Don't tweak the brittle people.

Hello chickens. Today Sweet D is in, what my grandmother used to call, a Mood.

I have reasons.

None of them are good.

I've got things like, I painted at a friend's house today, went home, showered, scrubbed myself until I was all pink and a little more tender than I would have liked, dried off, got dressed, walked to the post office and realized that I still have tan paint All. Over. Me. The paint is kind of flesh colored, but it doesn't really match my skin so it just looks like I have some kind of horrible scarring or perhaps a fungus. Whatever. It looks like I need some sort of topical cream. Bugger.

In my sleep last night I bit my bottom lip and then, as far as I can tell, continued to chew on my bitten lip for hours and hours until it became the bloody sore it is at the moment. Double bugger.

Also, I had a dream about my ex husband. It was not a particularly emotional dream. We were sitting on the couch in my ex MIL's living room. The white one that the little kids weren't allowed to play on. I told him that he needs to be a nicer person. Something I never would have had the presence of mind to tell him in person. He told me I need to pay more attention to detail. Now, this dream would have been easily forgotten if it didn't apply in such a creepy way to something that happened to me today.

Now, let me set this up. Way back at the end of January, I got a quote from an insurance company, mostly because I hated the insurance I had at the time and didn't want to give them money anymore. So, I got the quote and sat on it for something like 4 months. I finally got back on the company's website in, like, April, maybe March, shit, I don't know. Anyway, I started filling out the forms to buy my policy online. Then, I'm guessing I got to a section that I didn't have the information on hand to fill out, so I stopped filling out the form, thinking I would come back to it. I never did.

But apparently I thought I did. I've been telling myself (and the Gipester) for the last three months that I had this company's insurance. But I don't. I am retarded.

It wasn't until G and I started talking about combining insurance that I realized that I didn't have any paperwork on my new insurance. Hmmm. Curious.

So I looked at my bank statement. They hadn't been charging me anything. Hmmm. Even more curious.

I called the company's 1-800 number and a nice lady explained (very slowly, because I'm obviously some kind of defective) that no, I was not one of their customers.

I'm so confused.

The bright spot is that I was waiting for my new insurance cards to show up, so I still hadn't cancelled my old insurance. Yay for not breaking the law, yay!

I'm not sure what's more frightening about this whole scenario, that I was totally convinced that I had completed a task that I did not, or that my ex appeared to me in a dream to call me on it.

I swear, if he starts showing up in my dreams on a regular basis to pass down his special brand of wisdom in the manner of Buddha or similar, I will become a gibbering, drooling mess. And that won't be pleasant for anyone.

So that, my little chicken nuggets, is why I am in a Mood.

Peace, yo.

You're not the boss of me!

Text message sent to boyfriend: "I'm feeling the urge to get dressed up and be wooed. You should do something about that."
Text received from boyfriend: "How about an early showing of Speed Racer?"

*sigh*

In all fairness, this isn't exactly the way this exchange went down, but for the sake of simplicity I thought I would boil it down to its essence. Sweet D wants to wear a pretty dress and have a romantic dinner, drink a little wine, and have crazy sex. The Gipester wants to see a brightly-colored, seizure-inducing, vaguely homoerotic action flick based on a Japanese cartoon. (Ed. Note: It was actually pretty entertaining).
Since I have made the decision to become a Mrs. once again, I have been wondering about what causes this disconnect.

I thought that the rule with men was, if you want to do something, tell them. Don't expect them to read your mind. If you want to go to the movies, say, "I want to go to the movies." 6 guys out of 10 will say "Okay," simply because they are so relieved that they don't have to have the "I don't know, what do you want to do" conversation. I'm convinced this is how most straight men ended up at the Sex and the City movie...

But then, there's the last 4 guys. They are "the Divorced Guys" or "DGs" for short. DGs are fabulous for the most part. They have been in a committed relationship, they know how they work. They aren't squeamish when it comes time to talk about birth control or menstrual cramps. They have seen it all and for the most part a DG is a great catch. Plus, they make up a huge portion of the dating pool once you get to be about 27 years old.

