Karan-a-go-go

My boyfriend and I are breaking up having some (hopefully normal?) differences.

In other news, my ex-husband told me today that his new girlfriend is moving in with him.

I want to sleep until June.  Because of the first thing, not the second.  But, somehow, they seem related.

I didn’t have internet access at all last night. I’d totally like to say it was weather related, but in truth, I didn’t have the charging cable for my phone and my phone is the source of my internet connection. I did write a blog post, but I have to hook up my laptop to get to it and I’m at work.

I will have to think about the ruling on this: will I have to sing, or not? Does an act of God (i.e. God made me forgetful and I was unable to remember to bring my charging cable home with me) excuse not posting to the blog? (Keeping in mind that I did create content for the blog in the designated time frame…) I’ll have to ponder it some more.

My heart hurts.  It’s raining.  The dog makes me nuts.  I can’t find my phone charger.  My phone charger is crucial to my internet connection. 

On the other hand, my heart hurting is making me want to love myself more, which is the opposite of what used to happen.  I want to be kind, compassionate, and loving toward me.  Also, the rain sounds nice outside and there’s a cool breeze coming through the open windows that makes me feel hopeful somehow.  The dog, who does drive me nuts, has been sitting right by my side, letting me pet his giant head.  He looks like the calmest, most loyal, most solid companion in the whole world.  And, lastly, if the worst thing that comes out of having no internet connectivity is that I have to serenade my compatriots (com-state-triots?) then what of it?  I’m ballsy enough for the job.

Gratitude really does work like a balm.

My daughter is in the middle of an earsplitting tantrum.  NO- a complete breakdown.  This is not the whining and crying of a toddler.  It’s full-on, “I wish I were dead” teenage angst.  As screamed by an eight-year old girl. 

On the other hand, my ten-year old son is offering to comfort me as I pace and fume in reaction to his sister’s outburst.  “Do you need a hug, Mommy?”  How do I explain to him that to touch me now… to get too close to me… would make things worse all around? 

The dog- the puppy, actually (he’s only seven months old) – desperately needs a walk.  We were on our way, when Genevieve started her tirade.  Now he cocks his puppy head in confusion.  He, like everyone around me, looks like one big maw of NEED. 

I’m certain that the neighbors think I’m a terrible parent.  Or, more likely, a terrible person.  To get her to come inside, I had to grab her out of a tree, but when I say grab I really mean put my hand on her and tell her to come down.  Nevertheless, the screaming that ensued when she scraped her hand on the rough bark made it sound as if she were being beaten with a tree limb.

I’ve threatened to take away her birthday party that we’d been planning.  In fact, her behavior was so reprehensible that I don’t see how I can possibly allow her to do anything at all for the foreseeable future.  But, then again, who does that?  Who takes away a birthday party? 

Ugh… I feel my rage cook down from a boil to a reduction of sticky hopelessness, with bubbles of fear sporadically breaking the surface in the form of self-doubt and second guessing.  How did my sweet girl end up this… troubled? Was it the divorce?  The constant arguing between me and her father before I left?  Is it some sort of drama gene she got from me?  Will she outgrow it?  Will it get worse?  What can I do?  How can I help her cope?  Is her counselor helping? Is her brother faring as badly, but hiding it? 

How badly did I screw them up?????

…

I’m tired.

I took pretty good care of myself tonight.  I didn’t want to so much because I was experiencing painful feelings and usually when that’s the case, I like to self-medicate in some fashion or another.  Beer, food, starvation, shopping, sex: the usual suspects.  Because I had the kids back for the first night since the weekend, I had to avoid some of that stuff. 

And, I found that I was able to go about the business of parenting and homemaking- while being sad, mind you- in such a way that feels sort of healthy.  I got out and about with the kids and the dog to get some exercise; got everyone squared away with dinner and homework; cleaned up the house (a bit); and got myself in bed at a decent hour.  My goal is to get up early to write my morning pages when I’m supposed to.  You know: in the morning.  (Also, I’d like to take the dog on a nice LONG walk so as to avoid the late-night game of tag he was trying to play tonight.)

