Life, Interrupted

this is not the cheeriest blog entry... it's not horribly sad, it's just deep. If you feel one more sad entry might push you over the edge, then for goodness' sake, please hit "next blog" up in the corner and move along.

We are in our new house. As soon as we get something other than dial-up--did you know it still existed? It does, if only for us, at least until our satellite dish gets hooked up next week-- I will post some photos.

Friday, a large truck pulled up and delivered 9,000 pounds of someone else's crap to our door. Oh, the boxes say 'Spangler' all over them-- actually a few say 'Strangler' and 'Sprangler', but we're used to that. It's our stuff, it's just nothing I want.

I've known for a while that when it came I was not going to want it. I have been threatening garage sales in which completely unopened boxes are sold to the first person waving a five-dollar bill. I rehearsed what I would say to the kids, "Sorry guys, but some stranger in Oak Harbor ended up with your baby pictures..." I wondered if they would really mind. I told myself they'd get over it.

But now it's all here. And it's more superfluous and crappy than ever. I don't know how to say this more plainly: I DO NOT WANT THIS CRAP. It does not belong to me. It belongs to someone I used to be and she and I aren't on speaking terms anymore. I asked her not to bother me, but now she's gone and sent me all her stuff... as if I could have any use for it.

But it's here. So yesterday I come home from nine grueling hours on my feet to a houseful of boxes. The labels are vague: Glassware, linens, kitchen. I pour a drink and try to ignore them. Get this: Nothing inside of me cares one iota what is in those boxes. Around seven, after I'd read the mail, had another drink, and watched my husband sleeping toward his graveyard shift, I opened a box that said 'pans'. The box was the size of my Scion xA. The contents took up one shelf on one cupboard. The paper filled the kitchen. I shoved the paper back in, moved the box to the other room and worked through four more boxes. The more boxes I unpacked, the higher the Garage Sale pile became. Final count: Eleven boxes unpacked, Seven boxes going to the Sale to End All Sales. There's Fiesta ware, Williams-sonoma baking dishes, fine china, and two dozen cookbooks. Yet unopened boxes will yield even more! It will be a marvelous sale. Nothing is coming back in the house, so what doesn't sell will be carted off to charity. Wait until I get the energy to tackle my craft room. Fabric? Who needs it. Yarn? Well, maybe a skein or two... who has time?

So this is what it comes down to: I have no emotional attachment to this house, nor to anything in it. In 24 years we moved 14 times. In all those other moves I had a reason to set up home and set it up quick: I had a family. My job was to be the best wife and mom I could be. Well, I just realized that I'm out of work. I don't have that job anymore. I really don't care how long it takes for the stinkin' house to get set up... no one's happiness depends on my getting this house in order. I'm not going to be here to enjoy it. I'm going to be leaving for work 6 days a week at 6:30am while my husband is coming off graveyard to sleep. At 4pm I'll make my way home to eat, do laundry, and catch up on my mail until it's time to send Kelly off to work and head to bed. This is not the life I asked for.

So as I unpack, and as I see things like colorful mugs that used to be filled with coffee for friends coming by to pray and talk and enjoy, or baking dishes that used to hold homemade goodies for my kids, or cheery colored dishes that just oozed charm... all I can think of is this: Make them all go away. That was then. This is now. I have no desire to have friends, much less entertain them. My children are grown and gone and I can't even take a flippin' few weeks off work to go see them when my grandbaby's born. I do not have time to bake or cook, nor do I have the desire.

Everything in these boxes can just sit here and rot.

It's beautiful house. It's just that I don't know who's living here. I used to have a purpose, now I just exist. I'm angry. It's not that this house is opulent. It's not that we're living above our means. It's a very reasonably prices house. It's that when the man decided to just walk away from the military last winter we weren't ready for that financially. I have my portion of the responsibility in his decision, but I'm not happy about the consequences. I like my job. I hate working. I like my house. I don't see a life here. I see a woman in my mirror. I do not know her.

There. That's why you haven't heard from me.

And the crack about the friends... well, it's not that I don't want you as a friend, you just wouldn't like me very much right now.

What is going on?