I haven’t disappeared, I’ve just been baking in the heat.

Blogging, like most other areas of my life, used to be something I scheduled. (Because even inspiration can be placed on a timeline for someone as by the book as myself.) Then, when things started to get a little crazy, I stopped cold turkey. But what used to be an issue of priorities has now become another bout of perfectionism gone haywire.

Let me just begin by saying this- when I was younger and writing in a diary seemed like something every little girl should do, I used to tear out entries if I didn’t like how they sounded. Granted, I had a placed a massive lock on the outside to prevent anyone from reading my innermost thoughts, but the point was that I wasn’t satisfied with anything short of perfection. Thus, it was only a matter of time before I began judging the writing I was putting up for all of the online world to see (or at least the meager audience that I had acquired).

Inspiration, it turns out, is also a problem when leaving my house has ceased to be an everyday occurrence. No, it’s not depression, it’s an absolute hatred of the god awful heat. Heat meaning 100 degrees IN THE SHADE. Seriously. I’ve never before felt as if my skin was cooking two minutes after stepping outside.

I can blame my writing hiatus partly on the fact that I’m in the midst of a series of processes. Learning to live with my honey, for one, is a PROCESS (capitals seemed necessary for that one). How could it not be when I’m used to being comfortable and he’s used to a lifestyle of survival? My challenge this week: getting him to agree to a rendezvous at the farmers market this weekend. For some reason, he’s completely against fresh produce. Go figure.

Another process: accepting and recognizing the perfection in everyday life. After the homecoming was over, and I settled into a “routine,” I began to forget what both of our lives were like when he was away. I’m reminding myself to feel a little gratitude for the shopping trips, the movie dates, and even the arguments that we couldn’t have had if the deployment would have ended differently.

Most of all, I’m learning to redefine the individual me while still staying connected to this relationship I’ve waited so long to fully experience.

I’ve missed you blogger world. Here’s to checking in more regularly.

And Here Comes the Sun…

For the better part of the last three years I have waited for a significant change to happen in my otherwise middle of the road kind of existence. Perhaps the universe was backed up with requests and received all of mine at the SAME TIME. Nonetheless, the past three weeks has left my life looking like Heidi Montag post surgery. In a good way, of course.

After seven months of panic attacks and limited communication, my high school sweetheart came home from war. (Strange how retro that sounds now.) This was precluded by a week of hearing that the homecoming date was being pushed back yet again- another indication that organization is not one of the Marine Corps strong suits. However, every cloud has a silver lining and mine was wine guzzling and antique shopping with the other perturbed Marine wives/girlfriends. Without them I very well could have pulled all my hair out.

Three o’ clock in the morning on April 30th we were all dolled up and ready for those few seconds we had waited too long for. While I will undoubtedly experience other reunions in my life, I don’t know if I will ever again experience the massive amount of love and respect that this one garnered from everyone present. And for that I am truly grateful that I have loved someone who couldn’t be entirely mine for the past 3+ years of my life.

For those who left on October 4 and never came home and for those who sustained injuries that will forever change their way of life, my heart goes out to you. I know that the brotherhood of men that my love left with ensured that I attended his homecoming and not his funeral. I am forever indebted to all of you.

Because pictures (and videos) speak a thousand words, here is the video of the 3rd Battalion 4th Marines homecoming from Afghanistan. For anyone without an immediate connection to the military who doesn’t fully understand the sacrifice involved, this is what it’s all about.

I will now always have this as my reminder that all challenges come to an end and a little bit of faith can move mountains.

Please Get Out of My Room…Thanks.

Cohabitation, in my “this is my space, please kindly remove yourself from it” mindset, has never been an idea that I snuggled up to. Not only does my sanity depend on the fact that I can remove myself from all other living, breathing, and talking beings, but my experience with roommates has been severely limited to family members who (I’m hoping) would never pour bleach on my clothes or steal my pricier belongings (I suppose I’m channeling the Bad Girls Club here…). I’m stubborn, picky, and am prone to noise induced panic attacks. Crazy? Just a bit.

