Brown Bat, Brown Bat

 

_145, 10/20/04, 11:47 AM,  8C, 2956x3762 (421+717), 62%, bent 6 stops,  1/60 s, R72.2, G55.3, B69.2

 

Shortly after I became Suddenly Single the house that I had known and loved turned against me.

A basement that had always been as dry as the Gobi began to roil and flood; plumbing disintegrated and turned my ceilings to paper; appliances – all of them – made a suicide pact behind my back and a once glorious Victorian pond now featured bloated fish bobbing gruesomely amongst the lilies.

It was therefore not surprising in the least to come home late one night, flip on the light switch and notice that hanging upside down on the corner of one of my picture frames was a bat. We were close enough to be eye to eye. His wings were leathery yet fluffy and folded around him like the spokes of an umbrella.

I screamed a loud Psycho-scream as his eyes slid towards me, cartoon-style, but then I noticed that his tiny brown body was ticking with its own frightened pulse. For some time (okay, a really long time) we regarded one another in this way. Continue reading

Christmas Past and Present

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I was really rattled this Christmas when I suddenly realized that I could scale back the baking considerably. I was also more suspicious than relieved. The need for a pyramid of mincemeat tarts, hamper-sized bags of potato chips and a massive raft of San Pellegrino usually associated with the weeks leading up to the holidays would just not be required this year; worse still, even though I have had neither of my boys living at home for more than a year now, I have somehow been unconsciously assuming that the situation was temporary and that soon everything would revert to its Normal State.

Whatever that is.

Christmas is a bit tricky too because there’s no one at home and then everyone returns home for a day or two, here and there,  maybe dropping in for a dinner just long enough to reignite all the same maternal brain-patterns as before: sock donuts may be left tucked into the couch, fancy Christmas hand towels are hung up with the pattern on the inside or not hung up at all and why doesn’t someone text if they won’t be back till 3:30am when they are staying over … Continue reading

The Day I Ran Over George Michael

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Since my husband (I will never call him My Ex – even though he now is) left us I continue to struggle with aligning my personality to what happened.

None of the popular options available (angry.bitter.regretful.devastated.accepting) seem palatable and after a number of years, indifference still seems elusive.

I’ve observed some women “moving on” (another term I struggle with) perhaps more traditionally, by re-inventing themselves with a new tattoo or job or hair colour ; swopping man-bashing stories whilst enjoying tequila shooters with other Divorced Friends and peppering the conversation with recently learned terms such as “crazy-making behaviour,” “borderline” and “narcissist.” As one of my brothers wryly observed it’s funny how years ago people were just assholes. Continue reading