Victory is mine!

You might remember the rantings I entertained regarding my cube-mate. She’s the loud gay woman that invades my work environment. Well, I’m so cunning that I got rid of her once and for all.

It appears Miss S. had a hankering for a little caviar. At my suggestion, and slight persuasion, I instructed her to find Central Market. Miss S lives very close to this part of town, but is unfamiliar on how to get anywhere. Could it be that she never leaves her cat infested home?

She left with instruction in hand for the location of the fish dispensers. Her last sentence wafting in the air, “if you don’t hear back from me today, it’s because I’m lost for good!” Oh, how tempting. The Cheshire cat smiles at his good deed, relishing in the glorious thought of silence.

It’s been over and hour, and nothing. No noticeable noise is detected from her side of the wall. I hear no tapping on her keyboard, no loud conversation to her hidden lover.

Indeed, I do believe the sanctity of silence is mine. I can hear the snowflakes falling on the high traffic carpet. Lovely, glorious victory.

And I’ll fly to hell with my little red fluffy thong

Of all the things I have done in my life that might send me down the path to hell; I trumped it on Sunday night. It’s not so much that I am a staunch believer in much of anything, but I try not to anger any of the gods. You never know. That being said, shall we dive into the darkness?

My friend Carly was in Houston this weekend. She flew in from Boulder, because her husband was having surgery. After spending 4 nights in the hospital with her loving, but neurotic husband and her neurotic and unloving sister-in-law, I planned to come and rescue her for the night. I picked her up at the hospital and we headed out to her sister-in-laws apartment.

I sat on the couch waiting for her to get ready to go out and inspected the tiny, overpriced apartment that only an overpopulated city can get away with. The décor was Italian to say the least. Every wall was adorned with pictures of family members both old and young. There were pictures of her parents and grandparents as toddlers. Amidst the frames also hung several religious nick-knacks. On the far wall hung a painting of the most beautiful man I have seen. Damn he was hot. White shirt, wavy brown mid length hair, and brown eyes with and a piercing stare. He was peering into my soul.

“Who’s that guy?” I asked, my heart racing. Maybe it’s Nick’s cousin, wouldn’t that be something. “Who, Nicks’ dad?” she replied, unconcerned. “Shit! That’s his dad? How old was he in that picture? 30ish?” I retorted, feeling a little uncomfortable at the thought of looking at his dad with such scandalous thoughts.

Irritated she came out of the bathroom and looked at me, like the leaper I am. “You fucking nut! That picture?”

“Ya – that guy”
“That’s the man that some people refer to as Jesus. You might have heard of him with all that talk of Christmas and such.”

Ah, damn. Man, he’s hot. Feeling a little uneasy about my Jezebel self, we headed off to the bar.

We returned from the bar after several vodka tonics, and Yeager shots. By that time, I was in full on lust for that Jesus man. Who paints a picture of Jesus looking that damn good? It had to be a woman in lust, or a gay man about to burst with guilt. Carly and I spent a good hour eating Cheetos, drinking Gatorade and lusting over him.

I couldn’t stop looking at him. I felt like his tiger-eyes following me throughout the house. With every move I wanted him more and more. I felt an overwhelming urge to take that painting to bed with me. We laughed at the notion of her waking up in the morning and finding me snuggled up to his picture. I had dirty dirty thoughts of that man. Good lord, literally, I am red just thinking of it.

Is this the topper on my cake? Am I doomed to an eternal sequester based on my writhing passion of the man in that picture? Or will he be flattered and take pity on me? If there is a Jesus and he looks that good, I want to go to heaven right now. I’m ready and I hope I look good when I go. No car wreck or dilapidating disease. I’m ready to meet my lord and savior as we speak.

Whoever it was who created that artwork is truly a genius. I commend them. I also condemn them. This gives me a whole new outlook on the pearly gates!

To hell, I say. I’m going to hell.

Eeyore proves to be a punk ass chump!

A little rain and the donkey went a running. A little rain and yours truly did a little drinkin. So you tell me – who’s it gonna be? One fine ass woman or a hairy jackass who’s afraid of a little sprinkle?

