(no subject)
I have this fiance. His name is Wes. He is my lover and my best friend. Before he was my fiance, briefly, he was my boyfriend. Before that, he was my companion and my source of sanity as I prepared to pack up and leave a job at which I was never challenged, an apartment which would never feel like home, a relationship on a fast track to nowhere, and, most depressing of all, a college town that could no longer offer me the strength, stability, and stimulation that college once had provided.
I came back from my daily grocery store lunchtime excursion one day, flush and fresh from enjoying the spring air and beating on my gross-polluter hippie-repelling Audi 4000, grateful for the break from spending my workday stressing out, job-hunting, and filling out change-of-address forms. He had instant-messaged me to let me know that he had taken the liberty of buying me moving supplies, and if I drove to the U-Haul store on Riverside in Burlington (a scant 1/8th mile from where my Jetta had been totaled) I would find a package with my name on it.
It took three trips out to my car to load up all the boxes, tape, and markers. and, of course, the kid working the counter had to admire my car, and reminisce about how he had once owned a mk2 GTI, too, even though his was nowhere near as nice.
I was quite touched by this gesture.
Wes and I had no idea that, four months later, we'd be engaged. So naturally, I was thinking about this tonight as I pulled out the leftover boxes to prepare for my move to Atlanta. I knew there were some rolls of packing tape left over, so I prowled the house to locate them and grew increasingly frustrated at my disorganization. I did find my copy of The Sims Hot Date (although it's worthless as I can't find The Sims, dammit!) and a purple tub containing my LEGO bricks (surfboards and palm trees from the ill-fated Paradisa line) that somehow escaped being merged in with the main LaPine collection, spanning two decades' worth of bricks as the result of my father's, my siblings' and my own employment there.
I found, in another purple LEGO tub, a stack of college souvenirs. My admissions letter from St. Mike's. Old issues of The Defender. And, right on top, a greeting card from my mom, which appears to have been written right after I was laid off from my job sophomore year working nights at the Burlington Free Press (thanks, as they said, to lost revenue after 9/11). she mentioned that she had enclosed a little bit of money to cheer me up. I remember how she used to do that. She sent me greeting cards often, and would occasionally include just enough cash to go get a Coolatta at Dunk's. At the time, it meant the world to me, and I managed to forget that we really just don't get along.
Living under the same roof is a whole different ballgame, and all summer I have constantly reminded myself that I am the intruder here; I'm the prodigal daughter who, at 24, had to beg to come back, just as my parents were finally rejoicing because their youngest and last had just procured an apartment of his own. It made me feel bad, because for the past few weeks I have held nothing but scorn and anger for my mom as she continues on the path towards ruining my wedding by obsessing over the traditional and the trivial.
Resolution: To be nicer to her until I move to Atlanta, and, of course, after I'm there as well, even if it means gritting my teeth as she tells me about the flowers and hors d'ourves and bridal shower Wes and I don't want that we just HAVE to have.
Maybe I'll send her a greeting card every now and then. It worked for me.
I came back from my daily grocery store lunchtime excursion one day, flush and fresh from enjoying the spring air and beating on my gross-polluter hippie-repelling Audi 4000, grateful for the break from spending my workday stressing out, job-hunting, and filling out change-of-address forms. He had instant-messaged me to let me know that he had taken the liberty of buying me moving supplies, and if I drove to the U-Haul store on Riverside in Burlington (a scant 1/8th mile from where my Jetta had been totaled) I would find a package with my name on it.
It took three trips out to my car to load up all the boxes, tape, and markers. and, of course, the kid working the counter had to admire my car, and reminisce about how he had once owned a mk2 GTI, too, even though his was nowhere near as nice.
I was quite touched by this gesture.
Wes and I had no idea that, four months later, we'd be engaged. So naturally, I was thinking about this tonight as I pulled out the leftover boxes to prepare for my move to Atlanta. I knew there were some rolls of packing tape left over, so I prowled the house to locate them and grew increasingly frustrated at my disorganization. I did find my copy of The Sims Hot Date (although it's worthless as I can't find The Sims, dammit!) and a purple tub containing my LEGO bricks (surfboards and palm trees from the ill-fated Paradisa line) that somehow escaped being merged in with the main LaPine collection, spanning two decades' worth of bricks as the result of my father's, my siblings' and my own employment there.
I found, in another purple LEGO tub, a stack of college souvenirs. My admissions letter from St. Mike's. Old issues of The Defender. And, right on top, a greeting card from my mom, which appears to have been written right after I was laid off from my job sophomore year working nights at the Burlington Free Press (thanks, as they said, to lost revenue after 9/11). she mentioned that she had enclosed a little bit of money to cheer me up. I remember how she used to do that. She sent me greeting cards often, and would occasionally include just enough cash to go get a Coolatta at Dunk's. At the time, it meant the world to me, and I managed to forget that we really just don't get along.
Living under the same roof is a whole different ballgame, and all summer I have constantly reminded myself that I am the intruder here; I'm the prodigal daughter who, at 24, had to beg to come back, just as my parents were finally rejoicing because their youngest and last had just procured an apartment of his own. It made me feel bad, because for the past few weeks I have held nothing but scorn and anger for my mom as she continues on the path towards ruining my wedding by obsessing over the traditional and the trivial.
Resolution: To be nicer to her until I move to Atlanta, and, of course, after I'm there as well, even if it means gritting my teeth as she tells me about the flowers and hors d'ourves and bridal shower Wes and I don't want that we just HAVE to have.
Maybe I'll send her a greeting card every now and then. It worked for me.