(A (mostly) light-hearted Q&A poem based on things I’ve been asked about OCD.)
I had a wonderful two weeks at home for the holidays. My husband got through his surgery, and although his recovery was slow at first, he is up and around more every day.
During my time off I took care of both kids, helped Dan when he needed me, kept the house going, made lots of progress on the unpacking front, and dyed most of our holiday gifts. It was tiring but rewarding. Getting to spend all that time with the kids was awesome.
We had some visitors too. My dad and stepmom came for the surgery, and Dan’s twin brother came shortly afterward. Before the surgery his older brother came to visit with my sister-in-law and nephew. We went to an awesome drive-through light show.
We love our new house. We’ve started to get most things where they need to be and figure out how to use different spaces. We were able to get the home warranty to cover repairs on a few things that were broken, so all that’s left is to get a new roof, and that was paid for as part of the deal. Being closer to family is great, too. We are insanely grateful for all of it.
Now we just have to work together to extract me from my job and figure out some combination of new ones that will pay the bills. Even though the payment is slightly lower than rent, my job is still at risk and we’re at the “hatch an escape plan” point. Dan is studying for a certification test he needs to take, and I’m applying for random jobs that sound fun and less stressful.
Right before I left for the holidays, I put together the on-boarding plan I should have had the first week or two I worked here and sent it to my boss as my training request list. But I only have so much energy, and while I’m trying to make it work for the time being, I also need to spend some of that energy job-hunting and supporting Dan in his search.
I’d rather leave on my own terms and getting fired certainly would suck. But it’s less scary than it used to be. We have some savings left, and Dan has already been working with a career coach so we might just sign me up for him too (family discount? HA).
It is hard to come in every day, and not to let myself go straight to “fuck it all free-fall.” But having a possible end-date helps with that. And I get to go home to the most awesome family in the world, plus I have supportive, caring friends and family who are there to listen to me gripe when I need them and commiserate with their own unfortunate nutso work stories.
Here’s hoping 2019 is way less stressful than that Old Year.
It was a very eventful fall for me and my family.
Continue reading “Going into hibernation”
Once a year or so
we traced mailbox letters,
traipsed turkey-scented hallways,
bore holiday bags and boxes
to dark doorways in strange buildings
where Mom tentatively knocked.
Continue reading “Year of the Hot Dog”
ombré golden gown
bones. Continue reading “A tiny fall poem”
On Monday we close on our new house. All the obstacles have been overcome! We have various people coming to do work for a few days, then we move next weekend. I can’t wait to get settled into a new permanent spot where all our stuff can be out instead of half of it being crammed in the basement. I’m going to tie-dye before Christmas. Continue reading “Moving”
That night we drove down
a seemingly familiar street
that came to a sudden end
in a pool of darkness,
the weak beams of the headlights
no match for the swallowing void. Continue reading “Flood”
I’ve been busy lately.
I absolutely love my poetry class. I wasn’t sure I could write “on demand,” but part of the classwork is keeping a journal, and the poem I turned in this week came directly from free-writing in it. I turned out two poems I was very happy with in two weeks.
I also love being surrounded by other writers. There is a great supportive atmosphere in the room, and I’ve gotten some fantastic feedback on my work. When I was writing my second poem, it did indeed hit me like lightning (as my friend Laura would say) that this is what I really want to do. Maybe not all poetry, and it might take some time to figure out the “how” part. But at least the “what” part is settled. The revelation was followed by a big internal “DUH!” moment. I’ve been writing my whole life since the inception of my first independent newspaper The Daily Cat when I was 5 or 6: my nursery rhyme poems in elementary school, my angst-y teenage journals peppered with profanity written so furiously it was embossed on the page, my rock-bottom depression anthems from college. I’ve never not written.
Why the hell did it take me this long to figure it out? Continue reading “Decisions”
At eleven, I didn’t have the word to describe it.
I didn’t have the right words to tell, either.
So when I tried to ask for help
I got an eye-roll that said boys will be boys.
Continue reading “Violation: A Poem”