. I won’t claim to be immune to any of that, but as a nod to an older time and in a show of solidarity, I did change my last name to my husband’s. It was a very “grown-up” decision I would absolutely make again, but it’s a part of the newlywed experience that is still a bit foreign. It’s a constant reminder that life will never be exactly the same again – and it’s never the most common occurrences that are the most jarring. My new “teacher name” (Mrs. New Last Name instead of Ms Old Last Name, but always with the same, slightly whiny tone) washes over me as it constantly comes in waves. Signing my name isn’t difficult… unless I can’t remember whether or not I’ve had time to change that particular account yet. No, it’s always the little things that still stop me in my tracks: the new name on a prescription from the pharmacy staring at me in its bold, all-caps official way; the new introduction as “my wife, Amanda” at a social gathering, or the subtly surprising pangs of nostalgia when I encounter a piece of my “old,” pre-husband life.

I don’t run into my past self too terribly often since we’ve been together almost four years now and we’ve integrated our lives fairly smoothly. But once or twice a year, we go visit my parents in my hometown. It’s an objectively terrible place to be most of the time; there is absolutely nothing for a visitor to do there in the winter (and we are always there for Christmas) so I usually spend most of the visit worried that my husband may leave me over some idiot thing a family member said, or perhaps just out of sheer boredom. I always feel like I’m the less interesting one in our relationship, so in the craziness that comes at the end of a ten-hour drive, I worry that maybe it will just take him seeing me in my natural habitat for him to realize the error of his ways and leave me sobbing on my parents’ doorstep.

That’s the thing, though… It IS my natural habitat. My head understands every argument against EVER living there again, and believe me, I still never will – due to the abysmal, unrelenting cold if nothing else – but my heart still aches every time we leave because subjectively, there is so much to do there. Memories lurk in every closet, around every corner, and even where I’d least expect them, embracing me in a rare and bittersweet familiarity until the car door slams and it’s time to go because it’s no longer solely my choice to stay. It’s a very odd kind of heartache, too, being torn between things you love and knowing that they are mutually exclusive. Not the kind you experience when you’re single and pining, or when you’re dating and waiting… This is a gentler, fleeting, yet more profound kind of hurt.

It’s an experience made more difficult because it’s a feeling my husband – the person who knows me best in the world and is often nearly identical to me – cannot understand. I was a transplant before our relationship began, so this is really only a new iteration of the journey that began for me when I moved away for college. But this life we have created together is more a permutation of his past because we still live where he grew up, basically. He doesn’t have to get nostalgic for home – in fact, he never gets the chance because we see his parents almost every week. It’s not often that we have these disconnects (we are quite happily married for numerous reasons, after all) but when it does happen, that just makes it all the more lonely.

Now we’re looking to buy a house of our own – yet another definition of home – and that prospect is terrifying on an entirely different level. My head swims with the names of financiers and inspectors, and I’ve developed an irrational fear and hatred of Homeowner’s Associations. Yet, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of hope. Perhaps this is the step that will make it all real: the prescription bottles, the party introductions, the whole grown-up shebang. I hope it will be a place where we can showcase and harbor our strengthening marriage. I hope it will be a place with more good memories than bad ones. And most of all, I hope it will be a new place we can both be nostalgic for when we’re away, so that leaving home can truly mean coming home, regardless of the direction we’re driving.

***This post was originally created for and posted to a dear friend's collaborative blog: www.curesforcuriosity.wordpress.com Please go visit and check out the other "curious" categories!

Losing It

Hi, blog. It's been awhile. Probably too long. I certainly wish it was under better, more creative circumstances. You see, about 11 days ago now, I found out I am losing my job. (That present progressive verb is used on purpose here because I have to keep DOING my job - my ridiculously difficult, emotional, and overwhelming even on a good day job - for another two months. All is not yet lost.) Needless to say, that was pretty devastating news for me, seeing as I absolutely love my job and I've been assured by everyone (including the bearer of bad news) that I am very good at it. Even though my love for my work had kind of been in doubt for awhile now (I had seriously thought about what it would be like to pursue a different career, even fantasizing at times about the "luxury" of working a desk job where I could listen to my own music, work at my own pace, and go to the bathroom whenever I damn well pleased), I remembered precisely how much I love my particular job the instant it was taken away from me.

