Memorial Day Weekend Part 1

Well, it's been a whirlwind and relaxing all at the same time.  I don't even remember Friday, honestly.  Saturday was a party at a friend's home and we made it back to our house before 11 p.m., which is a record by many hours.  The party was fun, we met some new people, G got cornered by a drunk veteran who he couldn't understand so he just smiled, nodded and laughed when the man did.  It would have been funny had it not been such a sad situation.

Sunday we got up and I remember thinking, "I love Sundays."  We slept in, headed to the farmer's market where we picked up some arugula (I asked for rocket, and then remembered that isn't the word for it here although I can never remember it), radishes, lavender, chives, and a cayenne pepper plant.  We also shared a super yummy turkey burger and a small bag of fresh donuts.  It was the perfect weather, and had my sandals not been the worst idea ever the morning would have been perfect.  Bought a paper, ended up at the diner drinking coffee before heading to mass.

Here's the part where I'm honest.  I did not want to go to mass, refused a handful of times, and was a downright pain in the rear.  I was upset with G, my heart hurt and I didn't want to go in and listen to a priest whom I haven't decided whether I like or not yet.  I eventually went in and was sullen and near tears most of the mass.  I prayed, but angrily.  I was angry at God.  I was angry at G.  I was angry at myself.  I sang only one of the songs, and half heartedly at that.  And mostly I sat staring, my eyes glazed over listening to a sermon about love and thinking, "I have loved.  And it hasn't gotten me anywhere."

But that is the beauty of it, it meant very little to me.  Because I'm not boasting, it's just the simple truth, I love G tremendously, and have tried to show that to him every day.  I get mad easily, but as G often sadly points out (I say sadly because he feels it lets him off too easily, but whatever) I do not stay mad.  Oftentimes I get mad the night before and wake up forgetting that I was mad.  Not just forgetting what I was mad about, forgetting I was mad altogether.  So I love him and try to do things for him to show him that love.  It's rarely reciprocated and it's hurtful and yet I kept pretending that all the good days were the norm.  But the sermon spoke to G and he tried telling me about it.  I wouldn't listen.  I still need to ask him about it.

Last night I came home and I began working in the kitchen.  I made cucumber sandwiches and salmon mousse pinwheels and later made egg salad and pasta salad for today.  But I was bitter.  My heart was bitter.  I was mad and trying desperately to remember that.  I painted the bathroom (only I despise the color so I have to repaint later this week).  I painted the top of a piece of furniture I am working on.  I read The 19th Wife (nearly done).  And I stayed desolate.

I wish I could say I woke up okay today, but I was still annoyed.  Worn out.  Tired of pretending that this was enough.  Tired of getting mad.  Tired of hoping things were getting better.  Just tired.

And then...

Part 2 to come tomorrow evening.