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November 2, 2012


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?”

Can someone help me undo my pants? I have to pee.

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.

Holy Lord.

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.

Don’t tell me that you aspire to look like Mamie Eisenhower.

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::
Me: ….
Paul: It’s just that I don’t have any skivvie shirts.
Me: (blink)

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.

About November 2012

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in November 2012. They are listed from oldest to newest.

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