Archive: Indie Bloggers

Out of synch? Off kilter? On the fritz? However you say it, JG and I were out of sorts this week. I don’t know what it was. I could rattle off a litany of excuses — lack of sleep, bad driving weather, physical fatigue — but they seem limp and insufficient compared to the jarring clash of our interactions.

When the rhythm is right, JG and I have a groove; our friends sometimes call it “The JG and RA Show,” and they watch our banter with amusement. We are guilty of clichéd things like finishing each other’s sentences, answering half-asked questions, and collectively reminiscing a story. I relish these moments when it’s perfectly clear to me that we’re on the same page, we’re completely aligned, and our synergy is confirmed.

But then there are times like this week, when the gears of our well-oiled machine didn’t coalesce, and instead of interlocking into a functional system, the cogs butted up against each other in a grinding struggle. Conflicting opinions in the context of similar, unyielding personalities morphed attempted communication into a hostile front. Conversations meant to be hypothetical ended up deeply personal, and suggestions turned into accusations. What was intended was not said, and what was taken away was not intended. Despite the fact that neither meant to hurt the other, it still happened. On Wednesday, I forced myself to write an e-mail to say that I was feeling simultaneously hurt and discouraged and insecure, all the while hating that I had to write it out because — couldn’t I talk to my own husband? I dabbed away the gathering tears, ashamed that I was crying at the start of my workday.

Throughout the day, JG and I had a constructive e-mail conversation to clear things up, so the issue has passed. But I can still feel prickly, sensitive bits of me bristling at sarcastic comments. I am not doing a good job at suppressing eye-rolls and groans. I have to keep reminding myself that JG is making pulled pork sandwiches for dinner tonight, at the same time refraining from nursing silent resentment over the fact that he got to stay home from work on this snowy day while I am sitting in an empty office. It’s not his fault. But it’s still irksome.

After I get home and we eat dinner, we’ll play Scrabble and watch a movie or episodes of The Office. Maybe we’ll get the groove back next week. Shrug. I know it’s all a part of two human beings living in one space and that these discordant times are for building character. Challenging myself is fine and dandy, but I confess that I prefer the times when the machine runs smoothly.

Cross-posted at Indie Bloggers

Sunglasses in place.
Switch from NPR to jazz.
Twelve miles to home.

No, people, don’t stop.
There is no construction here —
Just an orange sign.

Go ahead, Jetta,
Weave over the yellow line.
I’ll keep my distance.

What is going on?
Turn signals are optional?
Thanks for the memo.

Sorry, SUV,
For driving the speed limit.
Get off my back, please.

Oh, now you’ll pass me
Even though there’s just one lane.
Hang up and drive, jerk.

Park in the driveway
And turn off the ignition.
Home, at last. Exhale.

Cross-posted at Indie Bloggers

It’s not that obvious. You have to scroll down pretty far before you see it, and even then, it’s pretty tiny. There, in the sidebar, below the archives. See it? The Indie Bloggers button? In the beginning, the idea of bring together bloggers of no particular leaning — motherhood, crafts, pets, etc. — really appealed to me. I felt somewhat blank without a specific genre, and it was nice to know that others felt the same way. Along the way, that little button has come to mean a lot more to me. I’m so grateful for the chance to submit and share the posts that I really love, and every weekday, an interesting and thought-provoking piece pops up in my feed reader from another IB writer. Sometimes, I know the author; other times I don’t. We’re not members of a club, we’re just people scattered all over the place, connected in the pursuit to meet a straightforward, but hardly simple, challenge:

Check it out.

You bring out the New England in me. Stepping out into your biting wind and chilling rain makes my Connecticut blood flow ever strong, determined to not be cold yet. I am hardy, Yankee stock, and I know to put on a real coat for morning walks so that I can nonchalantly lift the hood in a sudden shower of stinging drops. Bring it on, November.

You’re that strange doorway between fall flamboyance and winter drear. One day, red maple leaves litter the sidewalk like rose petals at a wedding; the next day, they’re battered down with rain and mud. Bright leaves flutter to the pavement, exposing the stark skeletons of their parent trees. Silhouettes of branches and twigs are clearly delineated against dense, cloudy skies. How very Wuthering Heights of you, November.

You tempt me to fatten up for the long, hard winter ahead. Howling winds and gray atmospheres prick longings for steaming mugs of tea and mulled cider, preferably with a beef stew or chicken pot pie to go along for the ride. We must not forget that the holiday of food holidays, Thanksgiving, is in your territory. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, and all that is pumpkin and cranberry — plus the requisite food coma, the first step of hibernation — belong to you, November.

You don’t make it easy for me, though. Mornings like the one today make it hard to advocate in your defense that you are not that bad. There was a brief moment when I heard my alarm and thought, “Oh, wait, I can just turn it off because today is Saturday!” Just kidding, I heard you mock, and I remembered that it was only Tuesday. Not that I didn’t want to walk Ted or go to work, but they fell so far below the charm of staying in my cozy bed that you make so attractive, November, darn you.

You smacked me in the face with all you had to offer. Your biting air, icy rain, and blustery wind pelted Ted and me. Most would shy away from aggressive tactics, but not me. I am a warm-coat-wearing, thick-blooded, Puritan-minded New Englander and I can take it. Your cold slap only snaps me into alertness and spurs me on to whatever I have in front of me, so I don’t mind at all. You’re a challenge that I relish standing up to face because I can see you for what you are: merely an awkward transition stage, full of gawky adolescence and angst. I don’t love you, November, but I don’t hate you, either. You, too, shall pass.

Cross-posted at Indie Bloggers