While my post-high school living situation did include a brief stint with my honey in the deserts of California, I feel like in knowing our time together was limited (he was in the midst of shipping off to Iraq), I was able to not let (all) of my anxieties get the best of me. But this time, as I prepare for his homecoming and a 2nd move, cohabitation has taken on a kind of permanence that makes me giddy with excitement and sick to my stomach all at the same time. Our communication over the past 6+ months has been limited to skype chats, 3am text sessions, and facebook messaging…so how on earth can that be translated into bed sharing, chore sharing, and overall life sharing with the simple flip of a switch?

Although I’d like to site his lack of cleanliness and attachment to video games as the main reason for my concern, in truth I am dreading those issues that will point to me being the one that needs to shift, change, and cave just a little bit to let him in. Deep down I know that as long as I stay attached to my way of doing things and closed off to sharing anything in my space, the more I can convince myself that I am right and everyone else is WRONG.

Despite these little butterfly jitters, I have begun thrift and craft store shopping so that we can have a champagne inspired pad on a PBR budget. I’m convinced (since signing on to write for Calfinder) that this is absolutely possible. My first project that I have attempted to tackle: fixing up picture frames and removing the pictures circa 1999. Next up?….Not entirely sure.

Got any suggestions? Wine bottle candle holders, film strip curtains, I’m up for anything. Give me your best tips and I will be sure to post pictures of the finished product.

It’s my pity party and I’ll cry if I want to…

My rational mind often tells me that loneliness is a choice.  And deep down I know that when I feel as if I am on some secluded island while the rest of the world is partying on the mainland it’s only because I took the boat over myself.  At this point in time, however, when my “plus one” is in a war zone and pretty much unavailable, it’s pretty damn hard to ignore the deafening silence that comes with single-dome. 

The problem is, I’m not single.  I can’t fill the void with some shameful sex-capades or go on a series of horrific blind dates in order to forge some sort of connection with another human being (not that any of that sounds even remotely appealing). Instead I have to be ok with an ample amount of “me” time, or playing voyeur to all those relationships that have sprouted up around me when I do go out with friends.  Both tend to be a little exhausting.  (I suppose this might be how nuns feel- while they are waiting to join forces with the big man upstairs they have to be ok wearing a chastity belt…)

 It’s a strange sort of limbo that I find myself in.  I am comfortable with and completely used to going “stag” to events, and don’t require an escort if I decide to meet some friends at a bar.  I have learned when to say “when” and go home alone when being around crowds is too much to handle.  But then when I get an invitation to a work party and quickly realize that I will have to scrounge for an available and completely platonic “plus one” I remember how much I miss having a significant other that resides in the same area code.  And that just sucks.

 Part of me knows that I will look back years from now when my hair is sufficiently dyed to cover the gray, and be grateful for how strong all of this has made me.  My life experience will tell me that these trials made me independent and allowed me to bring the most complete version of myself into a healthy relationship.  But as I sit here alone on a Saturday night feeling particularly pathetic I’ll forgo all those grown-up insights and throw myself a good ole’ fashioned pity party.  And yes, you all are invited.

Sense and Sensitivity

I have always been sensitive.  When I was a pre-teen this translated into several failed attempts at becoming a vegetarian and one notable breakdown in the bathroom of an Outback Steakhouse that was initiated by overhearing someone order “rack of lamb.”  Oh the horror.  When I was even younger, however, before I began to really discern the difference between people and things, I took sensitivity to a whole other level.  While the rest of my kindergarten class was learning the basics of toy sharing and kind words, I was struggling with some deep seeded belief that everything had feelings.  Literally EVERYTHING. 

I can imagine now that this type of irrationality may be what causes some people to become hoarders- saving things like maggot infested food items and decade old newspapers because of a belief that these things keep their world afloat.  Me, I was just concerned that trash compactors would be too painful for anyone (or anything) to endure, and I wouldn’t want to be the reason that someone (or something) had to spend the rest of their existence in a landfill.  This kind of meticulous caring didn’t stop with my possessions but extended all the way to the foods I would eat.  I could imagine that being digested was a horrific experience so I would eat things like Cheerios in pairs hoping this might make the cereal’s demise a little more enjoyable.  Strange, I know.

