||[Aug. 28th, 2004|08:54 pm]
|||||Everything Gives You Cancer, Joe Jackson||]|
Well, here I sit, feeling pretty pointless and pathetic.
The table is set for two; the three-course homemade Italian dinner stands on the stove, or in wraps in the fridge. The candles sit beside the matches, the wineglasses sparkling, awaiting the wine (chilling in the fridge). The apartment is spotless, comfortable, decorated, beautiful. The moon is full outside, and the Atlantic ocean whispers through the windows.
I have taken off my new sundress, the fancy new lingerie, the makeup. Put on the bathrobe.
Brent’s flight was delayed; he’s stuck in San Juan for the night. I think I was more disappointed than he was.
Wallow, wallow, wallow. Guess I’ll get some writing done. Or get hammered. Depends on how fast the rum punch takes effect. (You’ll understand if my writing gets less coherent.)
Minutes before I was supposed to head out the door to get Brent at the airport, Buster brought me a mouse. And dropped it in the big pile of my stuff I’m planning on selling. Monday, I will be going to Kassab’s, to get big Rubbermaid storage bins.
So there I am, cursing at the cat, crawling around in my finery (I actually bothered to do my HAIR, for god’s sake) – Buster would grab the mouse, then release it in a less convenient place. I finally beat the cat out of doors with my yoga mat, grabbed the mouse, and flung it. Pretty flustered by then – had to re-powder. I hate makeup in the tropics. Losing proposition. But these days, I really look OLD without it. (Hell, I look old with it, too. Damn.)
There’s a pretty good lingerie shop in town. I went there yesterday. In the window, I saw something I know Brent would love (he’s mentioned something of the sort). Problem is, the shop is not ever actually open. The neighboring shopkeepers are of the opinion that the shop owner is rich, and doesn’t actually feel like working. So there the stuff that I want sits, visible, but not available. Sigh. So perfectly St. Kitts.
Hurricane Frances is already north of us. However, there’s apparently a low-pressure trough that, if it moves south as expected, will drive Frances west. Which means heavy rain for us. Which I very dearly hope does not mean that Brent’s and my flight to Dominica is cancelled. I think a prayer to my own personal god of travel is in order. Perhaps a bit of full moon magic.
Woo. The rum punch is winning. Can you tell? Everything’s in random order.
I spent the afternoon (about 6 hours, actually) slaving over a hot stove – literally – making a fancy home-cooked dinner for Brent…what this means is: I had an entire afternoon for introspection. (Cooking doesn’t really fully occupy all of my mental faculties. This is probably why I don’t cook Cordon Bleu.) The question that kept coming up over and over (yes, some of you saw it coming): WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?! I’m obsessing. Obviously. He doesn’t appear to be likewise obsessing. So the question begs to be asked: how can I trust myself with these sorts of decisions? I’ve never been right! The cards have foreseen for me the particularly depressing hell of no satisfying relationships. So what do I do, since I have always failed at this endeavor, dearest to my heart? Give up? Go with what feels right at the moment? Cower in fear and doubt and self-loathing until the opportunities pass me by, one by one? Gamble my future on a hunch and a hope and work it out as it comes along, seat of my pants? There are no certainties in life, I know; even fewer, it seems, in relationships. I just wish, since this is where I have pinned so many of my dreams, that I weren’t so hopelessly inept and desperately demanding in this domain. I just pray you always feel I’m worth the headache, Brent.
Argh. Enough of that. It goes round and around, heading nowhere. Courage waxes and wanes; self-confidence with it. The question cannot be answered. I can only do what I do, then deal with the consequences afterward. I wake to sleep and take my waking slow; I learn by going where I have to go.
I think I’ll type in the Virgin Gorda journal later. Rum punch: 1; Catherine: 0.