From the Archives: Didn't everyone run away from their mom in Marshalls?
NOTE: THIS SUBSTACK WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON 12/06/2022
Before I went to bed last night I told myself I was going to wake up early. I’ve been entertaining an anxiety inducing habit of sleeping in until 10 (sometimes 11am) which makes getting my work done during the day quite difficult. After spending the majority of my Sunday in front of a big screen (my laptop) while simultaneous scrolling on a small screen (my phone) I did a lite reset.
Around 10pm I put my dishes away, made my bed, discovered I had abandoned a pint of raspberry sorbet on the counter and took a shower. The water in my bedroom shower was cold for the third time this week meaning I was forced to shower in the bathroom off my kitchen which is unfavorable as it has a broken window and no curtain. After my shower I grabbed Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking and got into bed. I’ve read all of Didions major works, my favorite being Blue Nights but Year of Magical Thinking is the only piece of hers I brought with me and despite having read it twice, the other books I brought with me don’t grab my attention or make me a better storyteller in the way reading Didion does.
My alarm went off promptly at 7am, I snoozed it. There’s a vague memory of waking up with the groggy thought that I should get my day started. My blankets felt heavy and Reux was in the middle of my knees. This is a poor physical excuse to melt over the lingering depression that’s made itself comfortable in my apartment the last 10 or so days. I’m probably just hormonal but all I’ve been motivated to work on lately is writing. Some entries are too specific to publish but nonetheless I continue to fill pages in an ongoing document that’s always open. Maybe someday they’ll turn into something.
At around 10:30am I finally got out of bed, I brushed my teeth and grabbed a bottle of face wash from the kitchen shower. On my walk to grab the face wash I stepped in a stream of water - the dishwasher isn’t leaking but it isn’t draining so I guess we can say it’s “overflowing” (is that the same thing as leaking?) Wet sock and all I still managed to do my morning skincare and put on some concealer which are tasks that would have been completely abandoned months ago when my mental health was at it’s worst.
While completing these dues for being human, my mind raced through all the things I had to accomplish. Many of the projects I recalled were repeats of things I said I would accomplish last week (maybe even last month). It’s hard to keep promises to myself but I know that whenever I complete the things I say I am going to, I feel good - that feeling keeps me going. It’s difficult to form let alone maintain a consistent routine when you lead such an unconventional life.
Around noon I went to the store to grab groceries - I’m going to attempt this potato and leek soup tonight. I’ve been very into soups lately, they’re warm and I can keep them for a couple of days. I don’t have a car and since the farmers market ended in November, there are two places I can walk to grab groceries. One is an artesian cheese shop which has some produce, local dairy and a ton of specialty goods. The other is a co-op of sorts but it’s further down the town and while the bulk spices/oils are plenty, it doesn’t always have the freshest produce. I typically opt for the specialty market.
On today’s trip I chatted with the cashier, a lovely woman who I’ve come to know over the time I’ve been here and who also suggested a phenomenal brie that I brought home for thanksgiving. She noted my phone wallpaper of Reux and shared that her son had just adopted a grey kitten. I didn’t grab the kitten’s name which I regretted after checking out.
On my walk home I stopped for a tumeric ginger latte, I’ve been toning down the coffee intake because it was starting to give me chest pains - I have a difficult time sleeping here as is. Similar to the woman at the market I’ve become familiar with the barista at this cafe. The chai latte (which I’ve been swapping for cold brew) is quite watery here and I prefer a milkier consistency. Maybe the tumeric ginger latte would be different?
The last time I was at this cafe the barista warned me the cold brew was “extremely strong.” While ordering I wondered if he recalled that exchange and placed judgement on my caffeine tolerance. Despite having my AirPods in and making him repeat the milk type inquiry an upwards of three times, we still managed to have a chat about the temperature outside. I shared that I gauge the temperature by looking out my bedroom window every morning and observing what type of jacket everyone else has on.
