Author Archives: Maria Langer

Burning the Bridge Back to Fat-Town

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Why keep oversized clothes I never want to get back into again?

I did laundry today for the first time in two weeks. I’d just about run out of clothes. Clothes that fit me, that is.

I’m down 37 pounds from where I was about three months ago. Back then, my jeans were uncomfortably tight and I preferred loose-fitting “chef pants” and cargo shorts. As the weight fell off, my clothes started fitting better. And then they started getting loose. It all came to a head about two weeks ago when I realized that I didn’t have any nice jeans that fit. As discussed in the postscript to this post from August 29, I went shopping and discovered that I wasn’t one size smaller — I was two sizes smaller.

I’m actually now wearing the same size Levi’s I wore when I was in high school.

Too Big NowSo today, after doing laundry and having my entire Mobile Mansion wardrobe clean and folded, I decided to start weeding out the clothes that were simply too big to look right on me. Actually, I started weeding in the laundromat, pulling all the XL sized tank tops and gym shorts. Tonight I tried on every pair of pants and shorts. And what I discovered is that every pair of pants and shorts I left Arizona with in May are now too big.

As I gained weight throughout my 40s, I packed away the jeans that became too tight to wear. I had a crazy idea that someday I’d lose weight and be able to wear them again. I can picture them now, in bags on the floor of my closet at home. In October, when I get home, I’ll tear those bags open and go through them. I bet I’ll find plenty in there to fit.

But what of the pants that are now too big? Do I save them, too? Just in case I get fat again?

I don’t think so. I think I’d rather burn the bridge back to Fat-Town. I’ll drop them all off at Goodwill tomorrow.

Pity for the Foolish

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Even grown men can make dumb decisions.

This morning, as the sun rose and broke through the scattered clouds leftover from last night’s storms, I watched in awe as the golden light played on the orchard-studded hills across the canyon from where I’m living. The scene was so beautiful it almost brought me to tears.

Sunrise

But, at the same time, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of pity for my soon-to-be ex-husband.

Yes, I might be living in an RV parked on a remote hillside right now, but he’s living in a city subdivision, in a dark house surrounded by walls with a puny backyard barely big enough for our dog. And while I’m listening to my neighbor’s rooster crowing, he’s listening to the sounds of cars and the occasional siren and his neighbors slamming doors or shouting. I’ll be going out shortly on a walk to pick fresh blueberries for my mid-morning snack while my little dog Penny runs free in the orchard; he’ll be driving around in city traffic or maybe taking our poor dog for a walk along the curb in the subdivision on a leash. I’ll fly this afternoon and make some money. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll take the boat out on the Columbia River or take a hike along a creek or drive up to Chelan for some wine tasting.

Nature is right outside my door and I’m in it every day, enjoying every bit of it, working when there’s work to do, playing when there isn’t. I live well within my means so I don’t have to be a slave to someone else. But he’s caught up in the rat race, abandoning the financial security of our life together — or even his own life alone — to take on the responsibilities of a virtual stranger.

The saddest part of it all is that his current job gives him the ability to live anywhere.

He could have been here with me. I asked him to come. But someone else caught his eye and he forgot all about his 29-year investment in our relationship.

I think he would have really liked here. But it’s too late. He’s stepped into a trap and it’s sprung closed.

How can I help but pity him?

Gold Digger

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A definition that I find extremely fitting for a certain person.

As I learn more and more about what’s been going on in Arizona since I left in May, a term came up that I find extremely fitting for one of the parties involved. From the New Oxford American Dictionary:

gold digger
noun informal
a person who dates others purely to extract money from them, in particular a woman who strives to marry a wealthy man.

What amazes me is how easily a weak man can be led around by his penis.

The Pain of Betrayal

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The reality is much worse than I imagined.

Back when I was writing fiction, one of my plots involved two characters who developed a deep romantic relationship.

be•tray | biˈtrā |
verb [ with obj. ]
1 expose (one’s country, a group, or a person) to danger by treacherously giving information to an enemy: a double agent who betrayed some 400 British and French agents to the Germans.

  • treacherously reveal (secrets or information): many of those employed by diplomats betrayed secrets and sold classified documents.

  • be disloyal to: his friends were shocked when he betrayed them.

2 unintentionally reveal; be evidence of: she drew a deep breath that betrayed her indignation.
DERIVATIVES
be•tray•al | -əl | noun,
be•tray•er noun
ORIGIN Middle English: from be-‘thoroughly’ + obsolete tray ‘betray,’ from Old French trait, based on Latin tradere ‘hand over.’ Compare with traitor.

Jack, the woman in the story, was damaged goods — she’d lost her husband, who she loved dearly, when he killed a man in a jealous rage and was locked up in a foreign prison. For years, she tried bribing guards to get him out — stealing to get the money she needed — only to learn that he’d been dead almost as long as he’d been gone. She’d become an outlaw, basically destroying her own life, to get back a man who would never return. Along the way, she lost their child to a family member who threatened to expose her if she tried to find them. With everything she loved taken away from her, she took refuge alone in an outpost city, a borderline alcoholic watched over by a very close friend named Alex. That’s her backstory.