I got yours, Eeyore.

I must recant

Oh the shame of it all, to recant. To see yourself as the idiot you truly are, and to fess up to it. To tell the world that you flagrantly ran your mouth, and try to right the wrong! Excruciating.

Rather recently, I made an entry on the not so desirable leftover lunch. I reflected on the way I loved something the night before, only to wake up the next day to disgust. I compared my leftover salmon to my view on men. Not all men, just some men. Well, I …I…I take it back.

Today I celebrate leftover lunch! Today I love it, like I have never loved before. It’s more succulent, more seasoned. The flavors are more infused, and I realize the beauty of the second time around. I will mend my finicky and fastidious ways. I will learn to marvel in the inherent wonders that only come through the passage time and repetition.

Forget the quick and easy. Put down those wasteful wrappers containing high calorie convenience. I want to look back and linger in the moments that passed too quickly. I want to hold on to miracles of the past and treasure them.

Perhaps, in turn, I will become a more gracious and appreciative lover. I will spend my hours recapturing all of those Sunday afternoon rendezvous that melted away so quickly, and I soak up every drop of pleasure again and again until all that is left is a smile.

Pick it up, put it down


Yea! I’m turning 31 on Monday! Wait. I’m turning 31 on Monday. How did this happen? It’s been a year already, and now I am swimming full force in the 30 something stream. Odd. I still feel 20ish. Well honestly, I don’t know what 30ish is suppose to feel like. Does it mean that I need to stop wearing kitche t-shirts and pigtails? Does it mean I need to begin paying my bills on time, or pondering my 401k? If either is the case, I’m not going to fit in here very well.

I usually love my birthdays. I love having parties for myself, and I always feel special on my birthday. I feel like all people should stop when I walk by and whisper to one another, “check it out, it’s her birthday”, while their friend nods back. I feel like it’s my opportunity to look back on my year and congratulate myself on my accomplishments.

In that vein, let’s see what happened. I passed 2 parts of my CPA exam. That’s great, but I don’t really want to be an accountant. I also have 2 more parts to go, and it’s killing me. I met a lot of great people this year, and I lost some friends too. I started to be more of myself again. I’m sure I grew a lot this year. I only say that because I cried more this year than ever before, and all those tears must equate to progression.

Maybe it’s just my current pessimistic mood, the throws of my situation, or the everyday humdrum of life; but I don’t feel like I have that much to celebrate. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitching over here. I know I have it better than most. How many people take the opportunity in their life to tear it all down, and I mean down to the quick of their soul. I did all of this to get back to myself. How many people do you know would stop their entire life, because they thought there was a chance they could be happier?

Sure you meet some. They move or they change a habit. That’s not what I am talking about here. I completely disassembled my life this year. I took everything good and everything bad out of my little box, and now I contemplate what goes back in. Pink jacket, yes. Old friend, no. Guitar, yes. Lies, no.

Could you do it? Would you do it? What would you put back in? That’s where I am this year. This year is the year I begin to fill up my life with what I truly need and want, instead of what has found it’s way in.

New lines

Miss Suzanna, my therapist, granted me permission not to come back for three weeks. Ahh, what a vacation. Think of it. A break from delving into my deep dark secrets and the ability to ignore all my problems for three weeks. How happy could a girl be?

At least that’s how it sounded to me. I took my assignments with me, and graciously exited. Assignment #1) Play like you did when you were a kid. I like this one, it’s easy. I go swinging in the park, I ride my bike and I paint. Check it off because I’ve been a good kid.

Assignment #2) Don’t just do things because you think you should. Do things that you want to do, and will make you happy. This one is a little trickier and more illusive. It is in my conscious, so I am checking it off as well.

Assignment #3) Make a timeline of your life and we’ll fill the rest in. Sounds easy, here I go. Born, adopted, incident with brother, best friend moves away, parents divorce, dad disowns me…grandfather dies. When I was done I stopped and looked at the line, which resembled more of a railroad track than anything else. When I started the project I decided to use pink construction paper. I love the color pink; it seems so hopeful and alive. Yet when I was done, I wondered if anything good had happened to me? There was nothing hopeful and alive on that paper.

