Ten people sat at four cafeteria tables forming a rectangle. 9 of the 10 people liked my writing piece. The critiques were gracious and favorable and they even commented on my humor which I have wondered if it comes across right. One older woman who reminds me of my mother in law who is now my ex mother in law and has been for two years but I frequently forget when I got divorced I lost the whole family not just the husband. That isn’t totally true. Some sisters in law still connect with me. Well, the one person not liking my piece is ridiculous. Not being liked, and I mean really well liked, makes me itchy and crabby. Why can’t she like my piece?
She handed me a slip of typed paper. She thinks my writing is more suited for a journal or diary and my breathless pace was off putting. Well, bless her heart. I may hate her.
The teacher said she would read 150 more pages like the six I wrote and that meant I had a book in there somewhere. I’m thankful the teacher likes my work. I signed up for a writing workshop in which the purpose is to critique each other’s work. I’m not sure why I thought I could handle actual critiques. Maybe if the one who doesn’t like my work didn’t look like my mother in law, I wouldn’t care so much? Once my mother in law and her sister locked me out of their house. They didn’t like me when I showed up with her youngest son/nephew pregnant and unmarried.
Other than that I believe myself to be likable.
I decided to end my house obsession. I need to stop dreaming about owning a home. I have a condo that will be paid for in ten or so years and I am incredibly lucky to have that. I cannot afford a house and I don’t need another longer mortgage at this point in my life. I don’t even have savings. My constant magazine flipping, Zillow searching and neighborhood stalking has got to end. I have to grow up and love what I have. A great small condo in a really good school district.
I’m praying that I can redo my bathroom with my tax refund. A girl can dream.
I’m considering my reoccurring idea that I should have been a midwife. Or I could still be a midwife. No, I have no nursing experience. I need to work many more years. Will I need to do something else? Can I be a school librarian for another 20 years? I love being a librarian. Is this worth pursuing? I love babies and birth.
I ate gooey squares and jelly beans this afternoon. I imagine Chad doesn’t ever date anyone who eats gooey squares. I bet his new girlfriends don’t ever bake anything with Paula Deen’s name on it. I shouldn’t compare myself to unknown women who sleep with my ex husband. Comparison is the thief of joy – and all that good advice. But, I was looking for a place to have spring break and I thought about one of the last times I had spring break in Florida and I pictured in my head this photo of my three younger ones. George was 8, Dolly was 7 and Mim was 2. George and Dolly were holding Mim’s hands. She couldn’t walk without them. They were all in pajamas. We had woken up early and gone down a long set of old wooden steps to see the waves. We were coming back in and all three had windblown curls. What is better than kids in pajamas? What is better than kids in pajamas at the beach? And I remembered that Chad wasn’t on the vacation with us. We were living in the yellow house at the time. The yellow house was where everything went wrong. Addy got sick. Chad started his affair. Look at those beautiful babies in pajamas. Fresh little dumplings with sandy feet and curly locks. The ferocity with which I have these memories- only loosely connected to my life in this present moment and a possible future spring break is maddening.
The stream of consciousness. Spring break. Vacation rentals. Past spring break memory. Precious beach babies. Yellow house. Fear. Heartbreak. Rage. I hate that he fucked with my memories.
I read about Martin Luther kIng Jr at school/work today. My favorite words were “Love is the key to all the problems of the world.” And I believe it. I really do.
And I hold hate in my heart. I stumble over one flaw. Love got me into a lot of these messes. Blind love. Hopeful love. Believing that love trumps all. Unconditional love. Love that lasts a lifetime. I understand that hate only hurts the hater. Me.
Another mystery of life. The difficult to comprehend. Love. Hate. How did I get here?
Time to put my tired head to bed.
I hope we get a snow day soon. The Farmers’ Almanac promised two.