Category: Bad

Are You There? part one

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This is a half kid, half conversation story for Sarah.

Kid part:
I was waiting to leave on the 4:15pm bus. Ahead of me I had a 5.5 hour ride that would normally take only 3. True to form I forgot lunch (and breakfast) and was trying to inhale a bad bag of Cool Ranch. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand people eating stinky food in cramped spaces – there’s no way to escape the smell. Anyway, I was trying to mind my own business while two little girls raced around me. Running, playing on the phones, jumping off the curb, screeching and screaming while their parents were nowhere in sight. Soon enough the older girl spied my bag and asked for a chip. I showed her the emptiness and lamented that the pig in me had emerged. I had nothing to share. That didn’t stop her from striking up a conversation, though. Suddenly deemed safe by some unknown intuition she proceded to question everything about me. Why are you wearing those shoes? Where’s your purse? Are you going home? Have you seen Casper? Did you hear that train? Did you know my mother lets me eat chocolate? I’m going to Worcester. Where are you going? 
Soon it was time to board the bus, “Michael’s Teddy” (I came this close to getting on “Princess Tiger Lily”). Out of nowhere mom and dad emerged and herded the two little girls onto “Michael’s Teddy” while carrying a newborn in a carrier. I was a little relieved when dad barked an order for the girls to head to the back of the bus, but equally surprised when one of the little girls burst into tears, crying “I want to stay with the lady!” I looked around for the “lady” only to realize she meant me. I’m the lady. Both girls wanted to sit up front…on my lap.
Five minutes out of the terminal and the younger girl turned out to be a boy. With long, dark, curly hair that hung down his back I could only stare. She had been a sweet girl and suddenly, with the reveal of Superman pull-ups he was a beautiful, dark eyed boy. All of four years old with a fixation on McDonalds. Every time we would pass a sign or restaurant he would scream out “McDonalds!” The older child, definitely still a girl, calling herself Princess, would perk up each and every time and shout “where?!” without fail. Princess taught me a game – something involving singing and clapping about a Miss Merry-Something-Er-Rather. She talked nonstop about school, her friends, her jeans, her homework, her little brother, her mother’s boyfriend, her brother’s dad, her dad (not all the same person), her lost umbrella and hated lunch meat. Every time she would get up to make her way back to see her mom her sneaky brother would bounce into her place beside me and with hungry eyes ask if he could hold my watch, try on my ring, wear my hair ties, look at the book I was reading. He asked me if I liked McDonalds, the Yankees, buses, him. How could I say no?

90 minutes later the children reached their destination and left me without so much as an over-the-shoulder goodbye. I waited for the mother to thank me for entertaining her kids. As she came up the bus aisle I looked up expectantly, prepared to say, “you’re welcome. You have great kids.” Not only did she continue by without a word, she didn’t even look me in the eye. Thanks for nothing. PS~ I hate the Yankees.

To be continued…..

Black Blame Game

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This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?

Autobiography of a Face

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AutobiographyGrealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face.New York: HarperCollins, 2003.

I had all the right conditions to finish this book in two days – traveling, vacationing, but most of all, fascination. I couldn’t put it down. On the surface Autobiography of a Face is the tragic story of one woman’s struggle with cancer and journey through recovery. Only her struggle isn’t as an adult. She is a child. Confronting Ewing’s sarcoma at age nine Lucy battles through radiation therapy and chemotherapy. Her tone can only be described as matter of fact as she recounts the loneliness and pain after countless surgeries to correct the deformity of losing a third of her jaw. Deeper than that, Autobiography is about rising above the cruelty of others, shaking off the superficial prejudices of what supposedly makes a face beautiful. Lucy is defiant and remarkably stoic in her recollections of childhood taunts, adult avoidance, and across the board lack of social acceptance.
Critics call this book the vehicle with which to free oneself from self loathing and fears of rejection. It is a message to stop wallowing in self pity and live with dignity – no matter what. It’s also a call to be human and have real emotions as Lucy admits, “and as much as I wanted to love everybody in school and waft esoterically into the ether when someone called me ugly, I was plagued with petty desires and secret, evil hates” (p 181).

