Niecy, I need you

Got the key to the new place today. I'm less than excited about this whole move. I just don't have the energy for this. And the hallway in the new place smells like old soup. Like my great grandmother's triple decker in Bradford, MA, did. Bitch and moan.

I decided that I would only bring into the new place things that I need or truly want. No fluff. The rest will go away. What's hard is that sooo much of it is fluff. And it's all a mental game. So I have a collection of high heels. But I don't wear high heels. None of these shoes has touched anything but living room carpet. And I got rid of a few pair. But the rest . . . I like them, damn it. They're fiesty. Frankly, they don't necessarily need to leave home, if you catch my drift. But because the well is dry, they just sit in a closet like a whole other personality. Harrumph.

I did bring some stuff to the soupy apartment. Shoes I know I'll wear, fabric, some kitchen tools, bedsheets, blankets, winter coats. But then I stopped. I came back to the current place, sat on the couch, and stared around me--pretty much for the rest of the day.

I feel like my fork in the road offers three paths:

• Just fucking take it all with me
• Just fucking take it all to Goodwill
• Get a small storage unit for a month so I don't feel so overwhelmed

I'm not excited about the first prospect. The point is to get rid of unnecessary stuff. And the third is borderline embarrassing. If I'm going to get rid of stuff, I should just do it--quick like a Band-aid. No pussy footing around. So that leaves me with option #2. Fine, but I have to get this shit out of here, into the car, and off into the sunset. I guess it sounded more logical to move the legit stuff and get rid of the rest, but the rest far outweighs the legit stuff.

It doesn't help that I'm sleep deprived and stressed at work. I'm just moments way from sucking my thumb and lying in a fetal position under my table.

I should go read a book.

Of all the homes I've loved before . . .

I'm moving . . . again. Fer cryin' out loud, I'm effing sick of moving. It got me to thinking about how many times I've moved/places I've lived . . .

Georgetown
8th floor Brown, UMASS
6th floor Brown, UMASS
Gorman, UMASS
Wheeler, UMASS
Silver St, Sunderland
Hitchcock Rd, Amherst
Meadow St, Amherst
Elm St, Hatfield
Montague Rd, Amherst
Meadow St, Amherst (2)
Georgetown (2)
Verdun St, Dorchester
Wisteria St, Salem

Then Kelly moves to New Hampshire . . .
High St, Somersworth
Canal St, Somersworth
Kent Place, Newmarket
Bennett Way, Newmarket

This will be my 16th move, 17th "home." I'm too old for this. You'd think it would help with my new quest to get rid of all my stuff. But it's slow going. This week, however, I have been scanning old documents into my computer. Pretty exciting. All the stuff I can't part with--old reviews from previous jobs, vet documents for Charlotte the cat, who died more than two years ago. That actually brought me to tears as I scanned. Bah, crying while scanning the paperwork listing her euthanasia. Some wounds run deep. Don't tell Millie the cat, but Charlotte was the love of my life. -k.

Keeping it simple

This morning I woke in Salem and had to quietly tip toe out of my friend's place to start heading north, it being Mother's Day and all. I got myself some Munchkins for the ride, got Mom's present, and decided to take back roads to NH, rather than the highway. I even drove through my old hometown. It's peculiar--how something can look so familiar yet so distant. I have memories linked to most houses and all stores in that town, yet I see the structures as an adult for the first time. So my memory waxes poetic, "I babysat there..." and my adult eyes think, "Did they always have a three-car garage?" Driving on the bridge over the Merrimac River in Groveland, I had child pangs. It hit me as one of those moments that I would have shared with my child, "Mama used to park on the Groveland side of the river and walk to the Haverhill side to watch the fireworks each summer..." But, there is no child to talk to. These are fleeting moments. But they exist now, whereas before they did not.

Got to Mom's. Gave her a beautiful orange begonia--just couldn't get over the color. And the gift she really wanted: cement. My mom asked for cement for Mother's Day. I felt like a pretty swell kid handing her that Home Depot gift card from little brother and me. She was elated.

We were enjoying the beautiful weather, and she was talking about all the things she wants to do with the gardens and where the new cement path will go, blah blah blah. And I realized how overgrown the gardens were. So I started to weed. She talked, I grabbed grass and roots and rocks out from between the violets and lavendar. I asked if she had a trowel. A few minutes later, we were both on our knees, wearing gloves and tearing at the ground. We talked about serious things and nonsensical things as we tossed clumps of green and dirt behind us. We didn't even look at each other. We just were.

Long ago, an ex pointed out that my mother and I have the same cackle. He was right. And as we talked about family and work and everything in between, we laughed and interjected and went on tangents and cackled. It was quality. At one point, she simply stated that having children made her immortal. It sent me right back to the bridge in Groveland and the pangs that I've been experiencing a bit lately: I'm not immortal. All this time putting together a family tree and archiving family photos--for whom? I think I'm starting to hear a faint tick tock in my soul.

