Dear boys, please read this:

It’s time I put out a final plea to all men that I know:

Please stop trying to eat me. I’m not that sweet, and would appreciate it if you tried not to leave with a hunk of my flesh.

What starts out as a little frisky fun, always turns me into looking like a battered housewife the next day.

Take Rojo. Rojo was an ass smacker pure and simple. Yes it was sexy, yes I liked it, but really boy – do you need to leave a freaking handprint on my bottom? The police could have taken fingerprints of my arse and arrested him for endangering the bootie.

Next up is the Biter. The Biter, appropriately named, decided one night to try and eat my lips. Yes, thank you dear but I bruise like a peach. The next morning I had a family brunch to attend. The minute I walked in the door, my sister rushed me to the bathroom thinking I was asphyxiated or dying in some air deprived manner. I looked in the mirror horrified to see that my lips were completely black and blue. There is no amount of lipstick, regardless of color, that can hide purple lips. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of any lie that would work. I told them I was ill.


Lastly we’ll end on D. D did a good job asking me beforehand if there was anywhere I didn’t want a bite mark. Right now, out of the moment, I can think of a lot of places I don’t want someone’s tooth impression. At the time, I think I said my neck was off limits and left it at that. D didn’t quite pay attention so well. Yes, today I am the proud member of “The girl at the meeting with the bite mark on her neck” group. After work, we’re going to smoke cigarettes in the parking lot together and talk about boys.

Unfortunately, D did not stop there. Let’s just say – I should have worn a running bra to work today. Every time the girls bounce a little, I’m taken back in pain. Looks like no V-necks shirts this weekend for me.

Role-playing

Each day I wake up, take a shower and stand at my closet all drippy. I look into a sea of costumes and choose one. Monday through Thursday I choose my accountant ensemble, the rest of the time I choose something more spontaneous and exciting. It wasn’t easy coming up with all these accountant costumes, mind you. Cal can testify that when I started acting as an accountant during the day, my outfits didn’t always work. In fact at my old job they called me porn star, because I missed the mark pretty bad one day. Who knew that if you dress too conservatively with a short skirt, glasses and hair pulled back you looked like a whore, not an accountant?

Well, I have it pretty down pat by now. Most people at work buy that I really am an accountant, and most people in my social circle know that I’m really not an accountant at all. Part of what I do when playing a bean counter, is to go into companies and audit them. It’s fun. I like to think they are scared of me uncovering fraudulent activity, but that rarely happens. I tap my little red pencil on their desk and ask scathing questions. It’s like playing the bad cop when someone’s stolen money. “I know you’ve got it somewhere, Stan. Just tell me where you hid it and no one gets hurt”. I’ve never had the opportunity to say that, but I will someday. The writers of this play will have to get it right one day.

On Monday I visited one of my clients. I arrive on time and dressed in costume. I demand to be taken seriously for the mad skillz counter that I am. I was shown to my area, and was told that IT would be up shortly to configure my computer so I could connect to their network.

“Fine, fine. Yes fetch me a cup of coffee, would ya?” I snapped.
A blank stare came across the client service manager’s face.
“Oh, sorry. Can I ask you where you guys keep the coffee? I could use a cup after the drive up”.

I’m taken to the break room, and dispensed one Styrofoam cup. She leads me back to my area in time for me to see that the IT boys have gotten my computer hooked up to their network.

As I walk over to them, I see one boy hit the history on my Internet explorer. I think nothing of it. I sit down, take a sip of coffee, and look back up at my monitor only to see this looking back at the poor chaps.

Damn, I fell out of character again!

Note to self: must clean browser if people are to believe I am an accountant and not some kinky freak with a plastic fetish. Which of course I’m not. I hate the smell of rubber…well you know what I mean.

That’s Classy with a K

Do you ever wear stuff to work that you know you shouldn’t? You just put it on because it’s your favorite t-shirt, and because you’re hung-over. It’s casual day after all, and I’m late again. At least I didn’t call in with one of my lame excuses like my cat died.

This time he just had a little eye goop and I had to take him to the vet on my way in. That was the story at least. It bought me about 30 minutes of snooze time.