My favorite quote: “speaking seemed like something one could grow tired of” (p 77).

Lucy’s story ends with her getting published, finding friendships and getting on with her life. Yet, there is a darkness to it all. She is criticized for not telling the whole truth. There is mystery surrounding her untimely death in 2002. Her story leaves you asking what happened and wanting more. What the book doesn’t tell you is that her multiple surgeries led to an addiction to pain meds and subsequently, heroin. She died of an overdose at the age of 39. There is more drama after death, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Other People’s Shoes” (p 181). I can’t even begin to imagine being in Lucy’s shoes.

Majesty

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I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.

Battlefront of Id and Ego

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Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.

Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.

You Cooking Fool

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It was two nights before the wedding and the lobsters were in the pot. This guy was cooking our meals. Judging by the back pocket he either flipped them or forked them to death. With polka dotted oven mitt in hand, it’s hard to say. As the sun set over the ocean, wine flowed like a red tide, stories were getting taller, while laughter was getting louder. We passed more than the bread to sop up buttery plates. We all partied our way through the final nights of solitary. What once was you…or I…would become we and us in a matter of days, mere hours. Nerves hadn’t set in as long as the sound of the crashing surf was there to calm us.

He was the Las Vegas Lobster Cooking King. Straight out of the gambling desert. He stood guard over our bright red critters and growled his endless love for family. After the ceremony he chased after us with an oversized umbrella, shielding us from the hurricane’s rain. Us, as newlyweds who wouldn’t notice the cold for hours. He left his arid desert for the rain soaked eastern seaboard to celebrate love…and to cook lobsters.

I haven’t seen him since.

Waiting…

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Butterflies. That’s the only way to describe the feeling of being this excited about something. How can I explain this without selling out? It started with an idea shared with a friend. Originally, I wanted it to be our idea – something to share. When she handed it back to me I thought I would harbor a disappointment for longer. Instead, I resurfaced inspired by the secret. I vowed to keep it private, sharing it only with myself and moi. They, in their weird way, will help me through this construction area. I only hope blonds have more fun.

Art & Water – I said I was stalking you. I lied when I didn’t say why. I know why. I do. I feel the box closing in on me when I am so close to breaking free. So close to being normal. My heart has been shredded, chewed up and puked up when it comes to guilt. I can fall on a thousand swords and never forgive myself. Dramatic? Hell yes. When it comes to history I don’t know myself like you do.  

Insult to Injury

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My husband knows the word “rant” all too well. I’ll go on for hours about something until it becomes nothing – the way writing a single word over and over will start to look strange and lose meaning twenty times later.
First it was about blood work. They wanted my blood and made me make an appointment. They told me when to stick my arm out for the needle. But, when I showed up it was all my fault. “You need to follow up on the appointment.” What? Doublecheck the receptionist to make sure I’m really in the book? “Well, even though you had an appointment you need to make sure the doctor put in the order.” What? So, now I’m following up on the doctor? Let me get this straight so I don’t waste 90 minutes on another day. “You shouldn’t make the appointment so soon after the doctor has seen you.” What? The receptionist told me the opening she had available. I just agreed to show up. Now you’re saying I need to refuse her suggested appointment time. Could I be anymore confused? Insult to injury- the nurse called my machine and said they found the drs order for blood work and I can come in “anytime” (giggle, giggle).
Then it was about my car. When they were done, they wanted to leave it behind the building, locked up, keys in the glove box. They wanted me to pay now and pick it up with my husband’s keys later. Behind the building, locked up. My keys would be in the glove box. It’s not behind the building. It’s not locked up (window is rolled down and door is left completely unlocked). Keys are not in the glove box. Only this is where stupid me, myself and moi come in. We don’t notice this for nearly a week. I call the mechanic six days later. “Do you guys have a spare set of keys lying around?” “Chevy Prism?” “Yup.” “Last name _____.” “Yup.” “Yeah, we got ’em.” “And you couldn’t call me?! Can you bring them to me since you said my car would be locked up with the keys in the glove box and NONE of that happened?” Silence. “Hey. You guys told me you would lock it up and leave the keys in the glove box. Since that didn’t happen you need to bring me my keys.” Who knew I had the brass bra? “*sigh* We’ll see what we can do.” Insult to injury – I was late for work.
Then it was my feet. “Do you have anything in a size 5?” “Nope.” “But I see 5 1/2s here.” “Last year’s stock. We’re not carrying anything smaller than 6 on the adult side. Kids has size 5. Check there.” Insult to injury – size 5 didn’t fit. Neither did 4. I’m a 3 1/2 KIDS if I want to shop at Marshalls.