While I eventually figured out that my stuffed animals didn’t need to have my bedroom light on and paper didn’t have the capacity to feel pain when shredded, this feeling of responsibility for the well being of others soon took root in my “human” relationships.  Since I have yet to find a way to make myself happy while simultaneously making the rest of the world feel the same way, I now struggle with a gnawing sense of guilt.  For someone that feels feelings a little too acutely, guilt is one that I would gladly kick in the face and set afire- a clear indication that nipping it in the bud is probably a good idea.

Being attached to someone that has chosen a (temporary) life of service and currently resides in the hellish desserts of Afghanistan, I have found that guilt, that little sneaky bugger, has embedded itself into the core of our relationship.  No, I don’t feel guilt that I am not there living that existence with him (lord knows my complaining would do nothing for their morale), but instead it has taken up residence in the little things.  Phone calls, a lot of times few and far between, don’t always come at the most opportune moments so when I can’t sit down and commit my full attention to him, guilt becomes a whole new monster.  There is something horrible about saying to someone that is risking their life on the other side of the world “I’m sorry I’m in a bar with my girlfriends and it’s too loud to talk.” 

Irritatingly enough, guilt doesn’t even safe itself for the most important relationships in my life.  A recent venture into sales (something I’m learning is not my strong suit), has given me a new employer that is adamant about my “hitting the ground running,” i.e. trekking from office to office pushing a product that doesn’t exactly sell itself.  Instead of explaining myself and what I will and will not do, I feel that acidic guilt every time we speak.  Letting people down, I have found, is another area where this feeling resides.

For someone that is attempting to create a life based around self-fulfillment, guilt is just not cutting it.  Maybe the fire thing isn’t such a bad idea after all…

A Piece of Our History

Somehow I have a subscription to Time Magazine.  This would be only slightly odd except for the fact that I am the kind of person that avoids the news with the belief that it breeds fear and wreaks havoc, so I would guess that their purpose would be completely lost on me.  All the same, when my mom asked me if she could throw away the recent issue with the best pictures of 2009, I hesitated.  I had flipped through the magazine and stopped on a picture of a group of Marines sleeping in self-made holes in some desolate part of Afghanistan.  This, I told her, is a part of my history I can’t get rid of.   

My boyfriend is a Marine currently serving in Afghanistan.  I speak to him when he is able to call from a satellite phone that will cut off with the slightest bit of interference, and wait out the times when I know I won’t be hearing his voice anytime soon.  I send him packages with the things that I take for granted and the pictures of all the things that he has missed since he has been away.  Absentmindedly I will scan the articles on my MSN homepage, praying that the media hasn’t heard some news that I haven’t.   

When September 11 happened at the beginning of my 9^th grade year, I felt as unconnected to the nation’s sorrow and fear as one could possibly feel.  I didn’t know what the Twin Towers were, and I couldn’t begin to fathom the concept of terrorism.  Perhaps looking back on it now I’m not giving my adolescent self enough credit, but I also had no reason before that point to know otherwise.  After all, I could remember the all mighty sense of pride that was conveyed to us when we learned to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, so thinking of America as anything but untouchable was outside my own personal experience.  The September 11 attacks, to me, were a tragedy that happened on the other side of the country, to other people’s families.  I could never fathom the profound and far reaching affect they would have on my life years down the road.   

Fast forward eight years later and I know the war on terror more intimately then most people would care to.  I have said goodbyes so heart-wrenching I thought I would never recover- and had reunions that I couldn’t even manage to breathe through.  I have learned the cost of war so intimately that I could never imagine asking anyone else to pay the price.   

So when I have children and they begin to learn about these wars that will seem completely unconnected to their own existence, instead of showing them textbooks with numbers and facts I will show them the dried flowers I received when my love missed my college graduation, or the cards I sent with the hope that I could brighten his day.  After all, this war is more then the strategic move of a nation, it is a piece of our own personal history.