Rob has been working so hard lately, coming home late and going in early. All the employees at his company have been working their asses off, preparing for a big deadline that occurred earlier this week. I am so proud of Rob, of how critical he is at work, of how good he is at what he does. But I would be lying to say that his commitment to his job doesn't cause any tension in our household. I think I handle it pretty well and am an understanding wife when the balance between home and work gets a bit (sometimes a lot) out of whack. And Rob handles these periods of extreme busyness well, too, making every effort to make time for the two of us. But still, there are moments when I've had enough, when I'm tired of work taking everything out of him, when I start to resent the company for all the time with him that they've stolen from me.

Because, frankly, it's just work. I'm not saying it's not important, but I also refuse to buy into the mindset people seem to have that the world will end if a deadline isn't met. Lives aren't at stake here, folks - just the bottom line.

Of course, the deadline earlier this week was met, and the company threw a party to celebrate. In a speech acknowledging everyone for their hard work, the CEO also thanked spouses and families for their sacrifice. While I appreciate the gesture, I had to roll my eyes a little bit. I guess because I don't believe spouses and families should have to sacrifice. I think it's a fucked up world we live in where the work we do to support our families is the very thing that takes us away from them.

We all mingled and ate food and sipped wine at this post-deadline party. People were relaxed and smiling. And in the midst of this, one of Rob's close colleagues got a call that his wife and two daughters had been killed in a car accident.

I'm sorry for not transitioning better into that last sentence, but then there is no transition into something like that. It happens out of nowhere, blindsiding you.

Not too long ago this man was chatting with me about one of his daughters. He was telling me how she loves to show horses and ponies, how he takes her all over for competitions. He was clearly so proud of her, clearly a devoted, doting dad. There are empty distractions in life and then there are reasons for living, and I think, and hope, he had long ago determined the difference.

For the love of god, people, cherish the ones you love.

Despite the extra space available for leg stretching and arm draping, I don't sleep well when I'm in bed alone. Rob and I have only spent two nights apart in the five years we've been married. But occasionally he gets home very late or, like today, has to be at work in the wee hours of the morning. And I toss and turn. It's always this way.

I must miss him subconsciously. Because when I do get a good stretch of sleep without him, I wake up to find that I've been sleeping on his pillow.

I think how a person folds laundry says a lot about him or her. Or, at least, I've noticed that the different ways Rob and I approach the laundry basket definitely reflect our personalities.

Rob will go straight for the socks. He likes working a heap of them into bundles of proper pairs. This is the most challenging part of folding laundry, because you have to find the right match for each one. It's like a puzzle. Rob loves puzzles, and he always seeks a challenge, so sock-folding suits him. I, on the other hand, fucking hate folding socks. Because trying to find all those damn matches? STRESSFUL.

Rob pretty much avoids all the other items in the basket because he finds them "boring." In other words, too easy. He also does not see a point in turning underwear right-side out, nor does he think it's worth taking the time to meticulously fold the fitted sheet. Such things don't matter to an easy-going person.

But they do matter to an uptight, slightly neurotic person. And so towels are my favorite things to fold, because I can make them perfect. I can line up one straight side exactly even with the other. And then, when I put one folded towel on top of another, I can line those up perfectly, too, so that when I'm done my squarely-stacked towels are truly something to behold. Also, I always fold towels lengthwise first, so that they will unfold in the way I hang them on the towel rack. This is a highly efficient trick, one even Mr. Anal Efficiency overlooks. And so I always feel quite clever, as if folding towels is not nearly as simple as it may first appear but is perhaps almost as complicated as folding socks.

My new gynecologist's office lost my medical records. They were transferred when my former doctor retired, but no one seems to know where they were put. When the receptionist told me this, I must have displayed a look of panic, because she quickly reassured me. "It's okay. We'll just start over."

Start over?

I explained to her that I didn't want to start over, that there were ultrasound and mammogram results in that folder that are of particular importance. She nodded and promised they'd look again.

I sat down in the waiting room and thought about how important our histories are to us. In Eat, Pray, Love, Gilbert explains that in Bali, the information people want to know about each other is where they were and where they're headed. She says the first thing a person will ask you when you meet in the street is, "Where are you going?" And then immediately after your response, they ask, "Where are you coming from?" People place each other within this frame of reference, along a line of past destinations and future intentions.