Problems with the Equipment

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                                               pedometers

I have become a pedometer snob. It started slowly since I haven’t always worn one. A little over two years ago I joined the walking nation and clipped on a pedometer to count my steps. I dropped the habit when I started running. Lately, I’ve turned back to walking. It’s a little nerdy and a lot productive. On Mother’s Day I signed myself up for another walking challenge – a virtual walk across the country. It was during this time that I decided I needed a new pedometer. I’ve tried many makes and models – some with radios and headphones, others with heart monitors and calorie readouts. I’ve spent anywhere from $5 to $15, testing the step counters. The current one I am joined to the hip to is one of my earlier purchases. The interface is starting to fade, it’s clunky, boxy and awkward. Soon I was on the hunt for something a little more “glamorous.”
I found Gaiam’s sleek model in Barnes and Noble and shelled out the most ever for what turned out to be the cheapest product ever. I was in love with its sophistication (heart rate monitor included), its capabilities (alarm clock and stop watch!), even it’s color (gray-blue and silver). It even came with a cd (as if I didn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other and simulate walking). I loved it until I walked with it. Basically, I sneeze and suddenly I’ve walked seven steps. Sit down, stand up and I could add another sixteen steps. In the instruction manual they warn against this “overcounting.” Their solution is turning & tightening some screw counter clockwise. That screw must tighten the mechanism that measures movement. Well, I tried that and okay, it helped a little. Sneeze and I’ve only walked four steps. Standing up and sitting down only adds ten. But still! There is no other way to regulate the sensitivity of the product and it drives me crazy!
All is not lost. My old GoWalking pedometer works just fine. It’s still clunky and the numbers are fading, but at least it works!

Prayer

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People are asking me how my holiday was and I’ve been answering “spiritual.” WTF? Where is that coming from? Usually my peace comes from a good yoga session, an exhausting run, a rhythm with the ocean, sleeping in, waking slow. I’m grounded by a good book, a better friend, cooking a decent meal, laughing loud and long. I didn’t have much of any of that while I was home. No yoga, no run. Each morning I woke at 5:30am… usually from jarring dreams that rattled me awake. The equivalent of being rudely tossed out of slumber. While I read the books didn’t give me safe passage. So, what gives? Why the word “spiritual” to describe what a week ago I couldn’t even put words to?

I think I know. I think I get it. Discovery is knowledge. Knowledge lends itself to understanding. Understanding is the foundation for acceptance. There is peace in acceptance. Bingo. I learned a little more about myself through my mother’s history and that has brought me home. Spiritually. I get it now. This revelation brought me hope.

My mother said, “I block those times out” and that’s when hope arrived. I was this close to replying “I know what you mean.” I was this close to yanking open the closet door and letting the skeletons tumble out. It seemed like an invitation to confide. My hand was on the door, turning the knob. I could have done it…but I thought too much. How would she feel that she is the very last to know? Would she be offended, would she be hurt? How would I explain my distrust of her reaction 30 years too late? Time doesn’t heal all wounds. And wound her I would. Hers would be fresh and raw while all mine have scarred over and hardened into indifference. So instead, I let go, looked in my lap and said, “I can see why…” With that, the moment slipped away. Wine in hand she walked away. The closet door stayed closed.

