tuckova

I realized this week that part of being an adult is learning to say that you’re sorry and then stop talking. I don’t know why it seems to be an instinct to keep going, to say, "But in my own defense, you…" Or actually any sentence starting with "but". Or actually anything. I don’t mean defending yourself, which is reasonable, but this desire to, when caught doing something you know is wrong, to hit back at the person who caught you because you feel guilty. It’s a bad instinct, though, and not remotely winning or helpful. I’ve been thinking about this because I lost a lot of respect recently for someone who didn’t own the error and shut up (although to be fair, I gained a lot of respect for someone who did) and had a moment of sudden clarity that I’d hate to lose. If I broke the habit of scab picking, I can break the habit of punching myself in the face in self-defense.

We bought the cottage almost exactly a year ago. On Saturday we went for the first time this year, to prune the apple trees and play tarzan (Friar Tuck) and make plains out of molehills and play president (me) and complain about the cold (Squire Tuck). There is a bus now that goes to the nearest village, cutting our walking time down from an hour to more like 15 minutes, which makes it possible to go for one day, which is useful when it’s cold like this, still. It was good to be there, good to see that all hell hadn’t broken loose, good to breathe clean air and start again thinking about a project that is neither work nor self-improvement. Not that there isn’t room for lots of fun work projects and lots of self-improvement in my vast and vastly flawed brain. For example, I regret very much that I would still like to be thanked for being who I am and the best I can do with that is acknowledge it and try to move on and away. I can’t think of an analogous bad habit– grabbing other people’s arms and making them pat me on the back? We all did good work, even Squire Tuck once he got over the fact that I was right and he should have worn a coat. 

On Sunday I had what I would like to call "the toothache" because it sounds so 1800s, except I don’t understand how that particular tooth can hurt, since the nerves were all pulled out a year ago. My jaw is swollenly mumpish feeling and it makes me distraught and, yesterday at least, weepy. When I cannot eat it is as frustrating as when I cannot sleep, perhaps more so. And I picked fights with Friar Tuck regarding the sugar content of canned tomatoes and was generally unpleasant in my head, although mostly I kept it in my head. We watched a lot of videos, which is the only way I know to make me sit still for any period of time, and which I believe was necessary. Did you know that they went back and redubbed Aughra? What a disappointment. I have been particularly missing Frank Oz of late and did not get my fix yesterday, although I thought I was set. Friar Tuck planted ricin in little peat pots and Squire Tuck and I lolled, fighting over the popcorn and watching the first season of Smallville. I really must do something about this lusting after teenage boys, or I’ll have to go back and read Lolita again and see if maybe this time I don’t hate Humbert Humbert.

I started reading The Waste Land because I think it’s a good equinox-y thing to do and I feel very equinoxy, what with the trees bursting into bloom one minute and the threat of snow the next. Hovering between things. I got to "Hurry up please it’s time" and got all fraught so I decided to write this instead. Anyway I have until Tuesday to read it and still feel all timely and poetical.