Suzanna Danna

This week I feel like a part of me is missing. Mister is out of town for roughly eleventy days and I am a bit out of sorts. Normally I am the one out of town. I get to call him in the midst of my 90-to-nothin day and report on the latest drama, he promptly tells me how his day is going, how our furry one (Maxxie) is doing and how much he misses me, I hang up, go about my day and then call him after dinner and wind down with our normal highs and lows talk about each of our days, ending up always with, “I love you, you so very, very much. I hope you sleep well, have sweet dreams and know that I miss you and will be thinking about you, good night.”

This time, he is a thousand miles away and I am the one at home.

The house seems so large without him in it.

I keep checking the various doors more times than warranted. I keep checking the windows even though they are double paned and we’ve never even opened them. I make sure the phones are all on their respective chargers, the candles are all out, even if they haven’t been lit that evening, and that my cell phone is within arms length… or at least by the stairs so I won’t forget it the next morning.

I set two alarms and I only turn on the one baby fan as opposed to the noise maker, the ceiling fan and the baby fan. I want to be able to hear if something is… amiss. How dramatic does that sound? Sheesh.

I even call for the cat to come and sleep next to the bed. Like he could protect me from anything. He gets upset if there are people mowing our lawn for goodness sake.

What’s he going to do? Go hide under Mister’s chair in his office?

Lots of good that would do me.

Thanks cat.

It’s funny how much I have come to rely on this man.

I moved out of my parent’s house and into the dorm at college when I was barely eighteen years old. I went home for the two months of summers between my freshmen and sophomore year and between my sophomore and junior year, but by the time I was nineteen, I was on my own. I had my own apartment. And for the most part, in Nacogdoches, I never locked the doors to my apartment.

I never locked the doors, hell, I never even had a key to the house when I was married to X. But when you are that far off of a paved road (NOTE: please direct your redneck jokes to the email address at the top of the diary or at the comments section or in the guestbook below) you don’t need to lock your doors.

We just left the keys in the vehicles while they were in the driveway (or what roughly constituted a driveway) and left the doors unlocked.

The only time I know that that house was ever locked was when X and I went to Jackson Hole, WY for a week and my ex-monster-in-law locked us out of our own house.

Sweet.

So when I moved back to Dallas, I had to get the whole locking your car and apartment doors thing down pat again. It was almost worthy of a post-it note in my vehicle. Well, not almost, I actually left myself post-its to remind myself to lock my doors.

I still slip up sometimes.

Do you guys remember a year or more ago when I was still working for hand boss and I left the door to the office open? Yeah, I relapsed into the, “I have my arms full of things, let me get to my car and totally forget to lock the office. Oh shit.” I didn’t even realize it. The “Oh Shit.” part didn’t even come until that evening or the morning after when Co-worker C happened to swing by the office that evening to get something and she noticed the door was unlocked.

Now I work in a place that I have no office-locking responsibilities and Mister takes care of putting the house to bed every night.

Monday night was the first time I have had to put the house to bed by myself. I must have checked each door four or five times. I kept second-guessing myself.

Do the deadbolts point up when they are locked… or sideways? Let’s check them again. What about the bottom locks? What about this do-hickey?

::Eye Roll::

I know I am safe in our house, don’t get me wrong, but for someone who reads a lot of true crime, sci-fi, horror and the like… it is very easy for my mind to run away with me.
And run it does. Like a friggin deer in the forest.

I get sqicked out about things sometimes (mostly food issues) and Mister will say to me, “Get a hold of your mind. Control it.” And I will make myself not dry heave or gag. Say, for instance, if I’m cleaning out some science fair project from the refrigerator.

Nothing will make my gorge rise faster than something furry in the fridge. That’s why I rarely buy strawberries.

Anyway… back on track…

I’ve been trying to force myself not to let my mind run away with me while I am alone this week. ‘Control it’, if you will.

Monday evening my girlfriend Amy and her friend Brandy (we took the cutest self portrait) came over for a bit of girl time. We sat around the table for the most part of the evening and talked and gabbed about everything.

I have known Amy since God was in short pants and have known of Brandy as well, but that was back during my IRC days. I haven’t been ‘in channel’ in over two years so I have been out of the loop for ages. Amy and Brandy are both chatters and they got me caught up on all the latest drama of who is doing what and whom. Regardless of the fact that I knew about 3% of what they were talking about, they are both spirited little fillies and it was hysterical to watch them banter back and forth.

During the high drama, we cackled and laughed like a gaggle of hens and I have to admit, I snagged a couple of smokes from Brandy while we were on the patio… it was fabulous… my lungs love her. But by the time the ladies left, it was going on 11 pm.

I’m an old woman now.

When I used to stay up all night and chat on IRC, I would start at 10 pm when X would go into work, and if I got 3 hours of sleep a night, I called it a bonus.

Now, Mister and I covet our nighttime routines and really rely on the at least six hours of shut eye a night.

I put the house to bed with the gratuitous checking of each lock eleventy four frillion times Monday night and then I just lay there. My mind had already past the time for sleep, apparently it had decided that it was time to par-tay!

Crap.

I actually had to take a sleeping pill to get some rest.

It didn’t help that I had started reading some true crime novel in bed right before I turned out the light. Sheesh.

Oh, and thanks to the freak who did that movie HellBoy. Thanks a lot Buddy. That dust-filled guy with no lips and no eyelids is now fodder for my nighttime roller coaster brain.

Fucker.