I've already spent way too much time thinking about all my regrets, the people I will miss, the graduations I contributed to but won't see... so I won't use this space to cry about that. I'm done crying. Besides, I came here this evening for a different reason. Obviously, I'm applying for new jobs (I am definitely not marrying a sugar daddy... mama's gotta work), so even though I don't use my full name there and I'm practically unsearchable, I checked my Facebook privacy settings. Upon viewing my profile as the general public would, I noticed something odd - the only thing they have access to is the notes section of my profile. I haven't posted a note to Facebook in years. A. and I weren't even dating yet when I posted the last one, and we're getting married in 87 days, if that tells you anything.

Anyway, I naturally started reading through some of those old posts to see whether I should delete them or if they were safe to leave. It's mostly innocuous; lots of those dumb surveys that were popular back when Facebook was first really taking off, a few observations of daily college life, and one particularly feisty rant about Kansas' inability to clear snow properly (in my defense, KU had just lost, so I was quite irritable already). The most interesting thing I found, though, was a writing exercise I used to make myself do when I was feeling stressed and had time to kill at my reference desk work-study job. I would force myself to make (and publish, via notes) two simple lists: the things that made me happy at that moment, and the things that didn't. The goal was to list more happy things than unhappy things. Simple, yet effective. It nearly always worked to put things in perspective and forced me to look on the bright side. I can't think of anything I need more than that right now, so here goes. Indulge me, if you will.

Things that make me happy this evening:
Our incredibly warm and snuggly couch, a warm blanket, a stomach full (and relatively settled, thank goodness) of white chicken chili, leftovers of said chili packed and ready for lunches, an evening of good re-runs of Top Gear on BBC America, a cold beer, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (a surprise from A.), good news today on the job search front, A. getting really excited about Dr. Who commercials on BBC America, goodnight kisses, literally everything about my dear fiancee including how he just glued his fingers together while assembling his nerdy dudes, remembering words of encouragement from dear colleagues, my students were more pleasant than normal after a week's rest, a load of laundry is running, ridiculous Buzzfeed articles (seriously, I'm a sucker for a good set of autocorrects, and today's is gold), knowing I was strong enough to not tear up in front of students today, @FakeJoeDooley and his ridiculous tweets, my Jayhawks are in the Sweet 16, my ring is still extra sparkly from a spring break cleaning, texts from my BFF checking on me, and Pinterest!

Things that make me unhappy this evening:
Having to look for jobs at all, being nervous about going to work every day because I don't know how I'll react, being worried that I'll get another poor night's sleep, feeling like a failure despite everyone's best efforts to convince me I'm not, the gigantic pile of grading that should have been done over break but wasn't because of all the crying/staring/sleeping/puking etc. that happened instead, the draft that perpetually runs across our living room, job websites that won't load properly, a generally unclean apartment (see previous crying/staring...), an unfinished book I know I'll love but still can't concentrate on due to previously mentioned worries.

Well, the unhappy list has some seriously heavy hitters on it, but the happy list is still longer and prominently features the ultimate trump cards: my friends and my family. Time to focus on that and let them help me hope for the best.

SWF seeking man of her dreams

One of my colleagues posed a challenge to our department over the weekend: write a personal ad describing what you are looking for in an ideal relationship. She will be giving the same assignment to her creative writing students this week, and wanted to see what we would come up with. Here goes.

Single white female in her 20's seeks single male also in his 20's for long-term relationship. Dealbreakers first: No smoking (of any kind), must want kids (3, ideally, but 2 is negotiable), and must pursue an honest, equal relationship - no playing games. Must be smart, funny, handsome, and kind. Requests: Should push me out of my comfort zone but not mock me when I choose to stay in it. Sometimes Kraft Macaroni and Cheese really is where it's at. Should be an excellent and willing cook, though, or that's all we'll eat. Money is not a requirement, but ambition is, and you'll want to have a strategy in place for calming me down when mine overwhelms me. Should tell me I'm beautiful even when I'm disgustingly sick - and mean it. No playing games, remember? Should be willing to have fun, even at the expense of looking foolish, in any situation. For example, are you down with throwing bacon into a shopping cart ten feet away? Should come from a loving and supportive family, preferably one which fostered a healthy appreciation for the Muppets. Must be able to put up with my screaming at the television during sporting events, but joining in is not required. An appropriate understanding of personal space and alone time is helpful, but so is an understanding of the long, silent, supportive hug. Should be willing and able to squash bugs. Bottom line: must be willing to love, be loved, and show it every day.