But here's the thing, DGs don't like to be told what to do.
Ever.
They don't even like to think that you might possibly be telling them what to do.

So, when Sweet D thinks she's saying, "I love you and I want us to spend some romantic couple time together that doesn't involve eating dinner on the couch in my sweatpants." The Gipester hears, "Put on a tie and spend some of your hard-earned money on me. If you don't I will make you suffer. You hear me, bitch? SUFFER!"

So, Speed Racer it is...

Anyway, after the romance vs. action movie thing, I started to notice a very distinct pattern in our conversations. Three moments stick out in my head.

Moment 1: Dinner
G: So, where do you want to have dinner?
D: Give me a couple of options.
G: Chipotle or Noodles and Company.
D: Chipotle sounds good.
G: Let's go to Noodles and Company.
D: Okay.

Moment 2: Movies
G: Which one of the Netflix movies should we watch?
D: I've really been wanting to see movie A. (So sue me, I can't remember the movie titles. That isn't really the point is it?)
G: Let's watch movie B.
D: Okay.

Moment 3: Wedding rings (Ed. Note: He's making these rings, they are going to be fabulous, I have no problem with them whatsoever, but again, that isn't really the point.)
G: So, what do we think? White or yellow gold?
D: They're both beautiful. Hmm. I think I like the white gold better.
G: Let's go with the yellow gold.
D: Okay.

Now, the reason these moments stick out at all is because they all happened within a week or so of each other. Is this struggle of the recently engaged DG to hold on to his independence? Or is he simply a man who prefers pasta to burritos on any given night? I have no idea. That's why I'm asking you.

Have I mentioned this isn't a scientific study? I have pulled all of these theories right out of my ass. But I teach high school and it's summer vacation, what else am I going to do with my time? Sure, I said I was going to write all of my lesson plans, but really. Have you met me?

So, whatever it is, it comes and goes. We haven't had any of these kinds of conversations in the last three weeks or so, but that doesn't keep me from being curious about them, and really wanting to avoid them in the future.

I am a very laid back kind of girl. Where we eat dinner rarely matters to me, unless I'm really craving something (or not, whatever the case may be), if we have more than one Netflix movie, they will both get watched, the order doesn't matter.

Still, there are things I need from time to time. And they matter, even if they seem kind of trivial. How do you communicate your needs, or even just your wants to someone without them feeling dominated by your desires? Hmm.

Any ideas?

Once more with feeling!

Happy, happy Thursday my little chickens!

I am fully aware that I have talked a fair amount of shit about the venerable institution of marriage over the last few years. I really thought that marriage was pretty much a contest in which psychological damage was inflicted on one partner by the other (and vice versa) through passive aggression, sarcasm, and barely concealed resentment, until one of them died. The last one to die was the winner. What did they win? Not being dead. Fan-frigging-tastic!

Anyway, once I discovered that game wasn't nearly as much fun as it seemed at first blush and I cashed in my meager pile of chips and bolted.

I lose, right?

Wrong.

Because, once again the universe reminds me that, sure, I might look smart, but don't know fuck all about the grand movements of the celestial spheres that govern all of our destinies.

Because, little chickens, I am getting married. Again. In 79 days.


The Gipester and I have tried to think of reasons not to do this. Trust me. He was militantly anti-marriage when we met. No way was he getting married again. Nuh uh. Never gonna happen.

See, he didn't know anything about the movement of the celestial spheres either. Ha!

But, fact of the matter is, we're in love. Normal, healthy, supportive love. And we just can't let that go to waste, so marriage it is.

