out of Kadesh

On Friday I was so depressed that I had to leave my office and go for a walk. I stepped out the front door of the building and into the sunlight and just started walking, feeling rage and sadness course through my veins. I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going, but I ended up in the breezeway of an apartment complex nearby. I went under the awning and slid down the wall, letting myself wallow in self-pity. I haven’t felt that alone, that rejected, in a long time.

Then out of the sky came a rumble of thunder and I swear, where there had been sunshine not two minutes before, there was darkness. And rain. Wow, there was rain! Let me just clarify that I am from the south, and “rain” in DC is not real rain. These people don’t know the meaning of a summer shower. But this rain was real rain. The rain was sudden and hit the ground in big, fat drops. It whipped in different directions, so that I was soaked in no time even under the protection of the breezeway’s roof.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t alone. I felt the love of God in that moment so strongly, as I watched the rain pelt the ground. I don’t even know why… but I felt like that tiny storm was just for me. And it was what I needed to go back inside and finish the day.

It turns out when you eat nothing but crap for 3 straight days, your body begins to protest in the form of horrendous, toilet-shaking shits. I actually believe I would have been ok if had only been for the cheese fondue, biscuits, pancakes, pinto beans, chocolate fudge cake, cheeseburger, French fries, and 2 milkshakes. Let me pause here to say that I normally cook, buy, and order from restaurants healthy, grilled, heart-friendly foods. But there’s a part of me that will never die, a passion I retain for heavy, fried, dairy-laden southern foods. I never eat like that until I visit the homestead and then it’s as if all reason has been choked out of my brains as soon as I cross that Virginia/Tennessee border. So reader, do not judge me when I tell you that I think the thing that truly did me in was the Velveeta smothered baked potato topped with sour cream.

And when I say “did me in,” I promise there is no exaggeration. I actually died on Sunday, right there on the toilet, only to be revived when someone forced Mylanta down my throat. If you want to discover Jesus in a new way, all you need to do is sit on a cold crapper for 15 minutes pooping your face off. I don’t think my prayer life has been that good in weeks.

After crawling out of the bathroom rubble, I wiped the icy sweat off my forehead and vowed never to eat Velveeta again. Ever. At LEAST until Thanksgiving.

A couple of nights ago Lance and I had a free evening for the first time in about a month. I’m rarely blessed with so much freedom, and I wondered what I would do if I could do anything. I didn’t really feel like going out to dinner (pause to say this is about as unlikely as Lucy getting rained on and then coming home and rubbing her filthy stank-nasty self all over the bottom of our couch cushions and me not immediately shrieking in agonizing panic and spraying her and everything we own with Febreeze) and there weren’t any movies I wanted to see or anything. I’ve never made a secret of the fact that we are pretty alone in our married bubble in this city where everyone’s real spouse is their job. So hanging out with friends was out.

One of the traditions in my family is playing poker and drinking my dad’s home-brewed beer and eating total crap like Velveta Rotel cheese dip and pre-packaged chocolate donuts whenever we get together. And that’s what I wanted to be doing. Maybe it was just the fact that I was lonely, or maybe it’s the insatiable lust I have for food smothered in processed cheese. Whatever, it made me homesick, and that’s why we are driving eight grueling hours and spending $Mother of Yikes! to put Lucy in a kennel for 3 nights on a holiday weekend this Memorial Day. I will be remembering those who served my country by losing spectacularly to both Texas Hold ‘Em AND chili-dog eating contests (my sister will kick all our asses every time). 

It’s Day 3 of Lance’s and my Lord of the Rings Trilogy Marathon.

Lance and I like to go to CVS around midnight and mess with the check-out people. I wonder what she thought when she scanned these items for us. We thought it was great enough to line up on the coffee table and take a picture when we got home.

When she said “Y’all have a good night….” I was all “THAT’S THE PLAN.”

Forgiveness. Ugh.

When I found out what she did I was so upset that I stripped naked and ran around in circles, then flew over to the window and crashed through it into the street below. Ok not really but I thought seriously about it BECAUSE THAT’S HOW ANGRY I WAS. And I have to see her every day now. And deal with her. I admit I have been fantasizing about punching her in her stupid face. I’m crap at letting stuff go. You hurt me? THAT’S THE END OF OUR RELATIONSHIP.

Forgiveness means “to offer a pardon.” A pardon! That means she gets off, no questions asked. It means she doesn’t have to buy me a new home theater system in penance. It means she doesn’t have to do my laundry for a year, being careful to keep the delicate panties out of the dryer. It means she doesn’t have to say “I’m sorry” at all.

Forgiveness is the only option I have. I’m not saying what she did is ok. I’m saying she doesn’t owe me anything. At least, that’s what I’m trying to say. Tomorrow is another day and I’ll have to try again. I’ll have to try not to fantasize about jumping on top of her and yanking out her hair while shrieking like a jungle animal.

Soon I’ll be able to say “you don’t owe me anything” and not utter “you bitch” under my breath immediately afterwards.