Repealing

 

 

I had every intention to handle this like a warrior.

A paint-covered, ladder-climbing, putty-knife-wielding warrior.

That’s not exactly how it all went.

 

After

Yes. That’s the after. I couldn’t do any more.

It looks like a preschool class painting their first flat for a school play.

But it was the best I could do. Multiple trips to fetch supplies I couldn’t afford. Almost as many panic flushes. I was done.

My best is not much. Obviously. I can write you a poem about patching a ceiling but I can’t do it in practice.

Was this mess at least better than when I started?

 

Before

Maybe.

I don’t know anymore.

The biggest hurdle was that I was going to handle this myself. And by handle, I meant just getting on with it. Not whining and whinging and lambasting my self-worth with the same enthusiasm that I used when wielding the blade of a paint scraper and the sanding block.

That hurdle, I instead smacked and took down with me as I tumbled to the ground. I sent endless texts begging for encouragement. To the point where I was disgusting myself, so I can’t image how pissed the receiver of my depressing messages must have been. I was so furious at myself that I didn’t know how to do this, how to fixed this, that I failed at something else. I

I do this every time. Every time. No matter what bobble or hardship or uncalm sea I encounter. Every little thing. Every time. ¬†And this wasn’t even a crisis. When I came home to find this, now that was a crisis.

(For texture and amplification, it was -2 degrees Fahrenheit at the time outside the house.)

Did I handle both of these problems?

Sort of.

The heat now works and there’s not as much of a crater situation on the ceiling.

Did I beat myself up about my complete buggering of these projects?

Maybe.

Did I deserve that?

No comment.

Did I then beat myself up about my weight and my complete lack of musical or artists talent and my shit parenting job and…

Fine. You bet your sweet ass I did. Gave myself a proper run down.

I really need to stop this. It helps no one. It makes me feel worse and by doing it again, and again, and fucking again, I will push away the precious few that are willing to support me when I have legitimate crises, not just a few floating flakes of glossy enamel.

If I can kinda fix paint and more or less manage a broken furnace, why can’t I give myself a break?

That should be the easy part. Just taking away the labor I swing day in and day out that effectively chips mw down to a rubbled pile of nothing.

Even if I have nothing good to replace the absence.

A  wrong act continually enforced to the detriment of all is worth the struggle to repeal it.

The floor is open to motions.

Floor…

Floor…does that look like a hole in my floor???

Lasagna

Some days, the lasagna is the victory. 

Today, I’ll take that. All of it. 

It’s not gluten-free or vegetarian. The cheese is real and brimming with dairy. There is oil and wine and fats of all flavors in that thing. 

And I made it. 

No self-effacing. It’s gorgeous and glorious and the smell is almost as good as the feel of the fork sinking into the pasta. Yes. I’m writing soft-core food porn now. Just wait until I get to the garlic orgasm. 

Look. I don’t do perfectly proportioned meals, overflowing with organic vegetables. My proteins aren’t lean. We won’t broach the offensive amounts of sugar in my kitchen. 

Some days I regret that and want to do better. 

But not today. 

Because my gods, does the divine, oozy, succulence in that picture taste as good as it looks. An Italian mother would think I’m good enough for her son. (That and my baby-making hips.)  That’s how good I did with this thing. 

It’s awkward for me to say out loud when I do well. It’s painful and awkward and I only do it when…well, I don’t. But I’m trying. 

No. I know.  It’s not a win/lose. It’s not a succeed/fail. It’s a journey and a trying and…

Who am I kidding-

Some days I suck without limits. 

But today-

Today I made lasagna. 

I did something really well and I’m saying it. 

So I win.