I really am considering this post an introduction to the Bridezilla series. Just 'cause I'm engaged doesn't mean I'm any less neurotic. Really, I'm starting to think about things like:

"Is it okay to ask G to delete all of the emails tagged 'dating' in his inbox?"
"Is it unreasonable to tell him that I want the ring from his previous marriage the hell out of the house before the wedding?"
"Is putting my hands over my ears and screaming LALALALALALALAAAA! the best way to respond to his reminiscing about his first wedding?"
"When I joke about having kids and he makes some vague comment about us getting too serious, should I worry?"

See kids, this is gonna be FUN!

Plus, there's going to be cake. You've gotta love cake.

Peace, chickens.

Like a cat.

So, it's Friday. Which in my teeny-tiny world means it's time to clean the house. I don't do a fantastic job, but since neither the Gipester or I has ever actually had typhoid, I'm going to declare my housekeeping skills adequate.

I actually had a meeting this afternoon, so I wasn't actually planning on cleaning at all, but once I was dressed and ready for my meeting, I realized that I still had an hour or so before I even had to leave. So. I ran the dishwasher. Still had time. Wiped down counters in the kitchen. That took about 25 seconds, so I moved on to the bathroom. Wiped down counters and tub. I think, "The mirror needs Windexing." Is that a word? Hmmm? Doesn't matter. Still had time. "Fine," I think, "I'll clean the toilet." So, scrub, scrub. Clean. "Wow. The mirror is still really streaky... That's gonna drive me crazy."
So, I go get the Windex again. I had my reading glasses perched on the top of my head (headed to a meeting, remember?), a bottle of Windex in one hand and a paper towel in the other.

Now, in order to get to the top of the mirror over the sink, I have to get way up on my toes, which means my head tips back a little, just enough for my reading glasses to start slipping. We have ceramic tile in the bathroom, I really didn't want my glasses to fall off and break, so my knee-jerk reaction was to reach up to catch them. Guess which hand I used? Not the one with the soft paper towel. Nope. The one with the bottle of nasty chemical juice of death.

In my attempt to keep my glasses from breaking, I hit myself in the temple with the (surprisingly pointy) nozzle of the bottle. Then, because my brain was having a hard time processing what had happened, I turned my head sharply to the left to see what had hit me in the head and I sprayed myself in the eyes with Windex. And then my glasses fell off my head anyway.

I am effing AMAZING!!!

Happy Friday, chickens.

Wheee!

Today, my chickens, is May 1st. For any ancient Celts or NeoPagans in the crowd, it's also known as Beltane. Once upon a time, on Beltane, the ancient Celtic people would go out and start a big fire. And get wasted. And then have sex. This sounds like a holiday I can get behind. You throw in some marshmallow Peeps and I am totally down. Oh, and pie. I love pie.

Anyway, when Christianity wandered its way into the British Isles, much the way homeless people wander into the public library to use the bathroom, Beltane was discouraged and we ended up with May Day. You guys remember May Baskets, right? We made them in elementary school? Oh well, traditionally, May baskets are filled with candy and flowers and left on a neighbor's doorstep. If the neighbor catches you, kisses are exchanged. Oh yeah. Lots more fun than fire and hooking up...

So, in the spirit of the season, I am presenting you with a May basket full of the random crap that's taking up space in my brain pan. And since technically, you're catching me giving it to you, you can have a kiss. No tongue, though.

1. Wow. That was a huge lead-in. Sorry about that.
2. I listened to a couple argue for 45 minutes at the park yesterday. Guess what they were fighting about? Another woman? A missed birthday? Nope. She was giving him a huge ration of shit about how he never fights with her. Yup. A fight about how they never fight. These people need cable. I think her point was that she felt he was emotionally unengaged. But still. Yeesh.
3. It occurs to me from time to time that I don't know anyone's phone number anymore. You're all in my phone, but if I were to lose my phone and need to call someone, the only people I could reach would be my parents. And that's only because they've had the same phone number since I was 18 months old. If they move, I'm screwed.
4. Do any of you know a straight man who is over 35, has never been married, and isn't a complete sociopath? If so, send me his name. I have a bet running.
5. Why do boys constantly talk about boobs, I mean girls, no, never mind, I mean boobs, they've known before? I swear to Buddha, I've seen men get misty like they were talking about old Army buddies. I remember my college boyfriend named mine. I'm pretty sure he liked them better than he liked me. Weird.
6. Since were on the subject, I understand that boys like boobs. I'm a pretty big fan of them myself. I guess when I had them, I felt like I was part of the club, now that I'm an A-cup, I feel like I've had my girl card revoked. For the first time in my life I'm considering breast implants, just so I can fill out a halter top better than say...Orlando Bloom. How's that for an image? *shiver*

