Turkey-Induced Meanderings

Introspection. Around the holidays, it's inevitable. Y'all know this.

I cannot help but to enjoy the holidays, at least in theory. The food, the music, the decorations. But the sap in me indulges in a lot of sentimental claptrap and reminiscing, and now that I am, like, millions of miles from home (I am not even sure I know where or what home is now) I am homesick to boot. And the older I get, the more I regard the holidays with some wariness--after all, the Thanksgiving when I was ten, Mum went off the deep end and I became acquainted with the meaning of alcoholism. The Christmas I was thirteen, I developed an ovarian cyst that decided it just had to burst, then and there (children? who needs kids, anyway?). Two years ago, at Thanksgiving, my grandmother had a stroke. And then, last Christmas, the biggest joke holiday of all. Perfection on the brink of going to hell.

So, I am beginning to understand how problematic the holidays are. This year, I am trying to go through them as quietly as possible. Not ignorning them, per se, just not throwing myself in with the same amount of revelry and abandon as years past. I've lost too much this year for me to be in a really celebratory mood, and while I have gained a great deal, it's been at a very high price, and somehow, it just seems more fitting that I observe this year's holiday season with more contemplation and reflection than joy and celebration. There will be other holidays where things seem to come together--hopefully with more reality than last year's!--and this holiday season is not one of them.

And so it goes. I'm thankful--but then, I have felt thankful for the majority of the year. I've been blessed, even if I have lost a lot too. We all lose every now and then--I am glad I was able to take my hits and keep on keepin' on.

I have a male in my life.

His name is Austen. He's of mixed ethnicity--he's got both black and white in him. Like most males, he can be a little slow sometimes when it comes to picking up on things. He can be annoyingly persistent in trying to get what he wants. He doesn't communicate nearly enough, and a lot of the time, I am bending over backwards, trying to figure out what the hell he wants from me.

But he loves to cuddle. He's very intuitive at times--he knows when I need emotional support (when don't I, really?), and he is usually right there, doing what he can to help. I met him soon after I moved to California, and it was one of the best things I could do for myself, letting him into my life.

I woke up in bed with him, the morning after I had told M. I didn't want to be with him anymore. Austen was there, cuddled up to my chest, trying to give me kisses. He understood.

And he's got a wonderful, soothing, gentle way about him, even when he purrs.
Yeah, he's my cat, the love of my life. For now. I may be a single librarian who's crazy about her kitty, but I am no crazy cat lady. I'm just a single girl, in a big state of a lot of strangers, with a kitty that knows me very well. It's not always going to be like this--someday, hopefully sooner rather than later, I am going to kick Austen out of the bed for some male, of more homo sapien inclinations. And he knows it, and he loves me anyway. The unconditional love of pets is one of the biggest comforts in this life.

If You've Never Stared Off Into the Distance Then Your Life is A Shame...

A couple of weeks back, I went with Not-Boyfriend* to a Halloween party in the Valley. I had a pleasant time, of course (in fact, a downright fun time) but that's neither here nor there. What is pertinent is the journey. And I actually mean that in a non-cheesy sense.

See, most of the time I can forget I am in SoCal. I mean, I can't delude myself into thinking I am in Indiana, or even Florida, but here in Sunnydale--humble, unpretentious, low-income Sunnydale--it's easy to carry on a life, isolated from the rest of Southern California and the values and pop culture and stuff. But when I venture beyond the Empire, it all kinda hits home, suddenly, violently, rudely.
Example: when Not-Boyfriend and I approached Los Angeles, we started passing exits for Hollywood, Ventura Blvd....all those names that I've heard all my life, through all mediums of media and pop culture, and yet never paused to really think about, because they never impinged on my Floridiot-cum-Hoosier existence. I had never even visited California before this year, for pity's sake. Anyway, passing all those exits, with those very-familiar names, suddenly brought home to me where I was. Southern California. How odd, I thouht, with the alarming detachment that seems to hover in my spirit these days. Detachment gave way to a slight bit of panic, instantly quelled, and the dangerous thought, "How the HELL did I end up here?"

The feeling passed, and I tried to focus on enjoying the evening. Later, after the party, Not-Boyfriend gave me with a real treat; he took me on a drive up something called "Black Canyon Road." The road went high up over some mountains, and eventually he stopped the car and presented me with a breathtaking, glittering view of Simi Valley--a vast world of twinkling lights, distant and indifferent to my existence, yet terribly relevant and comforting to me. Millions of people were in those lights, and it was a wonderful thing to see on a Saturday night in October, when I questioned the sanity of my moving here.

It doesn't matter. I am here, and I am part of those twinkling lights. Even out here in Sunnydale.

*I call him Not-Boyfriend because if I had to describe his relation to me, I think the closest I could get would be "Boyfriend". But he's not my boyfriend, so therefore, he's my Not-Boyfriend. What the hell else am I supposed to call someone whom I have been seeing for three months, but have no idea where the hell it's going because I'm too chicken-shit to ask?