My wedding was one of the tracks. It was an important step in my life, one in which I will never regret. But under the current circumstances, even that seemed depressing.

I decided to take a bath and talk to my grandfather’s spirit, to whom I have somehow projected into my showerhead after his death. (Talk about odd) Since his passing, I have spent countless hours in the bathtub, soaking away and gazing up at the showerhead asking questions and babbling away. It gives me some type of comfort to have this time with him. Damn I know it sounds weird, but people are weird.

And it hit me, no he didn’t answer, I made this timeline. If everything on this line represents something bad that’s happened to me, why don’t I take control of the line? Why don’t I make some new marks? I’m tired of having these things handed to me; I’m making it up from now on. It seems so simple and elementary. Of course you make what you want to out of your life. But I look back and I wonder who I have been living for? Me, my parents, my husband?

So from now on, I'm drawing new lines. New lines I hope to see: moved somewhere beautiful, traveled to Spain and Greece, played guitar and sang for family, maybe even had a family. Damn that Suzanna, she’s gotten in my head once again.

So what are you going to do?

Who’s the big jackass now?

Eeoyre’s Birthday in Austin is a blessed event. Eeyores-Partay
Hundreds of freaky Austinite’s come out each year to celebrate their favorite childhood character. Considering this fine furry creature and I have the same birthday, I thought I would do a little investigation to discover why so many people attend his birthday in lieu of mine. Here’s the skinny:

Description:
Eeyore: A donkey, about 18 inches tall and 27 inches long. Stuffed with sawdust
Mine: A woman, about 5’4 inches tall, there is nothing 27 inches long on her, but she wears a 34C bra. The woman, not the bra, is stuffed with gin and tonics and chicken soup.

More Description:
Eeyore: Intelligent and quiet. Keeps to himself. Always depressed. Current (and only) resident of the House at Pooh Corner.
Mine: Slightly obnoxious and moody. Overtly social. Slightly depressed. Current resident of the House of Make-believe.

Favorite Thing: Being remembered on his birthday.
Mine: Oh yea? Well me too, buddy!


Things He Likes: Thistles, pots and burst balloons.
Me: Teakettles, pot, and full balloons

Things He Dislikes: Being bounced, swimming,
or broken thistles.
Me: Being tickled, being cold, and loud people

Biggest Problem: His tail keeps coming off.
Mine: My panties keep coming off.

Second Biggest Problem: His house keeps falling down.
Mine: I can’t get out of my house.

So you tell me, Austin, who’s party would you rather be at? A grumpy old donkey’s party or my party? Would you rather look at pots or enjoy your pot? Would you rather be friends with a disgruntled hairy creature, or a girl who recognizes the importance of waxing?

Sure there are no books or websites devoted to me, but I’m not as old as Eeyore. Just give me time. And sure, he has cool friends like piglet and Poo. But would you want to hang out with Christopher Robins? I didn’t think so. But go ahead, do what you like. As for me, I will be boycotting Eeyore’s birthday party. Sure I’m going to go, but I’m celebrating my birthday not his. So there.

Quit your bitchin or the world's gonna get you!

I had a feeling the weekend wasn’t going to go my way. Friday I managed to tie a nice one on, and see some rock at the 710. I also weaseled my way out of a hangover thanks to people smarter than I am. What would I do without you? Oh – what will I do?

Saturday came with a handful of sadness and a box of “what-ifs”. I managed to keep my mind off things, until I went to drop off movies and caught the sunset. It was another beautiful sunset in Austin, with all the pinks and blues swirling around for one last minute of play before bedtime. And, I started to cry. I couldn't stop myslef from picking up the phone to see how the MS150 was going. Is anyone hurt? Is everyone having fun? Hubby answered and seemed a little tipsy. Amazing what marathon runners can do – 100 miles on a bike, drink beer, get up and roll out another 80 miles with a hangover. Maybe that has more to do with being an alcoholic than a runner.