So, how was that for super awesome? I'd say more, but I spent most of the day painting a friend's basement and I think the fumes have disabled the section of my brain that allows me to focus, so I'll just say....oooh shiny!

This Moment Is More Precious Than You Think

Over the last few days, I've been presented with a few reminders from the universe that life is short. That the days never stop coming. We are always moving forward, burying (sometimes literally) the scraps of our past.

The phrase, "live life to the fullest," is trite. I hate to use it. Mostly because I have seen more than one good person "live" themselves into an anxiety attack. There is this constant push to always be doing.

Join another community group, take on another project at work, mow the lawn, join a third book club, sign up for another committee at church, try to remember to have sex this month, mow the lawn, make sure the kids are signed up for that second day camp, paint the guest room, MOW THE EFFING LAWN!

I have never really been a joiner. I tried Young Life in high school. Didn't take. Key Club, FBLA, Student Counsel, none of these things appealed. According to my mother, it's because I just don't like people. Okay, in all fairness, what she said was just that I have never been "warm." Which is her way of saying I don't like people.

This isn't true. I like most people. There are people I don't like, but for the most part they're douchebags, so who gives a damn. There is only one person on the planet I don't like who everyone else I know seems to have zero problem with. And she happens to be a sterling example of the psychosis detailed above.

This woman just flat out gives me hives. She just must, must, MUST be in this or that club, or on a committee, or engaged in some kind of activity that reminds us all that we care less about poverty, or women's issues, or politics than she does.

She is the kind of person who will skip her 10-year-old son's soccer game to sit around discussing the issues facing women in wartime Iraq. Are those issues important? Hell, yes. But there are two things to consider: 1) Re-imagining gender roles in the Middle East amounts to little more than intellectual masturbation, especially when you are member of a women's group in northern Colorado and 2) Your son will never, EVER forget that Mommy's meetings are more important than he is. Really. He'll come leaping out of the closet when he's 18 in the hopes that you'll let him march in the gay pride parade with you and whatever committee you're affiliated with that day.

Hey, a gay son is the best possible accessory for a hip socially liberal mommy. Even better than that $200 Patagonia fleece and $300 Danskos you've got on.

Wait. I'm losing my train of thought. Oh, there it is.

My point is that I feel like, as a people, we are losing the ability to just be. To sit for two hours, drink a bottle of red wine with someone we love, and talk about the hypothetical future without constantly checking our cell phones for messages or looking at the clock. No, that kind of frivolity is not tolerated. If you're going to talk with a significant other, you better be arguing about money, or discussing the division of childcare duties. And put that wine away, slackers! How dare you linger over something as trivial as romance when there are meetings to attend!

All of us have some of this in us somewhere, and please don't think that the point of the post is to deride club membership. Joining groups and clubs is a great way to meet people with similar interests and keep our intellects in shape. We just need to also rediscover the beauty in everyday things. Things that don't require meeting attendance. Sitting on metal bleachers, watching 10-year-old boys playing soccer. The smell of blooming Russian Olive trees. The feel of familiar hands. The taste of our favorite foods. The sound of our favorite songs. Just being.

Because here's the thing. The next time you smell those flowers, taste that food, feel those hands, kiss those lips, could be the last time.

Because we are always moving into the future, and there are always things that can't keep up.

Honesty? Honestly.