Back to the shirt. I know it’s not really my best effort, but on mornings like this it just doesn’t matter. It’s one of those mornings where my roommate’s welding at 6 am, because he says he was home and asleep by 2 am. I know he was up doing speed all night and probably hasn’t slept.

He can keep his lies; I don’t care. I just need to get to work. I need to kick him out. Damn, I forgot to feed the Lama.

“You look like you’re embracing casual Friday!” the roomie barks from under his welding helmet. He looks like Jason from Friday the 13th and I shade my eyes from the sunlight. “Ya, I know. It’s my favorite shirt” I blurt out and hop down the front steps.

“That one?” he asks, looking confused even for someone who’s been partying all night. “Yea, this one. See!” and I stand up straight so he can see my shirt in all its glory. It’s just a plain blue t-shirt, but right in the middle over the flat of my belly is a perfect ring mark made from a beer bottle. Well, I don’t know it’s from a beer bottle, in fact I don’t know how my shirt got this way. It wasn’t always this way. Before that watermark appeared it wasn’t my favorite shirt. But now that it has that perfect ring on my tummy, I love it. It says, “Look at me! I’m such a slacker I actually rest beers on my stomach when I drink!” And for that, I love it.

I’m sure my co-workers are so impressed with my sense of style and upper class etiquette.

Friendly skies

I’m sitting in the Austin airport waiting for flight 1227 to Dallas, and then I’m off to sunny Tampa. I’m sitting here watching and day dreaming about the boy across from me. To be honest, he’s really a man. Probably in his thirties, if I’ve summed him up right. His fingers tap quickly against his faded jeans as he listens to his Ipod.

So my mind starts to wander. I wonder where he’s going. I wonder what his curly dark hair looks like in the morning after a night of blissful sex. I wonder if he’s Mexican, Spanish or Portuguese. I wonder what it’s like to have those dark brown eyes looking down on me.

I look over as he takes out a tangerine and skillfully peels the orange off in one seamless movement. He stretches, he looks around. No doubt by this point he sees me staring, and probably thinks I am the nut I am. I wonder if he’s curious as to what I’m typing. I smile and laugh a little to myself.

There’s nothing like the airport. It’s a mixture of hope and dreams all wrapped up in a horrifying smell, like the hospital but not so sterile. I smile, he smiles.

I think he’s beautiful, and for this moment he is my little airport dream. In a minute we’ll get on the same plane, going different places, and then it ends. These thoughts are as innocent as peeling the skin off of a bright orange fruit in one fatal swoop. I wish he was unraveling me.

They call his group. He packs up his belongings, looks over and smiles at me again. I wink and smile back.

Say cheese

Greetings! I thought it was time to truly introduce myself. So here goes - here's a couple of pictures of my little vida. It's me, my best girlfriends, and my dogs. What else does a girl have?

Hey, there! It's me before I cut all my hair off! 

My girl, the Dottie Lama and all her grace 

Me and Miss K in NOLA 

Me and my girls in NOLA - that's me in the middle! 

My roomate's puppy - Say hi, Blue! 

Me and my baby beer! 

We are going to be friends

Lately I feel like I’m constantly walking down a road in my past. I walk a little, stop and pick up a memory, fully inspect it, and then stroll along again waiting to stumble across the next one. I’ve been listening to Jack Johnson’s version We are going to be friends, by the White Stripes, on repeat for about 3 hours straight. It takes me back to elementary school with the little desks and short ceilings.

I was a precocious child during my time at Walnut Bend Elementary. I fondly remember locking Cindy H. in the jacket closet for daring to wear the same dress I had on one day. I became friends with her in high school and always wanted to apologize for my juvenile behavior, but never had the nerve. I suppose shame kept me from opening my mouth.

I went to elementary through high school with my x-hubby, and the lyrics to that song remind me so much of our time together as children. I relentlessly teased him. I sat behind him in one of my classes, and would carefully study all his drawings. Despite the fact I never saw him paying attention in school, he was a diligent and excellent student. He was one of those students who always made the “Who’s Who in Texas Schools” list, and got countless scholarships for college. This was a far cry from my academic pursuit, which consisted of doing only what was required to obtain an above average mark.