Despite the slight annoyance at his trifling slur, I felt so sad and alone. “That ride is my ride”, I whined in my head. Pulling off the repertoire of my 5 year-old nephew, I threw a little tantrum. Ok maybe it was more like a medium tantrum that lasted until Sunday.

I love spending Sunday mornings alone with Miles Davis. I convinced myself to have a good day. I can do it, whatever it takes! After studying, I took a shower and went down to Manuels to see a friend. On the way, I passed a gaggle of riders. The whining commenced where I left off on Saturday, “I want to be all happy and proud. I want to have accomplished that..” Still, I tried to persevere. Manuels was a nice change to my mood. A happy little trio playing classico, a watermelon margarita, and a hottie behind the bar made me a happy girl. I read the Chronicle and snacked a little, enjoying my time.

On the way home I ran into them again. Bastards! Get your bike and get outta town! Do you have to keep rubbing it in my face? I get the point – you rock, I don’t. There went the mood. Alcohol and other sundries didn’t change it. A trip to the grocery made it even worse. I was bitching the whole way, like a hooker on a hot day (only I looked a little better than that).

On the way home just as I blurted out “I just don’t like people today”, we hear a “pop”. Some kid threw a rock or something at my car. Normally, I would get pissed and jump out of the car like a hellion. But considering how awful I was all weekend, I decided to take it for what is was worth. People didn’t like me much either. My friend says it was my instant karma. Fine, let the world kick me back. I deserve it.

So today after being scolded by the big bad world, I will try and be a kinder sweeter snowflake. And dear world, if you are reading this, I have learned my lesson. Please don’t crack my windshield or have someone break into my house. I promise to be good, and give the 5-year-old attitude back to my nephew.

For the past 5 years I have spent one weekend in April riding my bike from Houston to Austin. They call it the MS150, but it’s 180 miles. Liars! When the hubby got MS about 6 years ago, we decided to start participating.

The ride represents so much to me. I want to lend some support to him, and to others with the disease. What’s a little pain to me, considering he goes weeks without any tactile feeling at all? It gave me a way to have some control over an uncontrollable situation. I can’t imagine the frustration or fear of living with that disease. As a partner to someone with the disease, your life becomes one of constant worry. If he can’t use his legs, will I be able to take care of him? If he looses his eyesight, will we be able to make ends meet? On and on the worry cycle goes. And most days, nothing happens. You sit and you wait for it, like an old man waiting for the bus. And in the back of your mind, you wonder if maybe it doesn’t stop at this dime sized town.

It’s different this year. He asked me not to ride it. He asked my mom not to come and set up tents. In some ways I am relieved not to torture my body. Drinking and smoking isn’t the best training program out there. And I’m happy not to explain our situation to other people, and feel like they are judging me. I can imagine what they’d say, “Poor poor hubby with MS, and just look at her. Shirking responsibility.” Or worse, maybe they’d be sympathetic. Either way, he’s right. It would be too hard.

However, I will miss going down those hills at 40 mph with tears sliding off your salty face. The feeling of accomplishment when you get up a 90-degree hill. I’ll miss the buttercups flopping along the roadside cheering us on, and the quiet conversation at mile 168. I’ll miss looking over and seeing him smile at me, and hearing him sing “On the sunny side of the street” while the Texas sun beats down on our backs. I’ll miss our friends laughing and riding past me smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. I’ll miss the10 year old who rides the whole thing, and the parent beside them who look likes they’re dying. And I’ll miss the signs on people backs; you know the ones that make you cry. They are the pictures of wives, husbands, children, and friends who they ride for because they can’t anymore. But most of all, I miss it being us together happy and without worry.

http://www.ms150.org

I’m very in my head today. I’m not sure what is causing it. It could be the drinking last night. It was a menagerie of gin, tequila, beer and Yager. Just naming those poisons makes my stomach lurch forward. It could also be the deep discussion I had before going home.