Hey Chickens!

Are you ready to play a round of "Tell or Don't Tell?" The game where contestants try to decide what's important enough to tell their significant others and what's just irritating.

You can play along at home! The first ones are easy!

1. You backed over the cat with the car. (Tell)
2. You were unable to find the brand of frozen pizza that you had a coupon for, so you bought another brand, that while 25 cents more expensive, is one you've heard good things about. (Don't tell)
3. The ring you got her for Valentine's Day is a cubic zirconia. (Don't tell)
4. Your parents are coming to visit for a week and they think it would be easier for everyone if they just parked their RV on your front lawn. (Tell)
5. Crabs. (Tell)
6. The chicken you cooked for dinner expired in 2006. But it's been frozen the whole time. (Don't tell)
7. Your period was two weeks late, so you took a home preganacy test. It was negative. (Don't tell)
8. The blond chick that works in the cubicle next to you came over and sat on your desk this afternoon and her skirt rode waaaaaay up her thigh. It was hot. (Don't tell)
9. You left the take-home bag from dinner in the trunk of their car. Two days ago. (Tell)
10. An old friend calls and tells you that they are having a hard time supporting your relationship because they're crazy about you and super jealous of your SO. (?????)

So, chickens. What's the answer to 10? Do you tell, because the whole situation makes you uncomfortable (and a little angry) because someone you thought was your friend seems to get off on drama of their own creation and you really need to talk about it?

Or do you not tell, because you don't want your SO to feel threatened or feel like you're trying to make them jealous. Plus, on the off chance your friend can put their shit back together and actually wants to hang out with you again, you don't want things to be uncomfortable.

So, what do we tell the people we love from day to day? Do you share your every thought and every experience? Is that even possible? Is that something we truly want from a partner? At what point does "not telling" become "witholding," "shutting out," and even "lying?"

If the roles were reversed and the Gipester told me an old friend was in love with him, I'd lose my shit. I know I would. I've got what you could call a jealous streak. It's not the Wendy Testaberger "stay away from my man, bitch" jealous streak I had going on in college, but it's still there. I really wouldn't want him to see this person anymore. If G told me he didn't want me to talk to this friend again, I would comply. But that wouldn't happen. I'm in love with a man who was born without the jealousy portion of the brain. Or maybe he feels jealousy and just doesn't tell me. Which takes me back to the issue in the previous paragraph.

So, lots of questions. No answers. What do we tell? What do we hold back? And when does it make a difference?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

No Girlz Allowed

Don't get political. Don't get political. Don't get political.
Ah, damn.
I have to.

This morning, a video was posted on Digg from YouTube. It was a mash-up that compiled news footage from 1992-2008 of Hillary Clinton, basically pandering (and occasionally lying) her ass off. The point being, of course, that Hillary is a bad person and should in no way be allowed to become president. Obama 08. Whoooo. You get the picture.

I must make it clear that I have very little problem with politicians getting called on their shit. As a people, it's important that we hold our leaders accountable. We have slacked on that responsibility as of late and now we have power-mad sadists running the show. Not cool. Anyway, my bitch is not with the video itself, it is with the comments from Diggers about the video. The bile spewed in these comments is symptomatic of a much larger issue.

While there were many, many thoughtful responses to the video from all over the political spectrum, there were a few that stopped me cold.

There were comments on Hillary's looks:
"1992 Hillary was hot"
"16 years does a lot to your looks"

There were comments rife with righteous indignation:
"Got ya, bitch"
"Fuck you, bitch"

And then my personal favorite:
"I'm gong to masturbate to Hillary's concession speech, and if she cries, I'm going to record it for future masturbatory material."

*sigh*

There seems to be a general sexism that Clinton has encountered on the campaign trail that is readily accepted by the American people at large. In addition to the truly in-depth political analysis you can find on sites like Digg and Reddit, Air America's Randi Rhodes called her a "fucking whore" at a media function. Granted, she was also talking about Geraldine Ferraro, but, really. Fucking whore? You get paid for this, Randi? Oh, wait. They fired you. So I guess you don't.