It Could Have

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I don’t know whether it was my overly active imagination or the man apparently following me, but I was so scared. It happened yesterday at a rest area. When I pulled in to the parking lot I wasn’t thinking about anything but walking, changing my clothes, peeing, and fueling up before the rest of my journey home. I wasn’t thinking period. It was a beautiful day so I parked as far away from the rest area center as possible. I was nearly in the trucker lot. I wanted to stretch my legs as much as possible while crossing the parking lot. Stretch and enjoy the sun. There wasn’t another parked car within 10 spots on any side of me – I was that far away from the hubbub of the center. I cannot stress that enough. To my surprise someone pulled up right next to me. Startled someone would park just as far away from the center, yet so close to me I stared at the driver…only to find him staring back at me. I took note of his features (Middle Eastern, well groomed, glasses), his dress (peach shirt, no tie), his car (silver honda accord). Of all the open spots around me he had to pull up right beside me. Instantly nervous I busied myself with pulling clothes together, counting change, anything to not get out of the car quite yet. It seemed like eternity but finally the man drove away. I made note of his VT license plate. Not trusting him to be really gone I stayed in my car a minute more before getting out and walking across the parking lot. As I approached the center I spotted Mr. Peach Shirt’s car. Imagine my surprise when he got out just as I was walking by. I was convinced I had waited long enough but there he was, following me into the center. He even used the same door so I was forced to hold it open for him. I noticed his black dress pants and dress shoes. Respectable looking yet giving me the creeps all the same. Once inside he went his way and I made a beeline for the bathrooms where I changed my clothes, put my hair up, rehydrated my contacts…in other words, spent a long time refreshing myself for the journey home. Still nervous about Mr. Peach Shirt I wondered if I would see him again. Scaring myself, I was betting I would. Even though I predicted it I was still shocked to see him standing outside the restrooms, drinking a coffee, looking my way. Trying not to appear rattled I squared my shoulders and walked by with as much resolve as I could muster. He followed me out. Thinking I had to be imagining my paranoia I stopped to pretend to look for something in my purse. Peach Shirt kept walking. As the distance between us widened I took the opportunity to stroll to the dog park, stop to admire the lilacs in full bloom, pretend to be interested in a man’s dog, anything to delay going back to my car. By the time I did go back I thought surely Peach would be gone and if he wasn’t, I had a problem. Wanting to avoid that problem I took a long time driving away from my spot. Slowly, slowly I made my way towards the gas pumps, cursing myself for having to fill up. All I wanted to do was get on the highway and burn rubber home. Just at the edge of the rest area center’s parking lot I had to stop for pedestrians. I welcomed the chance to give Peach more time to be really gone. I didn’t see him anywhere. But. As I waited who pulled up beside me but Mr. Peach! Shock elevated to alarm. I couldn’t believe I was seeing him for a fourth, disturbing time. I drove off shaking like a leaf and amazingly he followed. At the gas station I stared in disbelief as he pulled up the the pumps right behind me. Nearly frantic I looked to the attendant for help. She looked all of 18-19 years old and I knew she wouldn’t make a difference. Instead I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to make a call (yes, the battery was dead), looked in my rearview and pretended to relay license plate info to an imaginary cop. I was as obvious as I possibly could be and finally Mr. Peach drove away. I never saw him again.

Here’s what really bothers me about this experience. I could predict when I would see that peach shirt. It was like he was always around no matter how long I lingered somewhere. There was something about him that made me nervous from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Did that make me hypersensitive to his movements? If I were to pick out someone else, say an overweight woman in oversized sunglasses, sun visor, Miami tourist tee shirt, clam diggers and flipflops, would I run into her just as often as Mr. Peach? Would I notice her just as often? Would I care? Probably not. No, Mr. Peach Shirt started the drama by pulling into a parking spot right next to me. He didn’t observe movie theater rules. You don’t sit right next to a stranger in a movie theater. You always leave an empty seat between you. Just like you don’t park right next to another car when there are at least 40 empty spots all around. And I was so far away! Can’t stress that enough!