I remember the first time I saw him in those tiny halls of Walnut Bend. We were walking in straight-line formation to the cafeteria for lunch, and our paths crossed. We couldn’t have been more than 10, and I pulled on the shirt of the girl in front of me to ask who he was. I spent the next several years keeping a close eye on him.

In middle school I learned the art of make up. I didn’t use much on my face, but found it an excellent device to conceal the marks my mom left on me from the night before. No longer was I considered the pitiful little girl who’s parent’s beat her. I transformed into a pretty girl with confidence. Most of the other girls were going through their awkward stage, but thanks to Covergirl cosmetics, I found the way to erase my bruises and become beautiful.

My x-hubby asked me to our 8th grade homecoming. I was ecstatic. The cutest line backer on the field would be holding my hand any minute, and we would be whisked away in the limo after the game. On the way home, he asked the driver to stop the car at the end of my block. We got out and he walked my to my house holding my hand the whole way. The limo slowly followed behind us, as the old-fashioned meter lamps lit our way home.

In high school I became a notorious bad girl. Tired of modeling school, cotillions, and primping for the Junior League I slowly went through a transformation into a little punk rock kid. The X and I spent countless hours on the phone and passed notes through our lockers. Acronyms for every possible saying were devised and we were a solid couple. He was still making the list of kids to watch, and I was making the list of kids to watch out for.

At 15 we decided to have sex. I remember him crying the next day, and telling me how beautiful it was. I just remember being scared to death I was pregnant, despite the use of contraceptives. He wrote me pages upon pages of poetry and gave me flowers every week. I adored him, my little football guy, and he adored me, his little punker girl.

I broke it off with him our junior or senior year, to date other people. I had no idea I would compare every other boy to him in school. He dated the head cheerleader, and we were still in love but tried to fulfill our teenage expectations of dating.

When college came, a plethora of scholarships poured in for him. His poetry was published and was read in art galleries and museums around Houston. I was clueless about where to go, and headed off to be with my sister and in a place where concealor wasn’t required. He went his way, and I went mine; always looking back to see where the other was going.

Here we are again, old friend, parting ways once more. I’ll always be looking back to see where you’re going, this time knowing our paths won’t cross in the same way they once did. I’ll always think back to the flowers and love notes that have shown up throughout my life. I can’t say I made a mistake. Some things aren’t meant to be, but “I can tell that you and I are going to be friends” for a long time to come.

ACL ends

I made it through the weekend scratching and pulling myself into bed last night around 11 p.m. Not so bad considering all the sun and vodka and my noticeable shakes after 3 days of drinking. I feel like 80 bucks, so it could be worse.

The weekend was filled with talented people, people who oowed and ahhhed over Austin, people who didn’t get Austin, and old friends.

I look up at the people on stage and wonder if their parents ever looked over at their kid when they were 3 years old. Maybe the kid was just sitting there beating on a pot and dribbling out sounds. I can’t help but wonder if they looked over and saw the genius in their little tike. Do parents see the potential in their children, or do they just look at them and think they are like every other little kid. I wonder what that’s like. Despite the parent rearing, they all performed beautifully. And the great thing about ACL, compared to other festivals is that they all play together. G-love and Jack, Jack and Ben and G-love and the Gourds….. Their parents must be so proud!

On another note, my old friend came into town riding the Jesus wave. I love Jesus; I think it’s a good idea. I think it’s a good idea if you’re him, and your demons are at every corner waiting for you. I don’t however think it’s a good idea to wake me up on Saturday morning and tell me that all my gay friends are sinners. Did he not notice me drinking and smoking? Does he not remember his binders and going to jail? He dropped it after I told him that if that was his idea of God, I wanted nothing to do with it. I’ll take my chances with the sinners, fuck you very much.