I’m sure the conversation would amuse 3rd graders everywhere. The guy I was talking to had been awake for more than 24 hours, and I had already consumed the afore mentioned list of beverages. It seemed natural to get into a philosophical discussion. Do you ever realize how ridiculous these conversations are when you are in them? When you hear yourself say, “that’s what life is really all about”, do you want to stop and punch yourself in the neck? It’s as if you seize the power, in your altered state, to boil down thousands of years of human strife and find the solution. Once there you might hear yourself say, “And yet, there really is no answer is there? And isn’t that the beauty of what we’re all doing and trying to figure out”. At the time it seems so stimulating, academic and cerebral. Yet the next day, you wonder how full of shit you are.

Who knows, maybe I learned something about myself. Ha!

Other than this, the haircut went well. I feel quite pretty these days. People have been so kind with their compliments. Amazing how something so trivial as cutting you hair can make a difference on your perspective.

Now I feel as though I am an overindulgent, self-righteous babbling, beautiful woman.
Wonder what the weekend holds?

I am beginning to think the way I am about bringing my lunch to work, is the same way I feel about my lovers. (Should you be reading this and were once my lover, this does not include you. You are the exception.) So here it goes.

I have it one night, and absolutely adore it. Savor every minute of the experience. Hold it in my mouth as long as possible and get the most out of it. However, the next day – it’s just not the same. How could I be so finicky? How could I love something so much, and then the next day completely discredit the entire experience so quickly? I toss it in the garbage and go for take out, as if it meant nothing to me.

Oh wait – I don’t sexually go for take out. You know what I mean. How will I tame these wildly ways? A constant buffet? A lazy Susan of entries? A personal chef to fulfill my every whim? Or will I take on a more acquired and astute pallet? One of refined taste, leading me in search of perfection.


In other dashing news, I am off for a haircut. Let’s hope Joey is in a good mood. I have dreams of sexy beautiful hair. I’ll let you know.

It was my first holiday without him. Every moment I could hear him in my head, a vivid memory after we first were married. “From now on I have a date for every national holiday!” he beamed with utter happiness.

I didn’t sleep much this weekend, despite the impressive amounts of alcohol consumed. Why can’t the inebriation Gods give me a break? It’s 4:00 a.m. and I am starring at the ceiling wondering what the hell I’m doing awake and thinking about him. I’m happy and cozy in bed. I just had a great night with a great friend, so why I am thinking about him. What’s worse is that it’s not a romantic thought, it’s like waking up and thinking about your buddy.

It’s the dreams of marriage and white weddings. The whirlwind thoughts of babies, puppies, and flower boxes on the windows. It’s the memories of ice cream cones in the convertible singing our hearts out. It’s the memories of the morning after we got engaged. I woke up crying. We stayed at the St. Regis in Houston. It was a beautiful suite full of white lilies, the smell permeated in the sheets. The windows were open and facing downtown Houston at sunrise. I was so happy, so afraid. I felt like my life could never be this fairytale I was living. I felt so broken by my past, that I couldn’t believe this was my destiny. I put the white rob and slippers the hotel gave us on, and walked over to the window. My vision distorted by the tears, I watched him sleep. A joyful and content slumber carried him away.

I don’t understand my life, or where it’s headed. I don’t understand this grey matter under my ponytail that’s running in circles. I feel like I’m dying, and at the same time being born. Hope and hopelessness intertwined.

It was my first holiday without him. Every moment I could hear him in my head, a vivid memory after we first were married. “From now on I have a date for every national holiday!” he beamed with utter happiness.

I didn’t sleep much this weekend, despite the impressive amounts of alcohol consumed. Why can’t the inebriation Gods give me a break? It’s 4:00 a.m. and I am starring at the ceiling wondering what the hell I’m doing awake and thinking about him. I’m happy and cozy in bed. I just had a great night with a great friend, so why I am thinking about him. What’s worse is that it’s not a romantic thought, it’s like waking up and thinking about your buddy.