In fact, our past destinations affect our future intentions. Medical histories are a concrete example of how the histories of our lives follow us. The small lump I found several years ago dictates, to some degree, my future medical care. I carry it with me; it resides benignly in my right breast. My personal history dwells within me, too. The emotional places I have visited, the particular landscapes of joy and pain, influence how I live today and how I view tomorrow. I carry them all in my breast as well.

Part of the reason I continue to blog is because I like having a documented history. It's the reason I first started writing here, and it's one of the most compelling reasons I have to keep going. I don't recall many details from my life before this blog. I remember, of course, but when I really look back, the frames of my life speed together in a blur. But by blogging, scenes are brought into focus and kept forever on freeze-frame. And I think, too, that through writing about my life I have trained myself to view it differently, to really see it as it's happening. Almost like being in slow motion, in the best possible way.

I suspect this desire to be closely tied to my past is part of what keeps me here in Redneck Valley as well. Home is where my history is. The idea of moving away has always been appealing to me, because of the adventure of discovering a new place, the romance of new possibilities, and the opportunity to start over. But start over? I don't want to start over. Clean slates are overrated. I'm grounded here, surrounded by familiar things. My family is here. And I grew up with these mountains watching over me. This place has changed as I have changed, and we share a history. Sometimes Rob and I go places where we once went on high school dates. That might feel small to some people, but I like intersecting with the past. I like coming full circle.

The gynecologist's office never found my records. The nurse finally called me into the back, and as I stepped onto the scales to be weighed, she asked, "How tall are you?" I felt a little lost to realize that she didn't even know my height, much less my history. I replied, and then watched as she wrote 5'8" at the top of my blank patient chart.

Starting over.

"In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways."

been reading: Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert

After a nasty divorce and an emotional breakdown, Elizabeth Gilbert decides she needs to regain control of her life. She chooses to take a year off and spend the time seeking pleasure, spirituality, and balance by traveling to Italy, India, and Indonesia, respectively. Eat, Pray, Love is the account of how she lives and what she learns during this year.

I really wanted to like this book. And I think the reasons I didn't probably say much more about myself than they do anything else. Another person might very well find Gilbert charming and the book a delight. But I did not.

I did, however, really enjoy the first section about Gilbert's travels through Italy. She explores the country with the sole goal of seeking pleasure, savoring the cuisine and reveling in the sound of each syllable of the language. As Italy is at the top of my list of desirable trip destinations, I loved every bit of this section.

After Italy, Gilbert spends four months in an ashram in India, devoting each day to intense religious study and practice. And while I found the details of her experience interesting on a cultural level, I read the descriptions of her personal spiritual revelations with disinterest and even a bit of disdain. I don't believe in a higher power, and so accounts of bright-light warm-fuzzy visions simply turn me off. I find wide-eyed worshipers rather foolish, and so I lost some respect for Gilbert during this section of the book. While I appreciated her openness to meditation and new insight, I chided her for being so gullible to her own mind games. To me, her spiritual transcendence seems trite and untrue.

And then there is Indonesia. I thought she might redeem herself here, since her focus is on balance. And she starts out well. She has come to Indonesia to spend time with a wise and wonderful medicine man she had previously befriended. She visits him each day; he heals the villagers that come to him and imparts knowledge to her. They have profound conversations, and he is, quite simply, a beautiful soul. And then Gilbert takes a Brazilian lover and is so consumed by their passion that she no longer has time to visit the medicine man. So much for balance. She tries to justify it, but frankly her attempts are even less convincing than her spiritual discoveries. She had, in fact, taken a vow of celibacy at the beginning of the trip in order to prevent distraction during her search for self. But she completely loses her head in Indonesia, in addition to her purpose.

One reviewer of the book states that there isn't a more likable writer than Gilbert. And her words do come across as if she's simply chatting with a friend. But if she were my friend, I'd be phasing her out. I just found her profoundly annoying. There were occasional moments when I completely related to her, when she wrote something that perfectly encapsulated a thought I've had. But those moments were fleeting, and if anything just set me up for disappointment.

When she first decides to go on this trip, Gilbert writes that she likes the fact that each country she will visit begins with an I. Because what she is embarking upon is a search for herself, for "I." (And that was the first time, of many, that I rolled my eyes.) But to me, Gilbert and her book are best described with a different triad of I-words: immature, idealistic, and ineffective.

cucumber salad, sliced tomatoes, and corn on the cob - all from my parents' garden