I was rooting around in the little notes section of my Outlook files and I keep running across notes that I saved. Most of them are pitiful. Just dated little notes with reminders to myself about how I was feeling, what words hurt me… what actions another person took, things that were said that lead up to a fight. Many notes that I took to remind myself that, “No, hooker, you are NOT crazy. That was said. YES, that was said. It made you feel like shit because it was your husband saying such nonsense.”
The healthy part of my brain is all, “Girl, delete that bullshit.” And the crazy side (after I rein it in from riding an oil jack under a full moon) is all, “Keep it. You have a novel hiding in that mess. I can FEEL IT.”
Potato, po-tah-to. Whatever. It’s not hurting much.
I also ran across this..
“Dream 3/23/07 On the run with a man and a boy in a truck, a woman flags us down and says, "kill the boy now, spare his life!". I replied, "no, he's coming with us...". "Then give me his pajamas, I will give you a diagram for when the time comes.". She took the pajamas and drew a diagram where we could cut his femoral arteries if we needed to kill him quickly with little pain. I took the pajamas with their sketches of death back from her and ran back to the truck, Cully Wilson, at the wheel, gave me a tight smile and said, "let's find a place to rest for the night.". I got back into the cab and hugged the boy close to my side. He wasn't mine, nor was he Cully's. He was just another one of the lost that the (bad people - come up with name) were looking for. Souls of the youths. We stopped at an apartment complex where some of the (enlightened?) Were torturing a woman who had been uppity before the pulse hit. She was doing everything that the enlightened said, it was in her program now. Two or three of them would bark orders and she would race to finish the tasks delegated to her all at once, running a frantic pace, while the crowd roared. I the apartment, the boy was never far from my side... I knew we had a battle coming, and I didn't know how to fight but instinctually I knew I had the powers to defeat the ones calling themselves the fire-ies. (Bathroom scene with purse and contents spilled into the open bowl... On purpose, by Paul who I hit in the chest with the back of my right hand - ) (visitor, she is an elder and there to help us - I know better and safeguard the room before she enters, she wraps up then unveils to show her true form and I battle her) (Cully would never let me light my own smokes... Known him since I was 17). (Horses penned in an enormous - horizontally long- pen (enclosure) tiny ponies with wings... These are the fire-ies). (Director with gauze type shirt, very tan, hot pink bikini - very inappropriate - got her belly button pierced and had hot pink lip-gloss on the front hem of her shirt)”
Quick, someone make a movie of this shit, fast. I wanna see it. Damn that inappropriate director and her gauze shirt!
So, kittens, it has been a while since I posted last and many things happened in the interim.
We had the Kerr Krew weekend that was lovely. We spent hours outside at night huddled around a blazing fire pit because it was freaking cold. And then in the day we lounged around by the pool in our shorts and tank tops getting sunburned. Ah, Texas, I love you.
We also had a weird situation occur on Saturday. We all checked in via Facebook so people could ogle the gorgeous landscapes and ferment in their jealousy of our combined awesomeness. Kerry was the boss of my phone (hers died) as she was closing a deal that day and her charger had been left in Dallas. She alerted me to the fact that my phone was blowing up. I checked the phone and I had like 7 (not kidding) missed texts and three phone calls from a lady I know (gonna call her R). On FB she had messaged me and commented on all of the photos I was tagged in.
The last text was along the lines of, “Girl! You are in my neck of the woods! You best holler back!” And then she… um, she just showed up.
A person, who was not invited, was in no way part of the group or the weekend showed up and crashed the FUCK out of our get together. R showed up before we went to the dock. We were at the dock for a good two hours before sunset and then she stayed after dark.
I don’t know about y’all but my momma would have DIED. She raised me better. Sure it was nice to see R, but damn girl, where are your manners? Marly is so well bred that she made sure that R was fed dinner and had everything she needed while she was at the cabin.
Speaking of manners, I totally missed my blogs’ birthday… Happy Birthday old chum, you’re freaking ten.
Ten, a whole decade of basically throwing words at the ether to see what sticks. Kind of cool, huh?
After the Kerr Krew weekend I had like two days to get my ass in gear and then head to Green Bay for Weetacon. American Airlines and it’s frivolity was jacking around in Chicago with their thumb up their respective ass and ended up dry fucking my travel plans in the most rude manner.
A phone call from them the night before I left was like, “um, yeah, we cancelled your shit… hold for an operator to find a connecting flight… um… PHYSCHE! *click*” So, I called back and was on hold for FIFTY EIGHT GODDAMN minutes. And had a lady say, “Oh you are a miles traveler.” with the same disdain a nun would intone, “Oh, you have syphilis.”