It’s the dreams of marriage and white weddings. The whirlwind thoughts of babies, puppies, and flower boxes on the windows. It’s the memories of ice cream cones in the convertible singing out hearts out. It’s the memories of the morning after we got engaged. I woke up crying. We stayed at the St. Regis in Houston. It was a beautiful sweet full of white lilies, the smell permeated in the sheets. The windows were open and facing downtown Houston at sunrise. I was so happy, so afraid. I felt like my life could never be this fairytale I was living. I felt so broken by my past, that I couldn’t believe this was my destiny. I put the white rob and slippers the hotel gave us on, and walked over to the window. My vision distorted by the tears, I watched him sleep. Joyful, content slumber carried him away.

I don’t understand my life, or where it’s headed. I don’t understand this grey matter under my ponytail that’s running in circles. I feel like I’m dying, and at the same time being born. Hope and hopelessness intertwined.

Change this

Hooray! Therapy today! Insert smartass face. It’s like medicine seeing that woman some days. Inevitably it will come down to the same tired question, “So what do you want to change about yourself today?” All this as she blindly looks over at me, and her dog sighs.

Let’s see – things I would like to change about myself. Well, I am a little neurotic. I would like to change that. It would be nice not to compare myself to other people and then beat myself up for it. Take this morning for instance, I am reading a sex blog and the whole time I am thinking “I’m just as big of a perv as this guy”. The next thought I have is, “Great I’ll probably end up like one of those sex addicts who can’t function in normal society. The kind who jacks off in the public restroom and at city parks while watching other people.” Neurotic. Just because you can imagine yourself going off the deep-end, doesn’t actually mean you’re going to do – does it?

What else. I would like to not be in this situation with the hubby. When I tried to get out a couple of weeks ago, I was told to wait. Thanks. Yes, the brain injury. I should change that. Lately I have been thinking the problem is that I haven’t learned to accept his flaws. I could learn to love his obsessive-compulsive disorder. I could embrace it and make it one of the things I love about him. Oh, and the martyr complex. I could learn to love that – couldn’t I?

I would like to stop thinking this is all my fault. If I tried harder, learned to love more, sought grace and forgiveness instead of being judgmental, then maybe this would work. Maybe then I wouldn’t loose my friend. Maybe then I could have the sex life I want on my terms, and out in the open. Not the park and public restrooms, but you know what I mean. Ok, maybe in the park.

Do you ever get the feeling that the wrong dog is barking up your tree? I’m not sure if it’s the lure of spring with the flowers blooming, or the lust caused by the renewal of small shirts, but this town is starting to buzz.

Last spring was really intense. My friend and I were drinking sangria at Spider House on night around 11:00 p.m. It was a beautiful night of rocking back and forth on the sliding chair with our fruity drinks in hand, while the fireflies danced around the colored lanterns. We were commenting on how frisky we felt that spring. I didn’t help that young men were everywhere that night. How I love the arrival of spring. That feeling of being alive and youthful, of endless possibilities, and little summer dresses. Needless to say, that spring was more than we could handle. Both of us let summer slip by with a sigh of relief, destine to crawl back under our comforters and reminisce.

This spring, I’ve started to notice the boys coming out. What is it? Really, do you know? Last week I was entering a patio when a Chilean boy swept me off my feet, and began dancing with me. This week I had a friend of the hubby’s hit on me, out of the blue. He must have heard that we were separated and no longer speaking to one another. Neither one a serious attempt, just the first sittings of spring. My girlfriend was told, “You sure clean up nice” and “you rock!” by a co-worker at a company dinner. Her other lover returned without warning. And this is just the beginning.

Who knows, maybe the blog will get a little funnier with some smut to talk about. And I will stay in search of the mysteries of spring.

How can this happen?


Take the quiz: "Which American City Are You?"

Los Angeles
You are the epitome of duality. You'll deal with all the strife to bask in all the glamour.


Am I really this bad? Could it be any worse? LA? Isn't LA where all the horrible yellow tans, and ridiculous t-top driving people come from? Isn't it where porcelain veneers and fake tits rule the city? What to do, what to do?

I took it yesterday, and really didn't worry about it too much. This morning as I was getting ready for another fabulous and thrilling day as an accountant, I heard the monsoons coming.