Just for the record, no applicants need apply. Position filled. (Love you, A.)

Already waiting for May

I didn't even know the Poem-a-Day topic today was "waiting," but as the rain came pouring down, this came pouring out and well, turns out it fits. So here it is. It's rough due to lack of time spent and it reveals a weakness for alliteration, and please be careful not to trip over the chunks of rust that were knocked off, but here's to waiting through one last winter alone.

rain crashes on screen windows

audibly foreshadowing the ice to come

while flashes of friction

signal summer’s last desperate gasp

wintry air seeps straight through both

rented walls and pale skin like paper

and I begin to wage war on the cold

swathed in scarf and blanket

worn slippers shuffle and

guard against glinting floor tiles

to make a microwave earn its keep

but no amount of swirling soup and cocoa

no vanilla flickers of candlelight

no artificial source of heat can warm

the space beside me as the wind howls

east down the highway corridor

which separates as easily as it connects

November 7, 2011

Requited

I can’t get it through my head that someone loves me. Actually loves me. In a happier-when-you’re-around, reach-for-you-in-my-sleep, sweep-the-nasty-bugs-out-of-your-entryway-for-you-without-complaining kind of way, and he shows me and tells me every day. This blows my mind.

My name literally means “loved one,” or “lovable,” so in theory this should be a frequent pattern, easy to understand, but over a decade of serial unrequited and/or poorly timed loves has me classically conditioned to believe that there is absolutely no way someone could return my feelings for them – especially if those feelings are so intense as to be overwhelming and incomprehensible.

So I’ll try to write about it and hopefully it won’t be overwhelming or incomprehensible. ;)



the mirage of waving white satin
and a diamond sparkling in the sunlight
was always an oasis only accessible for other girls;
those far less thirsty and desperate than this weary traveler

sent down the wrong road too many times
by those who may have meant well
but how can those who are lost give directions?
those too clumsy and careless to realize the damage they’ve done?

little did I know that one particularly bad turn
would divert me down your long, lemniscate road
and now that you’ve caught up
all passersby sink into the sand

September 6, 2011

Together

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person...
-- "Ars Poetica"

We are better together.
-- Jeff K.

This one has to count for two, but I think it's appropriate since combination and togetherness ended up being the theme of my weekend in just about every way. Over the last three days, I appreciated being together with old friends, new friends, and my very best friend. My growing to-do list prevents me from exploring this topic with my own words just now, but in this late Sunday solitude, I did have time to go back to one of my favorite e.e. cummings poems. I quickly discovered that it rings truer now than when I first dog-eared the page ten months or so ago, and it speaks to the kind of togetherness I am most thankful for this evening.


skies may be blue;yes
(when gone are hail and sleet and snow)
but bluer than my darling's eyes,
spring skies are no

hearts may be true;yes
(by night or day in joy or woe)
but truer than your lover's is,
hearts do not grow

nows may be new;yes
(as new as april's first hello)
but new as this our thousandth kiss,
no now is so

Another day, another cop-out...

Better day at work, good (hard!) workout after, then a delicious dinner and movie night w/A. means no time for poetry. I feel a bout of inspiration coming on this weekend, though. :)

Speaking of movies, we shared one of my favorites tonight: American Psycho. It was a big part of my high school years, so it was fun to re-visit. I think it's quickly become a favorite of someone else's, too. Movies are a big thing for us, so I did a speedy search and found this poem. I rather liked it, so I'll share it with you.

The Film
by Kate Northrup

Come, let’s go in.
The ticket-taker
has shyly grinned
and it’s almost time,
Lovely One.
Let’s go in.

The wind tonight’s too wild.
The sky too deep,
too thin. Already it’s time.
The lights have dimmed.
Come, Loveliest.
Let’s go in

and know these bodies
we do not have to own, passing
quietly as dreams, as snow.
Already leaves are falling
and music begins.
Lovely One,

it’s time.
Let’s go in.

See Spot Read

I needed something goofy tonight. I needed something to remind me of good, warm, happy things tonight. Work is becoming almost more than I can bear right now, but after A. reminded me about his favorite poet, I discovered this and was reminded that if nothing else, I can count on enjoying my new metaphorical puppy, and that's enough to get me through.


Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.