The Captor

Today marks the 689th day of imprisonment. 

My captor is not one of tall stature, but he is solidly built. His dark blue eyes bore into my mind and soul, leaving me defenseless. He anticipates my every move, thwarting each escape attempt before it has even begun. His powers of persuasion border on mind control, and I find myself unwittingly bowing to his every need and command.  

Perhaps the most alarming development has been my affection for him. Stockholm syndrome, I believe is the term. I find myself thinking about him lovingly when he has left me, dwelling on his charming ways and handsome face. He is alluringly charming, and leads me to believe he genuinely cares for me....but he turns into a terrifying monster at the flip of a switch. Nothing can calm him. I've tried appeasing his every demand, but when I do exactly as he asks, it is never correct. He is hungry, but his oatmeal is too hot. He has to potty, but refuses to sit on the toilet...out of spite, he will soil himself while looking directly at me. He demands to watch Thomas, but this episode is unacceptable. He insists on my help, then screams when it is offered. I think I am slowly going insane. 

I've heard it referred to as "The Terrible Two's", yet my captor has not yet reached this milestone. 

I am bracing myself for what is to come. 

Molly

I met a dog today. (Go figure, right?) For the purpose of this blog, I shall call her Molly.

Molly was a Saint Bernard that we had not seen previously. She was an outdoor dog, and had mud on her paws and burrs in her fur from exploring, but was not neglected. I was leery of her at first, due to her size, illness, and her unknown temperament. (THE VET is a scary, unknown entity for dogs and cats, people. Fluffy may be nice at home, but a psychopath when being restrained for his annual vaccinations...therefore, I approach MOST animals with caution. Especially ones that could fit my head in their mouths.) We slowly walked to the scale, and she needed help from two of us to get her big self up there. We laboriously meandered to the treatment room and waited for the doctor to examine her. When climbing up on the lift table proved to be entirely too much work for this geriatric, large breed dog, we sat down on the floor together. Molly smelled. Molly was dirty. Molly drooled. I'm pretty sure Molly gave me a flea or two.

Molly greeted each new person and demanded proper pets. Molly gave kisses. Molly crossed her front paws and put her head on my knee and closed her eyes. Molly and I discussed different petting techniques and the meaning of life. Molly waited patiently for her owner to make a decision. Molly didn't even flinch when a large IV catheter was placed in her front leg. Molly rode the gurney back to her room to see her dad.

Molly was very sick, and Molly's dad was very sad.

Our job sucks sometimes, but I'm glad to have met Molly.

This old house

When we pulled into this driveway for the first time, I knew we were home. It was perfect. An acre of land, a creek in the back, an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with stairs painted purple...purple fucking stairs! I distinctly remember grabbing my husband on the landing and fervently whispering "This is it. This is our fucking house."

It's not just a house, it was a home to the same family for 100 years. You can feel the weight of thousands of memories pressing into you from every side, and it's overwhelming at first. So much so that when B and I got drunk with his brother a few months after we moved in, his comments on the "energy" of the place had me convinced there were Paranormal Activity-type beings present who were going to eat our baby at 3:33 am or whenever the fuck the devil eats babies. I was legitimately afraid to be upstairs alone at night for weeks. In reality, I think he's right...but it's most definitely a good energy. 

Last winter, a pipe burst in the upstairs bathroom, ruining the ceiling and walls in two rooms downstairs.  Getting the house remodeled was a two month walking disaster that still makes my left eye twitch when I think about it. We learned our lesson, and the sink in said bathroom is stained yellow from the steady drip drip drip of running well water, because heating this leaky behemoth in the winter is a cluster fuck. Wood, fans, heaters, thermostats. (See blog "Eff you, Jack Frost" for details.)

The basement is disgusting and a bit moldy, and we caught no fewer than 7 mice down there in 3 days. The windows need replaced in nearly every room. The carpet needs replaced upstairs.  I'd like to murder the wallpaper in the living room. It's a bitch keeping up with the wood stove. I have a vendetta against the squirrel population. 

We love the apple trees. We loved letting our toddler run around stark naked last summer, far from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors. We embrace its awkward floor plan and the seven different doors that lead outside. When given the choice to repaint the stairs, I decided to keep them the exact same shade of eggplant purple.

We should have found a newer, more practical house that was closer to our jobs and our families...but it wouldn't have been our home.