I bundled up and put on my rain coat. It's no sissy rain coat either, and it's not girlie. We're talking navy blue with a hoodie that science's around your face and hangs down to your knees. No man would ever look at a woman twice in one of these puppies. (Unless he's from New England, but that doesn't really count).

I jumped out of my door, only to realize I had parked on the street, not in front of my door. As I start to run, I realize it's futile. The rain has already persevered through my jacket, winning the thrill of wet tendrils, soaked pants, and sloshy shoes. I was the big looser.

I get to work only 10 minutes late, not bad considering you couldn't see the roads and the windshield wipers were as helpful as drink umbrella in your fancy cocktail. And now, a little time has gone by. I am dry once again, and my hair has taken on it's own little life.

It's the carefree life of my hair that I wish I had. Curling here, straight as an arrow there. It doesn't mind that the world is pleading for it to stop and conform.

Yet, I am leaving to go home and try and salvage a little respect out of it. And so I wonder, does this make me LA? Does it prove I am as shallow as the puddles I jump today? Am I going to come back and make my appointment for tummy tuck and butt job?

No not, quite. But I plead of you. Should you see me walking by, with a Gucci bag and sunglasses covering my entire face - slap the shit out of me and get me to the lake!

Take the quiz: "Which American City Are You?"

Los Angeles
You are the epitome of duality. You'll deal with all the strife to bask in all the glamour.

Here I am. Yep, it’s me. Just working at my little accounting job. Who ever thought this is where I would end up. In all aspects of my life, I’m not just talking about my career. I was voted most likely to be a DJ at a punk club in high school. That seems much more likely to me than what I do now.

I think I might be torn in every aspect of my life. I love my life on my own, no commitments to anyone. If I am with people, it’s because I truly want to be around them. In my married life, I felt obligated to be around people whom I wouldn’t normally associate. I guess that’s what marriage does. You change and bend for someone else. It’s not just about you alone anymore.

At the same time, I still feel a sense of obligation to my other life. Memories keep me awake some nights. Thoughts about the way things use to be. How everything was perfect until I opened my mouth and spoke the truth. Denial is a fine world, my friend. Don’t let the power escape you. Verbalizing that I wasn’t happy was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and it’s still not over. I’m still dealing with it.

Maybe one day, I’ll just have one life again where everything meshes and I’m happy and bored. Then again, it’s me here – it’ll never happen.

Viva!

Batter Up!

After romanticizing my relationship with the hubby, I met him last night for my nephew’s t-ball game and dinner for my brother-in-law’s birthday.

As a side note, the t-ball game was glorious. I’m not sure if there is anything more adorable than 5 year olds trying to accomplish a game of baseball. It’s great because the team is comprised of girls and boys, who believe that getting the ball is a team effort. Last one on the pile for one ball is the odd kid out. You also learn that people are the way they are from an early age. Take the third base player for the New York Yankee’s last night. I was sitting close to third base when the little punk stirred up a conversation with me. I stared up at him with one eye closed, thinking what’s up with this one? He’s wearing black pants, while the rest of the team has on grey. For a moment, I thought he was sporting a pair of black Ray Bans. It must have just been his persona. Either way, he slurs out “man, this team is slow”, while he has his hand on his hip like a middle-aged sex star. And I could have sworn he gave me a luring look when he spoke. His face a smug grin, a grin no 5-year-old boy should have. The whole time I’m thinking, who’s this kid?

As my nephew rounded second base and came into third, this punk gets the ball and tags him out. A little refresher on t-ball, the kids don’t get out – ever. It’s not allowed. They simply all get a turn at bat, and then a turn out in the field. There is no winning or loosing. Cramming a ball in another kid’s back and then pushing him and saying “you’re out – get outta here”, is completely inappropriate. My nephew looked him as if he was an alien, and then stared up at his dad who was managing the base as well. My sister was sitting next to me and sneered, “I hate that kid, I’ll show him who’s out. Little shit.” No doubt. That little freak is already his 40-year-old self. An ego trip that’ll take him to solitude and bitterness. Somethings are determined early.

