State of denial

Iowa called again last night—twice. It's getting to be a bit much. Several times a week now the phone rings, my caller ID flashes the offending 319 area code, and the hair stands up on my arms. I tried shaving my arms, but you know how it is. It just seems to stand up whether it's there or not.

This is starting to look like a repeat of what happened with Arkansas, with whom I was in frequent contact after Oregon and I went our separate ways. It seems that states—the central, land-bound ones anyway—never want to do anything half way. There's always a plan that takes up an entire weekend, or a state fair, or a centennial celebration that "just can't be missed!"

I'm just not the type to become so overly attached that I build my life around someone else's needs. And let me tell you, Arkansas had needs up the yin-yang, and Iowa's sure as hell showing itself to be one whiny-ass bridesmaid. If I hear another god-damn peep about topsoil loss or a clogged corn processing pipe in Cedar Rapids, I'm going to blow.

And I tell you, I'm getting pretty tired of these voice mails attacking my character and making vague threats. Especially when they're followed by sobbing, backpedalling, and "We'll always have Muscatine."

Sometimes when gazing out the window at the hoards of hummingbirds attacking smaller groups of juncos, I think about North Dakota. Others criticized me for giving North Dakota too many second chances, and have no appreciation for its stubborn, windy nature. But at least North Dakota knew when to stay out of my face, and gave me time alone and a vastly wide berth when I needed it.

Funny. I can't recall now where that all went wrong. Maybe I'll give North Dakota a call this weekend. You know—just to catch up.