Tag: insane moments

What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

Hell Has a Name

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FatHell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.

ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.

You Didn’t Ask Me

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postsecret.jpg

I know this picture is huge. I wanted it big for a reason. The reason is this: to make the message loud and clear. Some time ago I told a friend this postcard (shamelessly swiped from PostSecret) reminded me of them (grammar be damned, I want to protect the not-so-innocent from scrutiny). Yes, I thought they had something to do with a could-of, should-of relationship. Then, the other other other day someone else admitted to me, “I married the wrong person.” Yikes. What, tell me, what exactly, clued you into the right or wrong of a marriage partner? How do you know that now, and more importantly, did you know that going into the whole “death do you part” deal?
Freak me out. It would kill me to regret any part of the vows I exchanged (and now share) with kisa. I could sigh and say someone else could have been more my speed, more my temperament, more my Me. But, that’s just the way life is…and isn’t. I’m not going to regret something because ultimately, that means regretting someone and that’s not fair. So, I ask again. Did you know you married the wrong person from the very start? If so, why did you do it, let it happen, whatever?
I admit! I play the “what if?” game in my head. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my here and now. I think of old boyfriends and what could have been. I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t done something similar, if not the exact same thing. A kind of WhereAreTheyNow? for ordinary people. I’m sure someone is Googling you right now. If I question my future with my past’s someones here’s what I come up with: a bored housewife with alcoholic tendencies, a military maiden with issues with authority, an atheist marooned at marathon mass every Sunday, a tripped out druggie wondering which sex my husband is having, gay or straight, without me, a overworked mother of three who has to wait through “just nine more holes – just nine more.” None of these are my idea of me.  But, I said yes at the time. Did I know I would be marrying the wrong person? Did I know all these past passings would be considered mistakes? Certainly not. Life just works in a weird, weird way.

Sex Stories

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She came home at five years old and said with a smile “I touched a penis.” This was like lighting a match and there were only two options. The flame dies out, the incident is forgotten on a whisp of smoke, or. Or. The match flares to a flame. Becomes an inferno of hell to come.
TruthDareConsequencesPromiseOrRepeat. I chose Dare. I just like taking dares with Yes. Sent her to her room without explanation. Where did I go wrong? My Fault for years to come. Come on baby, light my fire.

She had her first older man at eight. Fire on the Mountain. Couldn’t understand why he didn’t treat her differently. Wasn’t she special (so special, he would whisper) because of the things she let him do. Let him do to her? “IWLLBGNTLE” spelled out in Scrabble pieces. No wonder she won’t play the game. She wondered if anyone of importance would ever noticed. She was certainly teased enough about it by those who mattered less. Who would say anything? Definitely not her. Where did she go wrong. Her fault for years to come.

Virginity lost at 13. I pretended to be asleep. What’s the sense of interupting when she wants it that way? Expects it that way? A walking, talking, breathing, lying (down) slut. Talk is cheap but actions are rich – they rule the game played out. She walked away. I turned my face away from his pain. Where did he go wrong? His fault to fall in love. His fault for years to come.

They caught up to her in September. Payback’s a bitch and she felt she earned it, deserved it even. Larry, Curly & Moe. Where did you go? The taste of gin, sour on your lips. The lead of Led, heavy in your ears. She’s not here. But I am.

Her fault for years to come.

Particle Theory

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RandyI spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I don’t think it’s a vanity thing. I think it’s an identity thing. Truthfully, I think it stems from an identity crisis of sorts. Some time ago I wanted to impress someone to the point of oppressing my personality. He liked pancakes at 2am. I was an 8am egg girl, but I learned to make flapjacks his way, and worse, love them. His likes and dislikes became my own through tons of time pretending. I faked so much I forgot who I really was. Was I a girl who loved golf or one who couldn’t stand the game? Was I sweats and tee-shirt, stand at the fridge chugging milk from the carton, or was I white slacks and silk blouse sipping a mimosa? I was in conflict with who I really was but at the time, true to form, oblivious. Blind. Friends tried to warn me as I lost my name, but I was too busy booking my next tee time. Helpless in a sea of Helpfuls.

I do believe that everyone “gets” something from the people they come into contact with. Especially the long-time, intimate contacts. I’m not talking mono or an STD. I’m talking about personality shaped by connection. Particles of personality clinging to the psyche that is undeniably “you.” I have an affinity for grape soda, hot dog and green olive pizza, Enigma, and apples with cheddar cheese because of someone introducing them to me. I’m sure I would have discovered these things on my own because in the grand scheme of things they were destined to be “favorites” (regardless of how I got to them), but I’m grateful the direction that led me there that much sooner. I practice yoga because one of the most important people in my life showed me the way. I dont’ do it for her but I can honestly say it’s because of her. I carry my father’s way of answering mail. I mimic my mother’s mannerisms when meeting strangers. I’ve adopted things and made them my own. I think I can name a particle I’ve acquired from every boyfriend I’ve ever had, even the golf fanatic…despite the fact I’ve definitely dropped the game.