The man, Ray, entered at the beginning of the story as another outlaw who had chosen to take refuge in the same outpost city. He quickly became friends with Alex, and through him, with Jack. They had many similarities in their knowledge and skills and it was natural that they should hook up. They worked together as a team. His companionship and their lovemaking helped her forget the tragedy of her past. She fell in love with him and it seemed pretty clear that he felt the same way about her.

The only problem is that Ray wasn’t what he seemed. In reality, he’d come to take Alex out of the city. He was using his friendship with Jack and Alex as a means to achieve his real goal. As the plot unfolded, he stood by while one of his men gunned Jack down. Jack survived it, but was left with the pain of the feeling of betrayal.

As a writer, I had to instill my character with that emotion. It had to come through her in the way she spoke, looked, and acted. It wasn’t enough to say she felt betrayed; I had to get inside her head and make her feel betrayed. And then communicate that to readers.

That’s fiction. Whether I pulled it off will never really be known; the work is at a standstill and will never be published or shared.

But one thing is for certain: the feeling of betrayal is far worse than I ever could have imagined.

I’m going through it now. After 29 years of a life with a man I loved, a man who claimed he loved me and acted as if he did — right up to the moment I last saw him! — I’m discovering a huge web of lies and actions behind my back. As I learn more and more about his betrayal of my trust, everything that comes before our last communication is in question — including his true motivations for marrying me in the first place. As I realize that I can’t believe a single thing he told me, the pain grows and grows.

What makes it even worse in this situation is his complete failure to explain his actions. It’s as if he just doesn’t care — something I’m finding so hard to believe and accept after a 29-year relationship. But it confirms my worst suspicions about his actions and motivations.

A complete and utter betrayal of my trust, possibly going back for years and years.

The pain of betrayal is the worst pain possible. It’s a pain without end, rooted in once fond memories now analyzed and questioned. It’s pain made worse by realizing that someone you thought really cared about you apparently doesn’t care at all. Or, worse yet, is now bent on hurting you as much as he possibly can.

That’s where I am today.

Penny and the Peanut Butter Bone

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An odd solution to a puppy problem.

I am an early riser. I have been for at least the past 15 years. I’m usually up and out of bed by 6 AM. My body wakes up and, since I either didn’t want to wake my soon-to-be ex-husband or I had things to do, I’d get up and start my day.

My day starts with a routine that I’ve shared with Alex the Bird for almost 10 years — since Alex the Bird came into my life. I throw on some clothes, come into the kitchen, and brew some coffee, often reciting the mantra “Coffee is the most important thing” — a phrase that Alex the Bird still hasn’t picked up. While the coffee brews, I prepare Alex’s scrambled egg in the microwave. I cut up half of the egg and give it to Alex in a little dish atop her cage. Then I settle down at the table with my coffee and my laptop or iPad and enjoy the very first cup of coffee for the day while catching up on Twitter or writing a blog post — like this one.

(When I was home in Wickenburg or Phoenix with my dog Jack and then Charlie, the routine also included letting him out for his morning pee, putting a scoop of food into his dog dish, and topping off his water. He’d get half of Alex’s egg, then wait around Alex’s cage for the pieces of egg that dropped and gobble them all up. But those days are apparently gone for good, so it’s best not to dwell on them.)

The routine is pretty much the same when I live in the Mobile Mansion in Washington. After all, coffee is the most important thing.

Enter Penny the Tiny Dog. Or Tiny Puppy right now. Her routine is a bit different. After her morning pee, she comes in and cleans up after Alex the Bird’s scrambled egg droppings. And then she comes to me where I’m invariably sitting at my desk and starts jumping up on me. She wants to play.

Of course, I’m just getting started on my coffee. Not even half of it is gone. I’m not ready to play. Heck, I’m not even fully conscious sometimes.

A side note here…yesterday, one of my Facebook friends shared one of those images with a message — you know, the kind always floating around Facebook. This one said:

My favorite coffee in the morning is the one where no one talks to me while I drink it.

My reply was:

Mine is the one where a tiny dog doesn’t jump all over me for attention while I’m drinking it.

Making the Peanut Butter BoneThe solution is to distract her with something more interesting and rewarding than me rolling around on the floor with her. And that solution involves a beef soup bone and some peanut butter.

I bought the bone at the supermarket about a month ago. It didn’t take her long to eat the marrow out the ends. The bone is nice and dry and kind of clean. The holes on either end go in pretty deep. Sometimes she still plays with it.

I bought the peanut butter to bait the mousetraps. I don’t really like Skippy because it has sugar in it and I don’t think peanut butter should have added sugar. And although I like peanut butter, sometime over the past 10 years or so I’ve developed a sort of allergy to it; after eating it, I just don’t feel quite “right.” I switched to cashew butter, which is harder to find but very tasty. Of course, it’s not on my diet, so I don’t have any around for me or the mice. So I went to the supermarket and bought the smallest, cheapest jar of peanut butter they had. It turned out to be Skippy. I don’t care about feeding sugar to the mice.

Penny and her Peanut Butter BoneOne day, on a whim, I put a bit of peanut butter in each end of the bone and gave it to her. I was rewarded with about 15 minutes of peace and quiet to finish my coffee. Afterwards, she found something else to keep her busy.

Now it’s part of our morning routine. When she’d done cleaning up after Alex and she starts jumping up on me to play, I prepare the peanut butter bone and give it to her. I can then enjoy my coffee in peace.

The only problem is, she’s getting really good at licking that peanut butter out of the holes.