I have to vent on one more thing. If you don’t like people who have multi colored hair, don’t shave their legs or arm pits, love piercings, love the Ramones, and wear black in 110 degree weather – please don’t come here. I don’t want to hear you bitch about what liberal freaks we are. I don’t want to hear that your button down shirt and Prada bag are better than a pair of worn out Dickies and chained wallet. I don’t want to hear it. If you come to visit you better like it all, and for the love of someone’s idea of Jesus don’t come here and spout out Republican bullshit. This is Austin. It’s not like the rest of Texas or the south. We are here because we love Texas, and we hate republican Bush people who get in our faces. It’s one of the only places in the state were you can have a liberal opinion without someone shooting you with their Bubba shotgun. If you want something else, Dallas or Houston will gladly take you in.

Ending on a nicer note, I saw my friend the Commander this weekend. It was nice to see a huge smile, get big bear hugs, and dance with one of the best dancers in town. It did my heart good to see someone so excited to see me, and vice versa.

Now, I must get off my soapbox. It’s lonely up here!

Last night I dreamt of a fairytale weekend

I was sitting by lake when I heard an angel singing to me. She told me to be brave and strong, and to love with reckless abandon. I was mesmerized by her presence, and couldn’t stop thinking of her beautiful red hair.

I started walking through this park when I heard some young men yelling at me. I turned around to see these boys were screaming at me to have fun. They were jirating to a funky beat, but had old souls. They were wise and told me to look out for people in my past who would come to do me harm.

A little shaken by this information, I wandered into a forest filled with Irish barmaids and leprachons. They were spinning and leaping to joyful music, pushing me to onward though the trees. I was dizzy by time I ended up faced to face with a huge machine that pushed me towards these country bumpkins who me drink gin and juice.

By this time I was hallucinating and a mouse scurried past me on the path. I tried to run after it, but stopped and got on the back of the bus with this beautiful young man I know from my past. He told me how he loved cold beverages, and begged me to have one. As I drank it, I remembered what the funky young men said to me. I was became scared of the beautiful young man, and decided I needed to get back to my roots. I found plenty of smiling faces reminding me that everything would be all right.

I walked past an old porch and saw an old man who reminded me of my grandfather. They were waving me. They told me to follow the next PixieI saw.

I found the Pixie and he told me to return the following day, because there was a chance I would find my Prince. I woke up the next morning and the stars were still out. I ran into a dancing bear who told me to take a ride with this surfer.

I was hoping that he was my Prince, but then I remembered there’s only one Prince. I continued searching for my true love as I passed up a bunch of dirty boys, who told me to go and find the ghost. Their horns were telling me the ghost had the answer. I rounded a corner and found myself lost in the woods. I sat down to cry, but then another beautiful man came and told me he’ld burn one down with me. He told me I would feel just fine in the morning, and that all of this was just a dream.

I looked up at him confused, and asked, “Does this mean I’m not going to meet my Prince?” He looked back down at me, smiled and said “You’ll just have to wait and see little girl”.

I’ll let you know if he shows up.

Redneck Rant of the Day!

My company hired a temporary skank to watch over the front desk for a couple of days. It was an ordinary day, and as I walked in the front door I looked down at her and jumped back. “Hiiiii!” She said in a Texas drawl. Good lord Miss Bessy, who let that tramp in? Her tiny little breasts were trying to be seen, and she had on more eyeliner than Alice Cooper.

I immediately went into my boss’s office and if she was giving out free blowjobs while people waited for us in the lobby.

I walked by the next morning and I’m sure I heard her slurring the following: “Good morning, thank you for calling XXX, would you like me to polish your bishop or just transfer your call?” Whaat? Not to mention the outfits get worse everyday. It’s not helpful that she has one of those painfully skinny frames. You know the kind where you wondering where they hide their needles, or if maybe they have some horrible disease and you should feel like an ass just for thinking all this in your head. I concluded that no one with a serious illness would dress like a whore, so I went back to being irritated.

She just came by a minute ago and asked to trade me a dollar. Guess the coke machines doesn’t take c**t coins. It didn’t bother me that she asked me to trade her money; it was her accent that killed me. Who develops a southern drawl like that? I don’t get it. Was she raised by people with two teeth between the lot of them, and beaten until she was practically incomprehensible?