It could have been my imagination. It could have been worse. It could have.

Posted in Bad

Two Sides of Guilty as Hell

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I told my husband I would blog about this. There is no way that I can’t. The irony struck me in the face last night and I’m still reeling from the assault. I should start from the beginning only I can’t. I won’t. Out of loyalty, out of respect I won’t fuel the fire more than it already has been. BUT just so that I’m not another babbling idiot I will say this – my husband is dealing with more crap than he deserves. Someone in his circle of life has been accused of a crime (well, a few) and there is no way this person is innocent. Not 100%. No way in Hell. Anyway you look at the situation this guy is at fault in some way. Whether it’s 5% guilty or 100% it still spells Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. All the way in trouble and it troubles me. It’s a classic case of he said, she said, she said he did. No way to really sort it out. No way to walk away. Can’t deny, can’t ignore. Especially for kisa. He didn’t ask for this, but there it is.

So that’s one side of guilty – here’s the other. My husband received a letter from the DMV – no wait, RMV…No, I think I had it right the first time – DMV. Anyway, the Registry, Division, Department, the something of Motor Vehicles. I immediately assumed it was a registration renewal or something mundane, something ho hum. Disinterested, I turned back to shaking worcestershire sauce and montreal seasoning on the burgers…until I heard him swearing and muttering “‘not again.” Turns out the state of California thinks my husband travels across the country to treat their roadways as his own private German autobahn…and then drives home again…to New England. The RMV/DMV is revoking his license at the end of the month because someone with his same name and birthday drives like an idiot somewhere on the west coast. There are three driving offenses listed in the letter and kisa was obviously at work for every single one. There is no way he is guilty of anything mentioned in the letter. Nevertheless, here’s the kicker – he has to take time away from his already fukced up life to take care of the situation…again. Yes, this has happened before – before I met him. Kisa’s betting it’s the same wackjob who doesn’t know how to operate a moving vehicle. What are the chances?

So. Last night as I was brushing my teeth I was thinking about guilt – the obvious kind and the obviously not. Kisa operates on the fine line of There Is No Way This Is Happening To Me. Yet it is. Two sides of guilty. Drive carefully.

Where I Started

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I am sick, sick, sick of the mother question. I’m beginning to hate Mother’s Day just because it somehow gives people license to ask me that mother of all questions, “when are you having a baby?” What’s with the when and why are you asking me? Why on Mother’s Day? If it’s not in the form of a question it’s a statement, “well, when you have kids…” Like it’s a given that experience is definitely going to happen. To Me. I think the parenting question should be right up there with sex, politics and religion. Personally, if I don’t offer the information that should mean I don’t want to talk about it. In simpler terms it’s none of your business.
When faced with the When question I think of all the responses I could give. To say we’re not ready implies something shameful. Like we haven’t grown up enough to hurl ourselves into the act raising a child. Like we haven’t prepared enough and will fail the big parenting exam. We’ve been goofing off in the back row of life.
To say we can’t afford children indicates a poverty level beyond the bank account. We’re bankrupt in love for children and can only think (selfishly) of ourselves. We’re not willing to give up, to sacrifice, the luxuries of travel and concerts and good food for the sake of having a junior to call our own. At least that’s the perception if we say kids are expensive.
To say I’m afraid of the pain only results in smirks and looks of IfIDidItWhyCan’tYou? Can’t even go there with mothers who endured labor for endless hours without meds. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I’m not you.” Shame on me.
To say we’re afraid of being bad parents implies we didn’t like our own upbringing; that somehow we’re afraid we’ll turn out just like “them” or worse yet, we’ve insulted our elders. The question that inevitably follows is, “what’s wrong with the way you were raised?” Don’t get me started.
There’s only one Shut-Them-Up answer out there. We can’t have kids. Period. I mean, how does one respond to a woman who point blank says “I’m infertile. Thanks for asking…”? The consequence of such a statement is the danger of coming across as damaged goods, a female with faulty wiring. A royal fukc up in another life. “Do not confront me with my failures…I have not forgotten them” ~ Jackson Brown.