Mom is pretty quiet. Like Grampa was. Not stoic, like him, but rather selfless. More concerned with the needs of others, and therefore apt to sit back a bit. Not always saying what's on her mind or expressing herself well. After hours of weeding, we had done a significant portion of the garden. I decided my back had had enough and I needed to get back to Millie the cat, who was probably trying to figure out how to work a match to burn the building down in anger at me for abandoning her. Mom and I stared at the gardens, talked about working on the vegetable and herb garden in a couple weeks, after I am settled into the new pad. She was happy. She didn't get into detail, but the few things she said were entirely genuine and heart-felt. And this is what Mother's Day should be about. That quality time that doesn't involve giving or receiving, but just being. Neither of us will forget today. And I want it to be the Mother's Day tradition going forward. Because the magic was all in two grown women kneeling in the dirt pulling weeds and talking. Mom, I love you.

Toying with my toys

Spring being the time for renewal, I am considering a couple things more closely than I have in the past. Two things that push me past my comfort zone to a future that is scary, unique, and possibly promising.

The one I have time to write about now, before work, has to do with stuff. I have lots of it. I come from a family that collects stuff. Not quite Hoarders-style, but close in some regards. Close in that individuals are unaware of the magnitude or oddness of their stuff. Unaware that in some ways it perhaps holds them back from a life spent far differently. And it's not my problem, so I try not to concern myself with any of it. And that forces me to consider my own stuff. And, because I'm moving AGAIN, I have no option but to consider my stuff over the next few weeks.

I have always had a lot of stuff. High school, college, adulthood. So much stuff to move from dorm to dorm, apartment to apartment. Somehow, I managed to make it all work wherever I landed. Made it all fit. Like squeezing into tight jeans--lying down, sucking in, repositioning until it's all in and looks like it works. Sort of.

Now that I'm alone, in my 30s (damn, that was depressing to write), I am becoming weary of my decisions to keep stuff that feels so . . . heavy. Journals since childhood, hundreds of books read and not read, college papers, notebooks full of writing that may contain promising nuggets for the future, CDs for fear of losing my iPod, clothes that might fit at some point (or do for a couple weeks out of each year when I'm good), exercise videos that I might someday follow faithfully. The list continues into the sunset.

And as much as 75% of me "gets" the realism of the situation and can rationally say it's time to let a lot of it go, there's a quarter in there somewhere that is not entirely ready. Like starting a diet or quitting smoking, one has to be ready to purge possessions.

So I'm doing it, little by little. Removing three books from the bookcase, donating beautiful shoes I will never wear, going through 10 years of issues of Real Simple. TEN YEARS' worth of a MAGAZINE. On it's fourth move. Because I think it's a pretty magazine. I can't entirely give it up, but I've been tearing off each front cover and tearing out anything I like or consider useful. My intention is to scan it all into OneNote (a new little obsession of mine). And, admittedly, it has felt triumphant to get rid of all those magazine holders filled mostly with advertising.

So, slowly, I'm making smart decisions about my stuff. I'm reading a lot of minimalist blogs. They are far more extreme than I would ever consider. (Owning only 50 things? I want to be able to breathe, not be a vagabond. I intend to keep my horrid high school yearbook.) And perhaps that's because the majority are written by men, who don't mind owning three outfits and wouldn't have to count things like, oh, say, tampons. But the inspiration is there, nonetheless. I'm turned on by the peacefulness of the outcome of simplifying. We'll see how it goes as I begin to pack up boxes. And, I'm on the hunt for more female minimalists--so far a tiny niche online.

Beyond mere stuff, are the "floating" things in our lives--TV, Netflix, gym membership, a landline that rarely rings. When I moved to Newmarket, I got rid of some premium cable channels. Didn't feel a difference. I never figured out what I did with the cable to hook up my DVD player, so Netflix has not been utilized. And the gym. Oh, how kindly I donate money each month to a massive building I never visit. Getting rid of the landline, Netflix, and gym membership would save me an estimated $100/month. $1200/year that could go toward travel. Because I should be having my own adventures, not watching others have adventures on TV. Or hearing about them on Facebook.

This is my baggage. I think I can unload it. Bigger, more extreme changes will have to wait. I'm not ready to give up my HBO or bookcase just yet.

Achy Brakey Heart

Though it's unfortunately rare, every once in a while, you talk to someone who makes you think. I got that opportunity this weekend.

This person, whom I'll call Gemini, is like no one I've perhaps ever spent time with. And since the conversation, I've had a hard time not thinking about it. And it's like this: I'm a ballsy broad half the time. The other half of the time, I'm a completely insecure mess. There. Cover blown. And here comes Gemini, who's got that fantastic screw-em-if-they-don't-like-me thing going. But the difference is that Gemini means it. I can say it, but comparatively, I don't think I mean it.