Besides this, I was critized by the hubby all night. “You’re so irritable, why can’t you just be more….”. You know why? Because this is who I am. This is who you married! I’m sick of being the perfect person; I’d like to be my irritable self. Which, in my humble opinion, isn’t irritable. I am on the other hand, a shit talker. I know it, but I like it about myself. It doesn’t mean much to me, and I don’t expect people to take me seriously when I do it. It’s just me talking out of my ass.

Now, I remember why things aren’t working. Thank God, I am not insane. Today he called and apologized. He wants us to not speak anywhere from 1 to 6 months before we decide to get a divorce. I agreed on a month, at which time we could talk about what to do next.

I’m relieved actually. It’s not a divorce, but it’s just as close. It’ll give me an opportunity to actually be separated and to see what that’s like. To honestly be without him. No more questions of where I am, no more demanding to know where I spent $10.51 on 2/2/04, and no more push pull. This may not be the full step of divorce, but it is an opportunity to be on my own. I’ll take it, sign me up. I think my 5-year-old self, is saying "Let's play ball"!

If you wonder why I'm crazy

I received this email today from the hubby. It's full of memories, some of the best I have to hold on to.

Things we said / happened on our honeymoon:

“Are my eyes bleeding?”

Our teeny rental car

The puffer fish under our little hut

The ants on the flower behind your ear

The 20 second plane ride to Moorea

Chickens and cats living together in sin…





…and that was just the honeymoon…



What about all this stuff?



Breakfast at Posse East

A good ol’ fashioned game of rockstar

Kissing in the rain and missing the light to cross

Free hot-dogs

Crawfish Monica

Breakfast at Tiffany’s at the Paramount

Moving your couch (over the balcony)

New Year’s Eve in Vegas

“Don’t you drink I drank enough?”

The last five minutes of Dave Brubeck at Jazzfest

Sweet Home Alabama at full blast to wake up on Sunday of the MS150

Kiko climbing the balcony to come in

Soul Coughing and Galactic at the Saenger Theatre

Operaman-days

Beers at that speakeasy in the Village in New York

Dance lessons

Drinking games with the jug-o-wine and stroking the David’s huge unit

Soma Sundays

Ani DiFranco and Lyle Lovett at the City Coleseum

The night you visited your mom… and only slept at home for an hour

Mr. and Mrs. Universe visit Jim’s for a late-night breakfast

Bribing the ski-lift guy

Galactic at the House of Blues—“Move your big fat head!”

Jazz on Sunday evenings at home

Getting our fortune read at Lee Circle and you levitating for the crowd

Shark attacks at Tropical Isle on Sunday afternoon.. followed by dancing to the Preservation Jazz Band in the street

Picking out Mango

Corndogs and Tater-tots—the celebratory dinner

Standing in the sun trying to keep your vaseline from melting

Playing frisbee golf with my mom and brother and Shane

Chelsi asking Elizabeth why her earrings say ‘Ho’

Frank Sinatra and the 10K ‘Awards Ceremony’—“Why don’t you buttle me up some ice?”

The funniest bedtime song ever sung…

Circles and circles

Over and over and over and over. I feel like I am trapped in a cycle with no way out. Do I love him – yes. Do I want to be with him – yes, but not like this. Do I want things to change between us – yes.

But can they? When do you walk away? When do you throw in the towel? A year, 5 years, a month? How long can my brain handle thinking about the same thing? Every day I wake up and think about what I should do. I spend my work hours obsessing over it and talking to my boss about it. I get off work and try and run, so I don’t think about. All the while it’s repeating in my thoughts like a Ferris wheel. Get done running, and go see friends. Have a beer, and talk about it. Go home, lie in bed and go over it again. Maybe the answer will come in my dreams. And then I spend my nights in a fairy tale where I can’t find the answer. The sound of my alarm demands my attention to the situation, and the harsh reality that the answer isn't here.

And I still don’t know. My back stiffens, my jaw tightens, and my eyes get weak. I walk around stores on the verge of tears. I sit in my little cube and try not to cry.