Asshats like Rush Limbaugh ponder REALLY important issues like, "Do Americans want to watch a woman get old?"

When she cried during a speech on the campaign trail (I'm not going to take a stand on whether or not the tears were genuine) CNN's Glen Beck's initial comment was "It cries." Not she. IT! IT for Christ's sake! She has been criticised (by Beck) for lacking "femininity" and "humanity," but when she shows an actual emotion, she is greeted with nothing but snark.

Marc Rudov, author of such classics as The Man's No-Nonsense Guide To Women and Under the Clitoral Hood: How To Crank Her Engine Without Cash, Booze, or Jumper Cables said on a Fox News interview, "Men won't vote for Hillary Clinton because she reminds them of their nagging wives!" and "When Hillary talks [men] hear, 'Take out the garbage.'" Why exactly Marc "girls just love to expose themselves" Rudov is on Fox News talking about the presidential campaign is beyond me, but there he was.

Tucker Carlson and his bowtie pulled a Lorena Bobbitt reference out of nowhere when talking about Clinton. Apparently, the Hillary Clinton nutcracker wasn't enough. You have to find a more graphic way to let men know that having a woman in charge is the equivalent of having their boy parts removed.

Excellent.

Republican strategist Pete Snyder made a reference to taking her "behind the barn!"

Sweet limping Jesus!

Perhaps I should reiterate. These are examples of PAID PROFESSIONALS engaging in sexism that seems to not only be tolerated by my fellow Americans, but perhaps even supported.

So, I return now to the original focus of my feminist ire.

To the Diggers I quoted above: Y'all need to stop. Right effing now.
Be pissed that Clinton lies and panders to the voters. That is legit.
That anger makes you an American. The only reason we have a country is because we got tired of lies and bullshit.

Don't talk about jerking off to her tearful concession speech.

That makes you a dick.

God Bless America.

Do you have a pamphlet on that?

Oh look, light.

Today I am recovering from a migraine headache. I don't have them often and I don't handle them well. In addition to the face-melting pain, I can't deal with light, or high pitched noises, my eyes can't focus, and I usually am in a really FOUL mood until the whole thing is over. Oh, and I throw up. A lot. The good thing is that, today, I can open my eyes, focus, and speak in full sentences. The pain and the foul mood are still very much intact. Wheee!
The only reason I am back among the living is because the Gipester took me to see a chiropractor yesterday. She was fantastic, more therapist, really, than medical doc. She scolded me soundly for the huge knots of muscle in my neck and shoulders. "I get the feeling you're not loving yourself the way you should," she said as she tried valiantly to get me to relax. Since I was face down on her scary-looking chiropractic table I couldn't really see what she was doing... There was tapping and an industrial strength massager that sounded a little bit like a belt sander.

Anyway, when she gave me the bit about "loving myself," I really wanted to open my mouth and make a joke about how long it had been since I'd owned a decent vibrator, but I didn't really get the chance. I opened my mouth to make my stupid joke, and I started crying. Not three-year-old-choking-on-your-own-snot crying, just crying. I will be forever grateful that she didn't mention it, or even ask me what was wrong. Which is good. If she had asked me, I don't know that I'd even be able to tell her.

I didn't cry for long. I don't anymore. A minute or two at a time is really all I can sustain. In some warped way, I think I'm trying not to inconvenience those around me. I cry enough to make whatever issue I'm dealing with just small enough to shove back in its file drawer. I wonder where the migraines come from...

I would never pretend that the way I deal with stress is healthy. It's actually pretty insane. I keep my minor irritations and tiny hurt feelings locked up because I don't think they are valid. I don't think they are valid, because if they were, the person who is currently hurting or irritating me wouldn't be hurting or irritating me. But they are, so hurting me must be the right course of action, therefore, I have no right to complain or be upset. When I complain about hurt feelings, I am irritating to others and that must be avoided or no one will ever love me and I will die alone. That about covers it.