Better not mention adoption unless you want your head bitten off.

O Bailey

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A friend sent me a letter. This one was to me ( and not about me) and there was no mistaking the message. Angry. I read and reread her words but didn’t respond right away. I couldn’t because her anger had a domino effect and suddenly I was just as spit-nails-mad. I didn’t want to lash out at her, the bearer of bad news. Don’t kill the messenger. Not her fault. Not her fault at all.

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. No, thank you for making it clear to me what I had been missing/avoiding all along. I made excuses for the lies. I spun in frantic circles on my own stage of denial. I didn’t think it could be true even when the evidence was mounting. How many times did I have to be lied to before I finally caught on that I was not worthy of the truth? I have a friend who walked away cold and I confessed I admired her for her cutthroat deleting. Do you really want to delete this “friend”? Yes. How hard is that? Unsubscribe. Delete. Done. Damn.

I can understand the lashing out. The hurt has nowhere to go but directly to the Last In Line. But, why include you or the other her? Just because you are who you are to him? It’s so stupid and I’m So Sorry. But, I’m not sorry you told me. Not sorry I stopped spinning. Not sorry I opened my eyes. Delete. Done. Damn.

Pardon Me

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Someone told me I had been written about – or they guessed it was about me, or To me, or something. I don’t usually go there so I wouldn’t know, or didn’t know. I’ll admit I started to read it then decided I couldn’t decide if I should know. I finally stopped. I didn’t finish because I couldn’t read on. But, like a girl I still waivered. What if it really was about me or to me, or something? Indecisive nature can be the death of me, myself & moi  so I decided it wasn’t about me… but I would respond…just to be safe. In true passive aggressive form I am not sending this TO you and it’s even less about you. In all things ego, it’s really all about me. Just in case. In all actuality this is something I need to say, just to get it out there.

I never meant to stand in your face and say, “you are no longer my friend.” To my knowledge I’ve only done that once before in my life. Even then I did it in typical moi fashion and wrote the words down. No face to face there either. A coward through and through. But, that is neither here nor there. Back to you…errr…me..or…something.

The bottom line is this: you said some things that angered me. I retaliated the only way I knew how – by writing. You were angry that I embarrassed you – (volley on the anger quota) – only you failed to notice I took the utmost care in removing your responsibility to the words. You reclaimed ownership by your outburst. You wanted people to know what you said by repeating those words. It was proof that you don’t know me – I write to move on. It’s the only way I can move on. Once I get it out (for the most part), it’s gone. You reviving it and giving it ugly life was an indication that you didn’t understand ME. I had no choice but to disown your words and, by default, you. In my heart of hearts I really think it was a mutual agreement. I’m okay with that.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I see the world as a dangerous place to be. The clouds overhead are always a little grayer in My world, the glass in my hand more than little less half full all the time. My face rarely hurts from grinning (Friday night was a first in forever). It’s easier being sad Eeyore than bouncy Tigger. Don’t get me wrong. I love my life but I struggle to stay smiling seven days a week. I don’t sail through this world whistling a tune. That is precisely why I surround myself with people who either through logic, love or laughter guide me through life and lift me up. I need the people who will help me see straight when I’m stressing, sigh when I lose my wallet or my mind, show strength when I’m broken, but mostly, smile because they truly love messed up me. Bottom line – they understand me.

I have learned a valuable lesson about friendships. Like rocky shores need the tide’s coming and going to survive, certain people stay in your life while other people drift out for a reason. I wouldn’t be here today if those coming or goings didn’t happened. I need the tide and all that it brings…or…takes away.