I’ve lived in Texas my whole life. When I travel people rarely guess I am from Texas, unless I’m drunk or talking about where I’m from. And I admit, when I’m drunk it comes out loud and clear. However, when I’m at work I refrain from speaking like a redneck. I don’t know, there something just so unprofessional about it.

Ninja kissing

It appears I have committed the perfect crime. Sure the poor boy was a more than willing participant, but I still feel that I got away with something.

A while back I was sitting in the hot tub with a bunch of friends. It was late in the morning, and we were telling stories while we lounged around naked in the water. As any co-ed water sport goes some of the couples left to commence their private Olympic sport. Jack and I were left to our own demise.

I always knew that Jack had a thing for me, although his boyish qualities prevented me from ever taking him seriously. After hearing the song “Amanda” one night, he called a mutual friend to tell her he received a sign that he was in love with me. Silly boy, Boston shouldn’t dictate such emotions. When I heard the story, I laughed and relentlessly and sang the song whenever he was around. To me Jack is a dear old friend whom I can laugh and have cocktails with, not someone I would sleep with.

Somehow that night, Jack managed to work his way over to my side of the hot tub, and asked if he could kiss me. I thought about it for a minute, didn’t see the harm in it, and smooched away. At one point I pulled away to warn him about going any further and noticed his eyes were clearly not focusing. I suggested we stop and go to bed (bed bed you dirty minded people, not sex bed). We slipped off to bed without anyone noticing, and kissed for a little while longer. We both passed out, but luckily I woke up a couple of hours later.

I snuck out of bed and headed for my room. I slept for a couple of hours, and the next day I didn’t acknowledge anything happened. I wondered if Jack remembered anything from the previous night. There was no teasing or playful flirting the next morning; it was just as comfortable between us as it has always been.

When we went to see Bob the other night, I was surprised when his girlfriend didn’t show up. (And no, she wasn’t in the picture when the hot tub incident happened) We rarely go out alone without the company of our other friends. After realizing they oversold on tickets, and that there was no way we could sneak a peek of Bob, we headed off for another bar. We talked all night about this and that. It was a long deep conversation between two very old friends. We went back to my house and burned some cds and he left without any sign of awkwardness.

You see I committed the perfect crime. I’m convinced he has no idea we kissed that night, or that I was in bed with him. Granted, I am in NO WAY condoning any kind of sexual advance on someone who is too drunk to condone sexual advances. This wasn’t like that at all. It was just a little super Ninja kissing, and I got away with it squeaky clean.

Better watch out – you never know who’s next!

Droopy Balloons

That stupid Sarah McLachlan song is swirling around in my head…’I’ve messed up better, I should know. So don’t come around here telling me ‘Told you so’.. It’s not so much that I don’t like Sarah, it’s just the way her music makes me feel some days. I picture myself sitting on a park bench holding a raggedy balloon and a box of half eaten chocolates when I start to hear her croon. After I sit there all day wilting, I’ll go home and watch a movie on the Women’s Channel about how women get rapped and beaten by their husbands. Is that really what the Women’s Channel should be showing? How motivating! I get to see 1 hour and 45 minutes of some woman getting pummeled by some man, and then in the last 15 minutes she’ll leave him. How rewarding. I feel better about being a woman all the time. It’s reason to celebrate!

Despite that, I messed up. I’m 100% wrong in every which direction, and it sucks. I hurt someone in the process and no matter how many times I apologize; it won’t make a difference to their heart. I might as well have jumped all up and down on it with stilettos. Why is it that when you try to do something noble, you end up fucking up yourself and those you care about?

I hate that rule which dictates we will always hurt those we care most about. I want to give back that rule and hurt random people. Wait, that’s not right either. There’s no winning.

So I guess I’ll sit here and wait. Wait for him to forgive me, wait for his heart to heal a little, and wait to be his friend. I know I look pathetic sitting here with those damn balloons, but it’s where I am.

La-la-la

I am having quite the shit day. But, never fear! My friends are here!