I'm challenged by Gemini's words. We both agree that talk is cheap. Actions speak volumes. However, we react very differently to Inaction. Gemini looks Inaction up and down and gets pissed and walks. I look at Inaction. And then I keep staring at Inaction. Then I tug on Inaction's sleeve and ask why. Then I brood over Inaction. I cry because Inaction doesn't comfort me. I hate myself for wasting time over Inaction. I sit under a tree close by and watch Inaction for a long, long time. Eventually, I walk away from Inaction, but it's with one eye looking back, wondering whether Inaction even notices. And while my wounds from Inaction leave me scarred like a strong warrior, I'm always just a little bit more broken.

Yeah, that's me. It took Gemini's daunting confidence to hold up a mirror that showed me completely naked and vulnerable. Pants down. Outside of work, I don't stand up for myself. Yeah, it's kind of that simple.

Years ago, way back in college, I pined after someone I'll call Local Yokel. Looking back, he was an indiot. Truly. Not bright. Liked country music, for chrissake. A 3 to my 6. But LY paid a little bit of attention to me. He didn't pursue me. We worked together and laughed a lot, and once in a while hooked up. And while I knew we'd never talk about anything that mattered to me (Emily Dicken-who?, Flaubert is not a dessert on fire?), I was, looking back, perfectly willing to put that aside for what love might feel like.

That's where I've gone wrong for a long time. I have been--I AM--constantly hoping to find love. At all costs. But costs only to me, I'm finding out. The world continues on. And I can imagine relatives who've passed away all in the room, watching with arms folded, tsk tsking my feeble walk through life. Ugh.

Gemini gave me quite a wake-up call. Gemini walks the talk. I kinda don't. Well, not in all aspects. So I'm dazed and inspired. If I'm a writer, I should be writing. If I don't like how my jeans [don't] fit, I should be exercising. Yes, my gentle audience of three, this is not a revalation. It's just that Gemini made it so obvious. So what am I going to do about it?

I turned the TV off. I'm writing. I have a book in front of me and the rest of a weekend to think about changes. I think Gemini was a good enounter for helping me with Kelly: Indecision 2010.

Pioneer woman? Not so much.

Last week's storm was a good'un. Some people were annoyed that their cable was out for a day; others are still waiting for electricity and heat to resume after almost six days. I'm somewhere between the two.

Power went out Thursday. I decided to stay home Friday. I relished in the fact that I was sans technology. I cleaned (very unusual). I stitched. I read. I journaled. I was starting to feel pretty accomplished. Then I looked at the clock. Noon. Wow. A day without TV . . . is a much longer day. But I went with it. I stayed on the couch, by the window, and did all my favorite Kelly things.

Once in a while, I got up to see whether anything new had appeared in the fridge. And I had a bit of a duh moment while eating lunch: Eating isn't as interesting when the TV isn't on. Without the trance of that glowing box, suddently eating was something I was very aware of. I was aware that I wasn't hungry. And I felt a bit . . . limited in my actions, frankly, because I was eating. I didn't finish lunch. (This reminded me of when I briefly was a smoker in college. I resented the fact that I couldn't go inside a building until I was finished smoking. Cigarettes, to me, started to feel like a friend who wouldn't shut up. I had to finish my smoke before I could do anything else, leaving me practically tapping a toe and becoming impatient. Much the same, holding a bowl and fork meant I couldn't hold a book, so I lost interest.)

I read and wrote until the sun went down, holding my journal up to the window to capture the last minutes of light to finish an entry. I lit a few candles, sat back on the couch, and looked around. Now what? What the hell is a person going to do from 6-10ish alone in the dark? I read by candle light--but they were Yankee candles and gave me an awful headache. I played mah jong on my laptop until the battery died. I brushed Millie the cat. For the first time in a very long time, I was bored. I heard myself sigh. I listened to my neighbors bang around in the dead silence. I thought about stuff. I read some more. Eventually it was time to sleep.

Saturday was more of the same, but colder as the heat left the apartment. Millie was amused as I fumbled through my camp gear and announced a triumphant A-ha! when I got to my headlamp and wind-up radio. Wind wind wind wind wind. Static tsssssssssss.............NH doesn't offer much for radio stations. I listened to some lousy country music, some bad soft rock. I found myself singing along to Peter Cetera. Time? 6 a.m.

The cold and quiet were starting to bother me, so I took a whore's bath and got on the road to Mom's, knowing she'd have the generator going. The ride there was nifty. Durham later called the storm "Tree-mageddon" in the local paper, which was apt. Big pines were down everywhere, roots and all. I drove by a cemetary in which all the trees were broken in half or just ripped up out of the ground. A bleak site.