When I arrived home I unpacked my $90 bag of groceries - 8 leeks, 2 quarts of vegetable stock, a glass of heavy cream, capers, etc. Immediately I realized that I neglected to dispose of the trash which contained Reux’s bag of dirty litterbox clumps. Earlier in the morning I noticed she was missing a patch of fur on the back of her leg. I’m not sure how the scuff happened - it’s not bothering her but it’s guilt-tripping me. I unpacked the groceries, snatched the kitchen garbage bag and left my door unlocked while taking it out.
Anxious to start working on everything, I imagined keeping my door unlocked would spare a couple seconds. For context, every door in this building has a keypad lock - it’s the bane of my existence. A couple weeks ago the keypad that unlocks the door to the building ran out of batteries. It was late and cold and I was stuck outside for nearly 35 minutes until my landlord came to fix it. In my absent minded mad dash to the disposal bin around the corner this afternoon, I also left the outside door open. Upon my return, I climbed the stairs to my unit and noticed the door was wide open - I must not have shut it completely.
That’s when it struck me. Reux.
Even though she’s not the most rebellious or curious of felines I couldn’t help but think the worst. Had she adventured upstairs to the other unit - even worse, outside? My heart pounded, I called a variety of names she responds to - ReuxReux, Bean, Beanie, Reuxskiches. Nothing. Was I a bad mom? Had the family sitting in their car outside watched her escape from the door and not thought anything of it? What a bunch of assholes!
I took a breath, this was my fault.
I checked all over the apartment before finally poking her hideaway under the couch…
*collar bell jingle*
“oh thank god”
*sigh of relief*
I’ve learned this lesson so many different times - MG, you need to slow the fuck down.
Losing Reux and my selfish irresponsibilities as a cat mom made me think of my own mother. While getting ready this morning I swiped a missed call from her and shrugged it off, “I’ll call her back later I have too much to do today.”
My mother calls me everyday to check in, on occasion she calls multiple times a day - for example if she finds a painting on Facebook marketplace or there’s tennis league gossip. Whenever I get a visit from feelings similar to the ones who have overstayed their welcome these last couple of days, picking up any call let alone one from my own mother seems so daunting.
After regaining composure this morning, my mind recalled a childhood memory. When I was younger I used to run off in Boscovs or Marshalls or wherever my mom and I were running errands. To my recollection this happened often, there were even times the sales people would call over the loudspeaker for me to come to customer service. The closest thing to motherhood I have right now is Reux. I couldn’t help but wonder, Had my mother felt what I had just gone through - thinking I lost Reux - when I would wander off in these public spaces? Had she blamed herself for not keeping an eye on me? Had she blamed others? Had she felt a form of this even now as I’m lost in the exploration of myself and the world around me?
Last week I mentioned returning to the place we grew up. The place we woke up on Christmas morning and faked running down the stairs nearly four times because dad didn’t have the camcorder charged the first time, our siblings weren’t awake the second, and the tape was full the third. A large part of exploring these early years of my adulthood has been spent sitting in the library of memories where stories of my childhood are preserved. I’ve been trying to practice understanding these memories from a perspective other than my own. I take the books off the shelf, recall the characters, place post-it’s on the details I want to return to. For years the small details have seemed so insignificant - the smell of the indoor pool we vacationed at in Lake Placid, the headphones my mom and I shared on the nights I couldn’t fall asleep. There is so much to unravel in the rediscovery of who I am and where I’m from.
For now though, I am content with entertaining the idea that maybe home isn’t a physical location but a place where we feel important, seen, loved and familiar - a market you buy produce, a cafe with watery lattes, the inside of a sofa, your mom calling just to tell you she’s running into Kohls. Perhaps the most beautiful home I will ever inhabit is one in which was built from the blueprint a library filled with preservations of smaller details of memories has provided. While this home may need to be refurbished quite often - clearing out the past and making room for the present, it’s a home occupied by the ones I love and visited by those I hold close to me. I’ll happily take my shoes off, light a fire, make some leek soup and stay for a while there.
Where do you return home? What’s inside the kitchen junk drawer? Who lives there? Who knocks on the door?
x
MG