Jack called and asked me to go see Bob tonight for free! I know he only asked because we had a hot make-out session once upon a time, but I still said yes. He also asked his girlfriend, which means he may not even remember that little session at all.

Regardless I get to go see Bob at Z Tejas for free! To boot, I can even hit on him if I want and no one will care. As an added bonus, it just started raining pretty hard outside. With any luck, Bob will show up soaking wet and I can dry him off.

Not that I would, mind you. I’m not that type of girl.

Little boys

Wouldn’t you know? My bar tab on Friday night totaled $78, and I can only count 2 free drinks. Which makes me wonder how at 5’4 I am able to put away $78 of liquor, not beer mind you – liquor. Perhaps those 12 step people could riddle me that.

Saturday night I promised my sister I would watch my nephews overnight. These little boys truly are the apples of my eye. I delight in everything they do, and constantly dote over them. I’ve always wanted to have a lots of little boys, which I suppose means that if I do have children they will be rotten little girls like me.

My 5-year-old nephew, I call him Boo, has been going through a tough time lately. He was recently ostracized from going to his cousin’s fairy party because he was a boy. This is absurd considering he normally wears unitards and sequins, or his mom’s alligator pumps. To boot, he’s extremely bright and was just diagnosis with a slight personality disorder. I bet he got that from me! Regardless he’s the kind of kid that loves drama camp, but hates any sports that doesn’t include tight pants. He’s loving and sweet one moment, and a complete terror the next minute like any other 5 year old kid.

I walked into the house Saturday afternoon nursing my hangover from the night before. I was a little apprehensive the boys would already be shouting in an attempt to see if Aunt NuNu’s (nice name for me, huh?) head would pop off. They were nowhere to be found. A couple of minutes later they showed up with their grandfather, who appeared to be a little disheveled and relieved to get rid of them.

The neighbor boys met up with us in the yard bearing 5 frogs. They had named each one of them with various Native American Indian names, like “Windborn”. Or so I thought. Turns out Windborn likes to be hurled into the air, and sometimes they even catch him. Lucky bastard.

So I sat in a chase lounge on my sister’s porch donning dark sunglasses and nursing a diet coke, watching 6 little boys squeeze and torture every frog they could get their little hands on. A minute later Boo tells me he’s put Dennis, his fighting fish, into a bucket with “Loves-to-jump” (more like, loves-to-be-thrown).

I leap from the lounge, run upstairs following the path of wet grass and mud to the bucket containing these two new friends. I look inside and see a petrified frog on one side of a stick, and a fish flopping around on the other side. Well I love boys, but I will not touch a frog or a fish. After rounding up all the boys, we managed to put the fish back into its original habitat and rescue the frog several times from my nephew’s closet.

At the end of the night the boys let the frogs go, so they can hunt for them the next day. Can you imagine the meetings the frogs in that neighborhood must have? “All right guys, you’ve heard about those Smith boys on Aztec Falls. They’re onto us. They know we’ve been hiding out in the sprinkler systems, and they’ve already killed Frankie.”

The neighbors went home, and my nephews and I were sitting around talking about dinner. I started to wonder if Boo would change into one of those macho boys he was playing with earlier. Would nightly theatre be gone? Would he stop watching musicals with his favorite Auntie? Is he going to hang up his tutu for football pads? I’d miss his rendition of the Nutcracker.

I was looking out the window asking them where they wanted to have our celebratory dinner (Boo learned to whistle that day), when he looked at me and said “The dinning room of course! I’ll get the tablecloth and china!” I smiled and gave him a wink.

Fit to be tied

Someone should inform Austin, Texas that I’m fit to be tied, and I’ll be unleashing a ton of wetness on every person I see tonight. I’m in that mood, and I’m a little scared.

After eating meticulously since my return from San Diego, my jeans were a little loose this morning. Maybe it was teenage mutant teeny wana be ninjas walking around OB, but for whatever reason I got home and felt a little chubby. Knowing it was mostly likely the amount of alcohol I chugged while away, I forced myself into hours of cardio and chicken salads. Wha – la! Tummy is gone and ghetto bootie is back in check.