Exeter was underwater. Most roads had detours. Route 108 just south of town had a large amount of water running over it. I saw a couple pickups slowly drive across. I saw the DPW truck in my rearview, surely coming to close it down. I said fuck it why not and plunged forth. It was one of my blonder moments. I had visions of being that asshole on the news, sitting on her car, waving to the helicopter for help. I pictured my stepfather watching the news and saying to my mother, "Not very bright." before looking closer and realizing it was me. But I got across. Don't fuck with a determined girl in a Ford Focus.

Saturday night I got my power back. By Sunday much of the water had subsided and mostly what was in the road was brush left behind from tree removal. I put away my gear and enjoyed a long, hot shower. And while I consider myself something of a back-to-nature gal, I realize that I only like camping on my terms. And with someone.

Note: There are so many good pictures out there, but I am unable to attach them. Thebostonchannel.com has good photos such as this, and Foster's Daily Democrat published stories about each town in the area, along with photos. This was about Newmarket.

Scaredy Cat

I have irrational fears. Simple, everyday things make my palms sweat and my heart race. Amusing to others, these fears are oddly taxing on my self and self esteem. So I'm taking control by listing them and releasing them to the universe. Enjoy:

1. Cutting cakes. 
*Shudder* I hate nothing more than, after the mortification of people singing Happy Birthday, someone pushing the cake to me and holding a knife out. What if I do it wrong? What if my slices are enormous? Too big? Too small? What if the cake starts to fall apart and I toss my fingers in to hold a slice together for transfer to a plate?

2. Making Introductions. 
The smallest introductions throw me into a tizzy. And introducing several people (e.g., bringing the new person around the office)--forget it. I may work with you every day. You may be my best friend. But I will turn to introduce, look you in the eye, and completely forget your name. Blank. In fact, when I see someone approaching, I practice in my mind first and make the introduction slowly.

I blame this irrational fear on my early years working in a small-town video store. Everyone knew each other in my home town. And over the years, I got good at memorizing account numbers or looking someone up on the computer before they reached the counter. But there were days when someone I knew very, very well would be wandering through the store. And it would dawn on me that I'd blanked on the name. On lucky occasions, I was working with someone, and I could maneuver so that the other clerk waited on Mrs. Sudden Blank. But on the unlucky occasions, I'm not even sure how I got through it. Very embarrassing.

3. Writing in front of others. 
I doodle a lot. You can't love pens like I do and not have little slips of paper everywhere on which you've written your name a million times. Kelly Kelly Kelly. The quick fox jumps over... You get the idea. And sometimes I receive compliments on my handwriting.

But put me in front of someone and ask me to write something, and my hand stops working and what comes out is a pathetic scratch and scrawl. Temps at work ask me sometimes to sign their time sheets. The date, my name, and my position. I take the pen, look at the sheet, feel the stare of the temp, and my hand becomes paralyzed. It looks like I'm writing with the wrong hand. I have to force the letters out.

4. Signing cards. 
Signing a card is a weird sort of pressure. Only one chance to get it right. And those cards that are passed around the office are the worst. I think too much about what to write because the generic lines are usually already written several times. Signing a group card is akin to trimming bangs. You give it a go. You see a slight mistake (a spelling error, an underdeveloped letter). You go in to fix it, only to make it worse. You try a little more. And it spirals out of control. I hate signing group cards.

5. Riding a bicycle. 
I see what other bums look like from the back of a bike. I don't want anyone to focus on my bum. Plus, I'm just not graceful. At all. I am a menace on a bicycle on the street. Keep me on old rail trails.

6. Being Seranaded.
Go ahead and roll your eyes--no, this is not a fear I suffer from regularly. But back in high school and college, when eeeevery boy bought a guitar and tried for the stars, I recall many moments when a sweet boy would wind up and go into a three- to five-minute performance. With me as sole audience. And, ladies, I ask you--what do you do for those painfully long minutes? Some boys were unbelievably talented. I just didn't have the attention span or something. I would be excited and smiley for the first 20 seconds. After that, I didn't know where to look--focus on the fingers flying? Look deep into his eyes (usually a friend--awkward)? Get up and grab beers from the fridge? I think that's why I started hanging scientists instead of artists.

7. Blowing Publicly.
My nose, that is. I don't do that in front of anyone. What if I don't get it all?

8. Peeing Publicly.
Horribly shy bladder. I am notorious for never peeing. Part of it is that I am afraid of public bathrooms, and part of it is that someone might hear me doin' my bi'ness. Nope, I'll hold it.

Clearly, I have performance anxiety. I can talk a good game, but I really don't want anyone to know I'm in the room. Or that I perform normal, daily, human actions. Surprising, considering the family in which I grew up. What is wrong with me?!