The best she could do was to drop me somewhere in a frozen tundra 2+ hours from my destination … eight hours after my scheduled arrival. My darling, fredlet, was like, “Darling, please, discontinue with that foolishness and just travel Southwest, you can ride with me from Milwaukee.” And so with a double finger salute to AA, I cancelled all of my previous plans (THAT I HAD FOR OVER A YEAR) and made some nice neat, quick ones with Southwest. Hi, Southwest Airlines, I love you. Call me?
Weetacon was lovely. I’m not ready to share. We’ll discuss it later.
Other things I would like to discuss later:
1) I* had to delete the comments section because, holy shit, I was deleting over 260 comments about three times a day.
2) I want to put down in writing how I am mentally handling this … um, relationship I am in.
3) I want to show y’all what I look like when I experience an allergic reaction. (Spoiler Alert: Walter Matthau.)
* fredlet disabled the comments, y’all know I can’t drive this bus.
Walk with me for a minute. Mmmm that’s the stuff. I like to wander when it’s nice and windy with a hint of chill in the air.
Just so you can be aware of my headspace today… I slept for more than three hours. I have had coffee and I am currently playing a game with myself that I like to call, “Oh fucking hell, where the shit is my goddamn W2?!”
I’m excited because it is that time of the year again. No, not that time. Nope, not that one either. And yes, it is that time but I don’t wanna talk about my travel schedule because then I get all stabby when I run across that damn ad in SkyMall where that “BEFORE” lady looks all disheveled and shit because she’s like a snail* trying to carry it all… AND talk on a motherfucking phone!
(Fear Not! Train Reaction Will Save YOU!)
*house on her back… follow along, people!
It is the time of the year when I get to travel with my girls. AND… Weetacon is around the corner! WOOOOOO!
My girls and I get to go to a gorgeous place off of Lake LBJ, here in Texas. This is the Kerr Krew trip. Yes, y’all have heard many stories about the Krew. And if you want more, use that little searchy thing up on the top right hand corner and search away. But to help the lazy ones in the bunch (you’re welcome, babies) I have mentioned them in several places, but the entry that people gravitate towards… (Lord, I wish I could find the pictures)… is This One Right Here (Clickity).
We get together for birthdays and Christmas dinner and we do this special thing once a year. We all go “camping” for the weekend. And by “camping” I mean, we don’t stay at a Starwood Property. We stay in this bangin cabin on the lake and have sunset happy hours and play games and gossip. Lovely.
I woke myself up this morning.
I was mid dream, and I was dreaming of some very inappropriate stuff. I was just about to get down to business with this guy I have known forever. Totally married dude. Not appropriate in any way. Regardless it was hot. Until this little exchange.
Dude: Hmmm, bare. Do you shave?
Me: No, my pussy had cancer.**
**Sorry Jane, I love you.
Weetacon is coming up in a week…. A FUCKING WEEK, y’all! I haven’t found a sheet for our toga party. I haven’t even thought of packing. And the snow is going to be so glorious this year! The sleigh ride will be amazeballs.
To get myself in the spirit of Weetacon, I routinely refer to the little nugget of awesome below.
I give you Dave from Weetacon 2011. That’s me horking laughter at the end.
Growing up in Georgia was glorious. The air was humid, the breeze was constant and the sun shimmered like a mirage. It was like being in a large green house. I was surrounded by plush beauties that could only smile like Georgia peaches do. Soft, melodious voices rounded by the unhurried Deep South coddled my ears and feather light touches graced my cheeks as friends and relatives greeted one another.
We grew up healthy and happy; strong and vibrant, yet gentle.
Love and food were bountiful. Grace was given to God often and with great respect. Religion was joyful and beautiful. Songs raised on gorgeous voices in church and in the kitchen, in the yard and in the car. I was loved. I was raised with the knowledge that I was loved, I was cherished. And God loved and cherished us above the reverent love our family members held for one another. I was shown grace and joy. It was easy to be one of God’s little Christian soldiers when the only hardship I had ever known was losing #1 my first boyfriend (Charlie a 67 year old usher at our church, which I loved dearly) or #2 my puppy Biscuit.
I was taught love, respect, responsibility, hard work, honor, humility and in some instances pride. My family found teaching moments in everyday items; lessons of love, loss and humbleness. I was taught to share, to offer and to give.
I was given an amazing childhood.