Whew.

I realize that there are myriad things wrong with this line of thinking. You have to realize that this is me at my most irrational. These are the thoughts that are birthed directly from the id, before the ego and the superego have their chance to talk some sense into them. Assuming people know that they are being irritating or hurtful is ridiculous, especially if you choose not to engage them in conversation about the situation. But our gut reactions, the ones untempered by logic and reason, tend to guide much of what we do, so I thought mine deserved a little stage time.

So, the doc was right, I have a little bit of a self-love issue (who doesn't?) But here's the thing about all of this "loving myself" bullshit. It's one of those things that people will tell you to do, but they never really tell you HOW. They tell you to spend money on self-help books, CD recordings of Wiccans chanting in the rainforest, organic diet granola, mineral spa treatments and other useless shit, but isn't the lesson there that money equals love? I have to buy myself tantric yoga classes so that my self will love me? How dysfunctional is that?

So, my goal for the next month or so is to make a conscious effort to love myself in a healthy way. I will express my hurts, frustrations, joys, and excitements. To not do so is as unfair to the people I love and who love me as it is to myself. I will express opinions that I have thus far held back for fear of expressing something as silly as the wrong movie or restaurant preference. I will stop feeling embarrassment about being divorced and almost 30.

And maybe I'll take a tantric yoga class.

Havin' trouble sleepin'

When I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the blades on the ceiling fan (one...two...three...four...five. Yup, still five. Same as last night), listening to the BF snore, and watching the clock as the night closes in around me, that's when I do all my deep thinking. Stuff like:
"Oh shit, I never took that orange out of my briefcase. It's been there for almost a month. Ewww. Take care of that tomorrow."

"Hmmm. I wonder if I should cook chicken tomorrow night? I'll have time to marinate it between work and my job interview, but I don't want to cook before I GO to the interview because I will 1. get chicken goo all over my interview clothes and 2. I don't want my stomach to make those weird Jabba-the-Hut digestive sounds while I sit in my interview."

"I wonder what happened to Michael? Actually, no. I don't really."

"How many calories are in a grape?"

"Argh. I left the sheets in the dryer. Fold those tomorrow."

"Will the fact that Hillary Clinton has done such a bad job running her campaign make it harder for qualified women to run for president in the future? Do Hillary's flaws undermine the feminist movement's desire for equality between the sexes by proving misogynistic toads correct about the inability of women to be organized, strong leaders? Or is she simply proving that male and female politicians can be dissembling bastards in equal measure, thereby bolstering the equality argument?"

"I love berry Lucky Charms. Love them. I could probably eat a whole box, a fistful at a time without thinking about it. Picking all of the marshmallows out and eating them in ROYGBIV order, of course."

"I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD?" (Ha! I crack myself up.)

Anyway. I really do think all of this stuff. I think of these random products of my feeble brain as a fence that keeps the wolves at bay. I can hear them. In the dark, crying out with the voices I love the most. My mother, my father, my little brother, all cry to me of tragedies that might not ever come to pass. But might, all at the same time. They cry out with the voices of those who never loved me, and who number my sins and fears in perfect rhythm.

The wolves will howl, chickens. But they're quiet for now. So, I will return to my bed, curl up against the man I love, count the ceiling fan blades, and wait for the sun.

