So this isn’t a blog entry about my latest adventures in the kitchen — actually it’s been too hot to cook lately, so I’ve been subsisting on takeout, grilled food, pasta, and air. I experienced Vietnamese cuisine for the first time this week, had fabulous Mexican food, and am planning on ordering Thai for lunch on Friday. Strangely, it’s become how I mark my days. I track them by the weekends, and by hikes, and planned outings with friends (the last two weekends have been filled with shopping and beautification — of myself, of the yard, of the dog).
My countdown, which started in late May 2009, hit 365 days last week, and we’re still counting, although the numbers are negative now, past when I was supposed to see my husband again. Klark was supposed to be home this week, but predictably, he’s been delayed again, and it’s so incredibly frustrating and hard to plan. I know there will be arguments over laundry, who will take care of the dog and the yard, who snores more at night, and time in our teeny tiny bathroom with a bizarre window looking from the sink area into the shower. We’ll disagree about what food to eat (me for less red meat, him for more)… but the point is I’m really done with this year apart, and ready for him to be home so we can have those arguments.
I’m ready for him to be home so we can celebrate our 2nd anniversary and my birthday (from last month) and all of the landmarks and special occasions that we haven’t been able to celebrate in the same hemisphere, country, time zone and state. I’m ready for him to see how I’ve put redneck tires on his truck and to see how I reorganized the laundry room/mud room/entry way/pantry (all one tiny room that also houses our hot water heater) so that there’s room for all of his Army clothes — gear will still go in the garage. I’m ready for us to commiserate about how hot the house is, and the only place where we can both be is the bedroom without a door that also serves as a hall to the bathroom, with the one a/c unit and two fans blasting. I’m ready to come home to someone with whom I can have a meaningful conversation instead of the squawking of two cats… and the excited “You’re home! You’re home! OMG YOU’RE HOME” panting by Lucy who shakes her half tail manically while doing zoomies around the yard, around me, and between me and the front door.
I’m ready to be annoyed at how he’s everywhere I’m trying to go, about no longer getting to watch my shows and movies whenever I want because his beloved home team Packers are playing. One of my all-time favorite moments was when we were at the game at Lambeau and Favre walked on the field and everyone cheered — and I asked why… and then again if that guy was a football player!! I’m ready to be torqued because he’s pushing my buttons, while I proceed to push his simultaneously just because I can.
And I’m ready to not be worried all the time about the love of my life, to rejoice in him being home, to make more great memories and actually take pictures, to explore Colorado before we leave this lovely place (that I both love and hate), and to spend every minute we can together to make up for the fact that he’s been gone for nearly 60 percent of our relationship. To stop planning our life together and actually get to live it.
I’m ready to stop feeling like I’m constantly having a pity party and marking my days by planning meals and shopping trips to the outlet mall and phone calls to my parents (who I’ve talked to an average of 3-4 times a week over the last year) and bottles of wine. I’m sorry if this ends up coming across as a big whine (not wine) fest, but it’s as cathartic to write as it is to cook and it feels incredibly good to get this all of my chest.