Anyway, this taking care of myself business is harder than I think it should be, but like I tell the kids, “the only thing we can do is keep trying to get things right, no matter how often we make the same mistakes.”

It’s 11:46 p.m. and, as usual, I’m cutting it close in terms of getting something posted to the blog.  I have been away, as I mentioned yesterday and the day before.  We had a great trip: dinner, drinks, and music at the Brazenhead Inn in Mingo, WV; a beautiful drive up to Snowshoe and through the little hamlet of Helvetia; a gourmet dinner prepared by my awesome sister-friend, Cathy in Ireland (WV).  It really was a fun weekend.

This photo of BrazenHead Inn is courtesy of TripAdvisor

But.

And here’s the part where I sound like an ingrate…

I love to travel.  Love to see things I’ve never seen and meet new people.  And I really, really want to love spontaneity.  But, I just can’t.  The rest of my life suffers for it when I try to keep up with this way of living. 

I mean, I can go on a weekend trip every now and again.  I can work to get things done around the house and plan to get back at a decent hour to prepare for the week ahead.  I can go on weeklong beach trips, like normal people.  But, I can’t just pick up and go… without paying for it in the end.

My house: messy.  My cupboards: bare.  My laundry: undone.  My blogging: half-assed. 

There is a lot to be said for home.  And plans.  And schedules.  And chores.  I need to embrace them more and stand up for them.  Even if that means the possibility of letting go of other things that are important to me. 

Goodnight, blog.

I have this whole thing… this whole story about how I grew up in Dublin, Ohio.  Was, in fact, a Dublin Shamrocks cheerleader and wrote for the student newspaper, The Blarney Stone.  I grew up, moved for a brief time to Los Angeles, where nothing Irish really happened, except for some hellacious St. Patty’s Day celebrations.  Then, after a while, I grew homesick for deciduous trees and moved back east, to West Virginia, where I was born and where my dad still lived. 

It so happened then, that I met a man and married him (a mistake save for my two beautiful kids).  His last name was Ireland.  So, I became Karan Ireland. Finally, when I could stand NO MORE of the unhappy union, I divorced him. Luckily, I met a man who is possibly the most kind, handsome, talented man in the entire world.  I usually call him Steve McQueen, which of course is not his real name, but guess what?  He hails from a lovely little hamlet called Ireland, WV.

This weekend, as a surprise, he brought me to a fantastic place called the Brazenhead Inn.  It’s all Irish, all the time.  Right now, we’re listening to music from some brothers from Ireland.  The real Ireland. 

Yay!

Not much, for sure.  I’m in Sutton, WV.  Steve McQueen* played tonight at a restaurant here and then we were supposed to go out of town for a night or two.  BUT, neither of us can ever make a decision, so it looks like we might be headed home.  I’m frustrated. 

Whatev.

But, I loved listening to my guy.  He’s so handsome and talented. 

But no good at decisions.

My phone tricked me into signing up for a trial of this app that translates my voicemails into text. I hate it, but I can’t figure out how to get rid of it until it expires. (It’s already done this once before.)

Anyway, it’s just an annoyance, except that all of the voicemails I get from my boyfriend (Steve McQueen*) read like little poems. It’s as if the application understands how brilliant and poetic he is and decides that messages like, “Hey, it’s me.  Call me back.  Later” are somehow beneath him.

Here are my favorite voicemail text poems by Steve McQueen*:

He originally spoke pursuit in ridge trail.

Oh, well.

Here now.

Perhaps you’d like something a bit more beat poet:

Hi, 83.  I’m a slow go.

Well, sorry, 10.  Over.

So got some stuff out on them.

Drummer, I worked out real.

I’ll talk to us.

Or:

Hi, Kitty.

It was Marion; she saw you

Walking to work,

One tire rolling through the rain.