An open letter...

to the incredibly obnoxious woman who sat next to us at the movie last night,

You are a horrible person. Not like Hitler or Stalin awful. More like Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Paradise Hotel 2, awful.
I know I shouldn't judge. I should be a good progressive and try to figure out where you're coming from. There has to be a reason that a woman of your...impressive girth... looks at a pair of lycra leggings in Target and says, "Hell yes, I have to get a pair of those!"
Perhaps those leggings (which I'm pretty sure I heard weeping from the strain) cut off a huge part of the blood flow to your brain. Perhaps the part of your brain that is responsible for making good parenting decisions simply shut down to allow you to do things like walk, talk, feed yourself, and not soil yourself in mixed company.
Making fun of you is almost like making fun of the stupidest puppy in the litter. You know it's wrong to laugh, but there's something about the way the stupid little puppy periodically falls over on its side and seizes that is terribly, terribly giggle-worthy.
Seriously, though. What in the name of all that is holy (what is it that you worship, anyway, NASCAR perhaps? Nachos?) made you think that an R-rated horror movie was a good place for your two children? How old was the biggest one? Three? Maybe? Jesus wept, woman. Was Horton Hears a Who sold out, or are you just that goddamned selfish?
I have never believed that it does children any good to shield them from the pain and disappointment that comes from living in the everyday world. When a kid's goldfish dies, don't run out and buy a new fish, just to shield that child from pain. But really. What child needs to watch a woman cutting a flesh-eating vine out of her body and then, in a psychotic fit, stab her boyfriend in the chest? Fuck, woman! I had nightmares and I've seen damn near every slasher movie ever made.
Here's what I don't get. There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, actually, when I would have given anything. ANYTHING. to have a child of my own. Every day without a baby in my arms was an open wound on my heart. I couldn't watch movies with babies in them without crying. I would hold my infant niece in my arms, close my eyes and pretend with my whole soul that she was mine.
Apparently, it was a phase. A phase brought on by the intense loneliness caused by a bad relationship. You can throw whatever psychoanalytic bullshit at that you want. Still, the memory of that feeling is as fresh as if it were yesterday.
You have that. Two, really beautiful, little children. Be aware. Love them. And stop being a fucking idiot.
And don't talk during the movie. It pisses me off.

Aw, hell...

Very few of us are lucky enough to have the biggest mistakes
of our lives captured on film. The best part about this is that my
parents actually paid to have this picture (and several hundred
others) taken. Actually, that's kinda sad isn't it?
The point of today's entry, my little chickens, is not really my first (and at this point only) marriage. The point is that I have dealt with my divorce in a less than healthy way, and I have the wonderful, loving, and brilliant Gipester to thank for this realization. Damn him.
I have talked to him a great deal about his divorce and his relationship with his ex. The hardest thing for me to deal with was that he got stuck with a divorce he didn't want and that he *sigh* loved this woman very much. She's still in our (his) circle of friends and is impossible to avoid altogether. Anyway, this has been a source of discomfort for months and only today have I really figured out why. Okay, so there's not just ONE reason why, but there's only one I'm going to concentrate on today.
I never really mourned my marriage. Ever. I went from denial to anger and just... well... stayed there.
I never mourned the fact that I lost damn near my whole social network because we spent so much time with his family. My sisters-in-law were my friends, but when it came time to circle the wagons, guess who was left to fend for herself. That hurt, but it was so much easier to say some variation of, "Yeah, well, fuck off, I never liked you anyway," than to let it show.
Not one of them called me after we split. Not one. Of course, to be fair, I didn't call them either. So, because I've never said it before, and because I think it's important, I miss my sisters-in-law. All of them. I miss my nieces and nephew. All of them.
I miss my little house. I picked the carpet and all the paint colors. I painted my office the exact color I wanted. I cooked in the kitchen and pulled weeds in the garden. I was surrounded by my things. Now the Greeley ARC looks more like my home than my home actually does.
I miss my dog. When I made the choice to move in with G I had to give him up. My parents were willing to take him, so he's still in the family, but he was my dog. Now he's not.
I grieve the loss of these things, finally.
But I do not grieve the loss of the man that went with all of these things. We were bad to each other, again, and again, and again. We left spectacular scars on each other's lives and I weep for that fact.
Without mourning, we can never move on. And now I have a new life worth moving on for. So. This isn't the end of it. There's still a lot that needs to be drained from the wound (eww) but here is the beginning. I feel much better now.