Oodles of Noodles

I’m worried. I’ve been worried. He hasn’t called or emailed in three weeks. I worry that something happened to him and he’s alone and scared. What do I do? Jump on a plane and scour the countryside for him? Do I just keep waiting it out? How long do I wait? I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.

Cuz It’s Late and Your Momma Don’t Know…

It’s a big game, life. You play for fun at first, then you get too far in and you act way too serious. Toward the end of it, you finally realize that you’ve been too serious and you lighten up again. What happens if you don’t go through that serious phase, though? Are you better off? Do you just keep living the dream and never lose touch with who you are? OR are you worse off? Do you miss that whole growing up phase where you learn how to distingush between times when you need to be totally serious and times when you need to let go a little more? Do you need to know the difference though? Does it really matter? Because one day, no one is going to remember you or your personality. You might be talked about and people will tell stories about you, but the ones telling the stories won’t remember exactly how it happened or be able to do it justice and people will form their own opinions about you without really understanding who you are and where you’re coming from. It’s sad to thnk about it, but they won’t ever know you. So while you’re here, pretend like it won’t matter and just be you because in all actuality, it won’t. So don’t forget who you are and let people exerience your true personality while they can. One Love -M

Oodles of Noodles

I thought he just bailed on us. Turns out he was told not to socialize with the other employees. Don’t they wonder why no one stays long term? Maybe it’s because they treat everyone like they’re disposable and don’t appreciate the work that gets done.

One day our office manager asked for ideas for an incentive program. I have an idea: Maybe someone should verbally express their appreciation for all of the hard work that gets done. Instead they bitch and moan about all of the work that doesn’t get completed. Mabye if we weren’t under staffed and over worked, more work would get done. Just a thought.

It took me a second to catch myself mouthing the words as I waited for my coffee. “It’s not that we’re scared, it’s just that it’s delicate.” My eyes started to well up and I wasn’t sure why. Then I leaned my head against the window in Starbucks and it came rushing back. A year ago, if I were listening to this song that would mean I was on a bus back to my site in Peru. I stood there for a moment in a daze, finally realizing I’d been staring at my coffee that was ready on the counter for nearly a minute as the song played. I cried to that song for nearly 5 months straight. It wasn’t even just that song, it was the whole album and it would play twice before I fell asleep and I would cry until I was asleep, then I would be woken up and back to that place, that place I hated. And I’m crying now, uncontrollably.

So I was writing a few days ago and something happend that made 40 minutes of work just disappear. So then I was pissed and stepped away from the computer before I beat it with my bare hands.

 I’m amped about my trip to Oklahoma next month. I miss my girls!

I took too many steps and ended up back tracking, only to still feel him right behind me. Then his hand grazed the inside of my arm from elbow to wrist before our fingers interlocked. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, then lifted it to his mouth and kissed my thumb. I turned and just stared at him, only half aware of my surroundings, as tears began to trickle down my face. He wiped them away with his sleeve and kissed me on the forehead.

“You should get some rest,” I whispered to him, in an attempt to make it clear he should leave.

“I’m not going anywhere until we talk about what happened and decide how to make this work.” He said it with his eyes closed, like it was a wish. I could feel the remorse in his voice. He was remorseful for being caught though, not for what he had done.

I just stared at him blankly. I didn’t know what to feel, forget about what to say. I loved this man that I thought I knew and he turned out to be someone else. He turned out to be someone I hate. He turned out to be you. I hate you. If only I could verbalize those thoughts. If only I could say or do something, anything, besides cry and whimper. Right then, I couldn’t deal with looking at his face and had to leave the room. I shut the door behind me and walked down the hall to Maxwell’s room. Of course he was sleeping, so I quietly shut the door and sunk deep into our story chair. Watching his little face twitch as he slept, I could tell he was in Dreamland. Then his eyes opened wide and he sprung up from under the covers, “Mommy, can we play cars?”