To reward myself I went and bought a new outfit at lunch. It’s trashy. I knew it was trashy when I tried it on, but the skirt was a size 2 so I knew it was destined to be mine. The logical side of my brain knows my ass hasn’t been a size 2 since I was wearing garanimals, but the ditzy female side of the grey matter pushed that thought away.

I stood in the mirror looking at my whorish ensemble. In my reflection the tiny blue jean skirt, disgustingly boobalisious camisole shirt, and high heels winked at me. I’m feisty today, more than feisty – I’m on fire. My flames are made up of an intoxicating combination of being angry with others, irritated with myself for being upset, and ready to punish all the men in town.

So while I looked into the glass, I realized I’m out for revenge. Tonight is the payback for the boy who asked me out while his girlfriend was in the other room, for the boy who asked me to come back to his place while my guy was passed out, for the ones who haven’t realized how great I am, and for the guy who’s so hot he knows it and tries to play me. I know what you boys are all about, and tonight you’re mine. I will not be paying for one drink, I will not give anyone a ride home, and I will not make out with anyone. When you call tomorrow, I won’t answer. I’ll just let you wonder when you’ll see me again, and why you bought me 5 gin and tonics with no payout.

I’m a lot today. I’m sure the alter ego will be out tonight in full force, but not to worry. After eating so well this week, I also rewarded myself with some Chinese food equipped with a fortune cookie. The fortune?

“Your dream will come true”

Insert annoying noise type comment here – something like BOOO YAAA!

Good God, stop the bleeding!

I’m sitting at work completing my divorce forms. Can it get any better than this? I wish they let me drink in my cube. It seems like I should be doing this with a glass of tequila and a smoke. Can you imagine the president stopping by to pay me a visit right now?

I’m at the step where I am separating our assets. This is my chance! I can smell victory, and it comes in the form of sticking him with the cats and giving myself the dog. Next up is the question of household possessions. I’ll take both our guitars and leave him the muffin pans. Now they want the VIN numbers to our cars. One Volkswagen Cabrio-gay for the Mr., and the Mrs. will take the new Extera. Scratch that, I like my car better. I just like to think of him driving around Austin in the Cabrio-gay.

The house? Yes thank you, I’ll take that. The patio furniture goes with the hubby goes and I’ll take the brand new BBQ pit. Stock and bonds? Yes, I’ll take those too. Wow, they are so nice here. It’s like Christmas! Just click, click, click and mama just got herself two new laptops and a server with all the music in the world. Click, click…..

Click…click….

I don’t want any of this. I couldn’t care less about my china and his chain saw. Take it all, what do I care?

Where’s the button that says “Magically divorced! It’s magically delicious!”?

Lesson learned the hard way

It came to me about 4:30 this morning. I kept replaying scenes from this weekend, trying to figure out why I behaved the way I did over the last five days. I saw me sitting in a truck, trying like hell not to cry as we left Mexico. I saw myself yelling and packing my bags on Sunday night, and then giving up and trying to sleep on the tile floor. I saw myself adore someone who doesn’t understand me, and I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

Then it hit me, a disconnected memory that helped me understand my actions.

I was sitting at my kitchen table on an early Sunday morning, when the hubby came into the room. He sat down at the little pine table. He's a big guy, about 6'2, and he put his head in is hands and looked down like frustrated child. Calmly, slowly, he said, "You know Amanda, I've never felt like you've loved me."

I was crushed and angry. I'd spent the last 4 or 5 years supporting him emotionally through his diagnosis and new life with MS, through job changes, and through family struggles. I'd wake him up on his birthday with donuts and chocolate milk. I'd help him dress when need help, due to his loss of agility or loss of fashion. I didn't care; I did whatever I could to make his life easier. In the end he tells me that he never felt loved. I didn't understand what he was saying to me at the time, and for the life of me I had never loved anyone more. How could I be such a failure? How could all this time have passed and he never know that I loved him when that was my daily intention? In the end he tells me it was because I never stopped long enough to hold his hand or touch his face. I did what I wanted to show him I loved him, not what he wanted or needed.