I was given freedom and struggled to learn time management. The rod was not spared for my sister and I and I am sure we turned out better for it. I was shown how to survive in the woods, how to grow my own food and to respect hunting. I was always asked to meet my potential; sadly, I didn’t always rise to the occasion.
I was allowed to be a child.
We had a huge group of children in our neighborhood. The pack ran within the limits of the houses with the best toys, the rope swings, the pools and the parents who loved having kids in their homes. All of the parents had free reign to adjust a child’s attitude if that was needed, and thankfully, not many parents had to employ disciplining any child other than their own.
We were good kids. We may have been rambunctious, we may have been loud. But the loudness was laughter and stories and singing, not yelling and fighting and hitting. We looked after our own. We were diverse in cultures as we were in religion, planting seeds to explore other theologies as we grew older.
It was a good time, we played hard and we broke bones. We were late for dance class and we got spanked. We roller skated all over the neighborhood and won swim meets with our neighborhood team. We were safe. We could be out until the street lights came on or until you heard your mother calling you home.
It was a simple time that was steeped in friends, family, extended family, God’s love and the gentle heat and humidity of Georgia.
Sometimes… I just want to go home.
Yesterday morning I was texting with Big Papa. We were talking about various and sundry things when I noticed that my texting was just to the right side of absolutely terrible. My spelling was jacked and auto correct wasn’t helping at all.
I kept texting, hitting send, then resending one or more words I had jacked up.
He said, “Hard time texting today?” I replied, “Yes, … (blah blah blah reasons) and I got all my nails cut off on Monday, my fingers feel weird.” He asked me, “Why do you cut them off? [Nugget] not like long nails?”
Totally innocent question, right?
I replied, “He’s good with nails, I don’t like them.”
Then? To be completely honest, I flew off the motherfucking handle.
I was nice about it… but somehow him asking me if I cut my nails for a man was almost like shaking ice in an empty glass at me and expecting me to refill your tea. (Feel me Trix?) Because, you’re arms are broken? You have some disability that prevents you from getting your own goddamn tea?
Sorry, if I keep going in this vein, this will be an incoherent yet violently bitter rant.
Maybe later. I have a point to make here. Sort of.
Maybe I was thinking that I have known Big Papa since I was twenty-six years old. He should know better, because I am a strong and independent woman. I make my own rules; I don’t NEED anyone and FUCK YOU, NOBODY PUTS BABY IN A CORNER!
Then I flashed onto the thought that I totally have done stuff for men my whole life. I have worn my hair a certain way, a certain color, I have done my make up their “favorite way”, I have worn their favorite outfit. I have totally worn my nails a certain color or length for a man.
Then I punched myself in the vagina… the end.
I got all self righteous about something that I have been SO guilty of in days of yore. And don’t put it past me, I may do it again. I am a pleaser. IT’s what I do. But apparently I will resent the fuck out of the man for it. It doesn’t even make sense.
I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma, but not in a good way. More along the lines of, “Holy shit lady, you make me SO TIRED.” Kind of way.
So, babies. Help me out here. How can I strike a nice comfortable medium with liking to do special shit for special people, and keeping a rod in my back?
I mean, I don’t want to be a total hard ass. You like a French manicure? Well, FUCK THAT SHIT, I am never wearing a French manicure EVER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But I don’t wanna lay down my scruples just because some asshole who is good at laying pipe doesn’t like bangs and prefers acid wash vests.
I mean, there is something to be said for the issue I had with Paul. I used to handle the laundry when we were married. It was something I did. I would have a busy time of the year when I was in 3 cities over 9 days with 1500 attendees for a conference with 48 speakers and 25 committee members. It was kind of a brain suck. I would get home and the following would take place. And please, excuse my slurs and language.
Paul: (in a total grumpy mood) What’s for dinner?
Me: (spaced out but recovering from long week) Not sure, let me look at it… hey, what’s wrong?
Paul: ::deep brath::
Paul: It’s just that I don’t have any skivvie shirts.
In my head I was always screaming, “(N-word) are your legs broken!? DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO USE THE WASHER? I have been gone for nine days… NINE… and I did all the laundry before I left!”
I contributed to why he expected that shit from me. Well, partly. I wanted him to feel cherished and loved and taken care of. Until he was a douchebag (for years) and then? I didn’t. So, sure I can see where he would be all, “Eeeeghn, laundry, HARD!” But, fuck. He was completely capable previously. I don’t think I broke him. I just think he was…. Lazy. So there’s that.
Help a sister out. Drop some wisdom on me y’all.
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