Category — the unlikely cook

The eternal debate rages on about the actual end of the decade, but personally, my mind is made up.

Resolutions are easily made and easily broken. I’ve gone down that road before, and this year, the only resolution-type thing I’ve got is getting up on time. Mostly because it just got way out of control last year.

Goals, however, are another matter, and I’ve given mine a lot of thought. I’m on the right path- most of these are obvious and unchanged. Keep working on my degree (long term), get into Western Carolina University (short term). Keep my job (short term) and continue to position myself via my performance and shrewd politics for a steady upward path in my company (long term). Keep writing (short term), while dreaming and planning for the time in my life when I can pursue more opportunities in it (long term). Have as much fun as possible (short term), while keeping my eyes and heart open to a future with someone (way long term).

My only hard and fast goal for this year is to apply for admission and be accepted to Western Carolina University for the fall term. First, I must conquer my x = death, pestilence and famine issues. Second, I must summon transcripts and certificates from three or four different places. Third, I believe I have to write an essay. Fourth, I’m pretty sure there’s a strip search and a urine sample required. It is quite the undertaking, and as luck would have it, my only class for the spring term is French, and it’s a campus/internet hybrid. Here’s to hoping that scoring A’s in Intermediate Accounting and Entrepreneurship assured that my GPA meets their requirements, which if memory serves is 3.5 or better.

Execution has become a problem for me in the past year, and I’ve grown so very tired of putting out fires and flying by the seat of my pants.

My theme for 2010: Be Good to Yourself.

Not in that have another piece of cake, you really can afford that purchase, you deserve a mental health day type of way.

More like getting enough sleep, having enough fun, eating higher quality food, making a point of being active without torturing myself about it, doing what I’m supposed to when I’m supposed to so I’m not so stressed out waiting for something to slip through the cracks.

I’ve survived, and now it’s time to thrive.

Don’t you think?

Because of the color reports from Grandfather Mountain, and in spite of the weather forecast, Adicus and I made our trip to Linville Saturday as scheduled. We left a little late- I slept in. It was worth the late start.

The wind was bitter and the cold damp air reminded me more of winter than fall. The color was incredible, though the pictures don’t do it justice because it was so dark. Adicus and I played fetch and took pictures all afternoon. Cruising down the parkway, with the dog in the back seat, familiar music on the radio. Except I’m in the driver’s seat now. It feels good, stopping when I want for however long I want, and heavy with responsibility.

When I stop at the Linn Cove Viaduct, I’m greeted with light snow. It occurs to me that going over Mount Mitchell on the Parkway may not be the safest way to get to Asheville. I debate as I drive. When I got to NC 80, the Park Service was just shutting the gates.  We came into Old Fort, got on I-40 and drove back to Haywood County, bringing a cold rain with us.

Despite the weather, it was a wonderful trip, and it gave me back my sense of wonder and brought me that sense of deep comfort, of fitting into my miniscule place in the world. As I sat in my cozy house that night, with the dog in my lap, the dull ache of accomplishment filled me from the toes up.

Sunday was bitter cold, and I spent most of the day dutifully holding the couch down. I settled in for a nap some time around three. At five, someone honked their car horn from my driveway, softly, tentatively, and the honking and subsequent barking and jumping around woke me out of a dead drooling sleep.

Still dressed in my pjs, I answered the door. I had bedhead and sleep lines. It was not a pretty sight, I’m sure.

My very sweet, very pretty, very well kept housewife neighbor was standing at my porch door. She had a big pile of silver shiny things. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I smiled at her and resisted the urge to stretch. She was talking. Something about honking the horn to keep from startling me?

They were having a birthday party for her daughter. She thought I might like a plate. She knows how hard it is to cook for one. She’s been there. She’s been thinking of me. I should come up for coffee sometime. I am smiling and nodding and saying thank you, and saying something about always cooking too much food, when I bother. She is noticing my hair and my decision not to dress for the day and she’s still smiling and she’s handing me the plates, covered in foil, and I’m thanking her and agreeing with her about the coffee, and she’s talking about getting back to her company, and I’m smiling and waving as she gets back in her car.

Adicus and I come into the house and I put the plates on the kitchen counter. I stretch and fix my hair, and Adicus wants to go outside, so I let him out. I sit for a minute on the porch and try to process what has just occured, but I’m not sharp enough yet. My stomach growls, so I go into the kitchen and warm up the first plate in the microwave for a minute or two, and I sit down on the couch with a glass of juice and this plate. A few pieces of honey baked ham, corn and green beans, and a yeast roll. I’m eating, and as I start to eat, I start to cry. I’m still very disorientated at this moment, and I put the plate down for a minute and cry harder, then wipe my eyes and blow my nose and look bewildered at this ham and wonder why the fuck I’m crying because Noelle brought me a plate?

As I start to eat again, I realize. I realize that the last time I had honey baked ham was when the neighbor ladies came to my sister’s house after Mark’s service. I remember them piling a plate high for both of us, and insisting that my sister have seconds. I remember hating this for my sister, the death ham, so sweet, and we were starving, but it’s death food, every bit of it, brought by kind souls who think of you in concern and pity and know that you need to eat but are unable to oversee such a simple part of daily living because your life is a total shitstorm because you lost someone.

I realize that though no one has died, I have lost someone, and my neighbor lady, a very sweet and kind lady who has a master’s degree and the nice house on the hill and a husband and a little girl and two dogs and she stays at home, has thought of me, with concern and pity, and she brought me divorce ham. I’m touched and everything is good, and I finish it all, including the dessert plate, except I let Adicus have the pumpkin pie, because he asked for it, but I hate her for it too. I hate her, and I feel guilty for hating her, and I will go up the hill one day to have coffee, because I’ve always liked her well enough, and she asked me to, and she’s very sweet, but I hate her and I hate myself for hating her.

When I finish with dinner, I head straight into the office. Into the room where the ex stayed after we split but before he left. That moment is frozen in time in this room, with clothes piled on the floor next to a makeshift bed and the smell of dust and dead dreams. He had agreed to let me pack up his things. So I started. I cleaned and packed and sorted and cleaned and packed and sorted some more. There is more to do, there are more boxes to pack, and more cleaning and rearranging to be done, but it’s okay.

As I slip into bed Sunday night, I feel more like the girl who took the dog for an adventure on the Parkway and less like the girl who ate pity ham in her pj’s at six o clock on a Sunday afternoon.

Now I just have to find the time and the courage to go up the hill for coffee.