I realized last night what he was talking about. I tell Rojo I don't feel loved by him, but he can't understand me. It's not the big things; it's the million little things that happen. What can I say to him? I know you tell me you love me, but it's your actions. It's the way you don't put you hand on mine when ordering a drink, or the way you call other people to hang out with us when I'm right there wondering what's wrong with just hanging out with me. It's the way you pass out instead of playing with me. It's the way you look at the surf so intently and then look back at me reluctant and distracted. It's the way you didn't immediately come up and burry your head in my neck in order to smell me. It's the way I start to ask you a question in the middle of the night, and you get mad at me. It's that tone in your voice that says, "Not again woman, what is it you want this time?" It's all these little things.

I hear his friends when they tell me he loves me, but he doesn't come up and put his arms around me. I hear him tell me that he loves me, but he doesn't call me back or hold me when I cry. I hear him tell me how great his friends are, but I never hear from him how great he thinks I am.

I don't know what to do with this revelation. I loved someone and did these same things. I wish he had told me during year one and not year five. Maybe things would be different today; maybe I would have grown from it. Maybe I would have learned to love better.

All I know is that, despite my stubbornness I finally learned something. If you truly love someone you'll pay attention and make sure they're getting what they need from you, not just what you have left over to give them.

Get me on that plane!

I’m so excited! I’m going to visit my Rojo in San Diego tomorrow. Ahh glorious, glorious sex and sun. I feel like a schoolgirl who’s getting walked home by her crush, except I’m hoping for a spanking.

If you have any suggestions on what I should do there, let me know. I’m talking about sites, you pervs, and not sexual exploitations. Honestly, advice on either would do! I’m planning on waking up late, staying up late, and smiling all the time.

It’s amazing when you meet someone that makes you feel more like yourself than you do by yourself, or with your best girls. It’s amazing that I feel more beautiful when I wake up with him, than when I’m dressed to the hilt on a Saturday night. No bra needed, no mascara applied, just add Rojo.

I won’t be judged for my lack of interest in some sporting event, or even my hung-over laugh. I won’t feel the urgency to second-guess what I’m wearing or if my ass looks gigantic in my pants. I already know it does, and he likes it all the same.

I’m a lucky girl, who’s ready to leave Texas in a path of dust and can shoot the moon with one eye closed. Wish me smoove sailing! I need a little sunshine.

Once again, I’m in a pickle. I feel like I’m staring up from the bottom of an undertow, and don’t know which way to go. If one more person tells me to follow my heart, I will surely rip their eyeballs out and donate them to science.

If it was that easy, don’t you think I would have done that by now? God knows I might be a little (ok sometime a lot) neurotic, but I’m not an idiot. Decisions and logic usually come fairly easy to me, although I do struggle with my emotions often.

Regardless, here’s the situation. Please help me decide.

I have one love that’s been with me through thick and thin over the years. He helped me learn how to laugh at myself, and to remember the little things in life are the most important things. He stirs my passion like no other man could, reminding me of a playful boy who’s discovering life and the power of women. He’s always fun and ready to have a good time, never moody or temperamental like my other love.

Guess that leads to the other man. He’s ornery and just plain mean some times. His mood swings make Margot Kidder look normal. One minute he’s happy and drinking, the next minute he hates the world and is loathing in a self-pity bath the size of Lake Michigan. But I love him, I do. Sure he might be an alcoholic, but he’s so real and so human I feel instantly connected to him. I obsess over him, and it’s probably not healthy but who cares? What’s life if you can’t truly get into another person’s deepest thoughts and cover yourself in their skin?

After all this time I can’t believe I’ve never been forced to make this type of decision before, but it’s here staring me in the face. They both require my attention at the same time and space, and I am lost. Do I go to my man that’s always lifting me up? Or run off with the man who’s always bringing me down in such a defiant way? It’s just one day, it’s just one time, but it means the world to me and I don’t want to pick the wrong guy.

Please help me. If you need more details to help me pick this one or that one, go here and look at Saturday the 18th from 5-6 p.m.