life on a tuesday

I decided to go back to weight watchers. Actually I've been thinking about it for a while. I just can't do this on my own and am tired of being the fattest girl I know. So I had a work-from-home day today & I just went. The leader was nice and the reminders are great. I plan to go to as many meetings as I need to stay on track. I know the whole diet industry is anti-feminist and the psychobabble about not meeting societal expectations is patriarchal control, but I hate the way I look, and that is mine. I hate being so out of control and that is mine. I hate feeling this way and that, too, is mine. I am trying to do something for me, so this is one step. The other is calling a therapist. I've fallen into a hole of indecision and blackness and really want out!!!

I used to be the fun girl. The one everyone called to go out and laugh with. I used to be happy & funny and witty. I always thought that when I died they'd say, "Well she really knew how to live." I've lost that. I know she existed cuz I've checked with people who have known me for many years. They concur. No one says I'm a drag now, filled with negativity, sarcasm and cynicism, anger and bleakness. No one confronts my obvious lack of enthusiasm for this life. No one calls me on my shit. I call bullshit. I call bleakness. I call negativity. And I banish them. Go away now, be gone with you. I'm ready to live again.

Home is a 4 letter word.

I'm not hungry. I don't want to eat everything in reach. In spite of my irritation with GB I don't feel like stuffing my face. His locking the door so I get locked out is, in my opinion, his way of convincing me to put a spare key somewhere so his irresponsible key losing is less of an inconvenience for him. Talk about passive aggressive. I really just don't want to live with him anymore. I find his habits & habitual forgetting to be a royal pain in the ass, creating more work and forcing me to expend unnecessary energy. The dog barking at 2am cuz he forgot to put her out. Annoying, energy consuming by the sleep deprivation. Is that it, is he on a mission to torture me- sleep deprivation, constantly doing the opposite of what I ask, ignoring my pleas for change, disregarding my opinions, losing shit all the time? It's working. I confess- I HATE LIVING WITH HIM!!!! And I'm starting to hate him.

Tuesday vent

Here's how my morning went. Arise slightly late- damn! Must get to the office so that I can return colleague's key. Rush to get ready, rush to office. Get in. Wait. Return key. Kill a bit more time and start to leave for endodontist to finish the 2-tooth root canal that was started 3 weeks ago after dentist managed to make tooth prep for a bridge into a $5000 endeavor. Run to bathroom. Tampon has leaked. Damn, only 1 pad & it's now bloody. Oh well. Get in car. Drive to endontist. Hit bathroom. Pad is soaked at front end, but back is clear. Make executive decision to turn around, knowing it will be squishy on my ass but better that than soak through & bleed all over his goddamned chair. Change tampon. Wait in lobby. Get seated in chair. Leave to change tampon again as it's blown out. Two shots of novacaine & I've blown through another tampon. Change tampon again. Wipe toilet seat as ass is now bloody. Get one tooth drilled, cleared, whatever it is the endo dude does. Change tampon again. Leave. I fucking hate dentists and my period.

The Anatomical Lie

I'm in mourning. I'm greiving over the loss of trust, love, faith, lust, joy. the loss of a relationship, that, while pretty bumpy, seemed to be on the upswing. I'm sure he lied to spare me. Doesn't everyone? No one ever lies to make themselves look better, or to avoid an uncomfortable situation that they simply don't want to deal with. Liars tell lies because it's good for the the person they are lying to. They are doing us a favor. They are protecting us. From our own inability to deal with the truth. The truth might make us angry or sad or righteous. And we wouldn't want to inspire any sort of negative emotion, for after all, the liars love us.

And the little, caught lies are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. So that makes me sadder still. That even when I felt the trust, faith, love, lust and joy these feelings were all a result of the propogation of lies that I chose to ignore. And maybe it wasn't all lies, but maybe it was a little bit of truth sprinkeld with half-truths, or semblances of reality, or omissions of detail, whatever the current catchphrase for it is today.

I'm sure it was all my fault since I am so prone to fits of rage and raw emotion. That I offer my opinion, no matter how dissenting, no matter how annoying, no matter who might not like what I have to say. I say what I see and sometimes, most of the time these days, it's ugly. My rage wells up in me like a boil, about to burst forth, straining at the skin. And when I can't restrain myself any longer I explode and spew venomous bile and it's a scary sight to behold. And even then I am holding back just a bit, for if I were to let it all go, would I be able to return from the abyss that carries my anger?

His insistance that he loves me feels abusive. My emotional and physical whithdrawal feels abusive. All that I didn't want to teach my daughter is happening. How did I manage to get myself into the very situation I hoped so desperately to avoid? My daughter is going to grow up not knowing that 2 adults can love, like, lust after one another. She will think that they are adversaries instead of teammates, that there is always an underlying tension when they are in the same room, the same house, the same state. That there is no hope. Sad, very sad.

Down with Makeup

I've been reading a lot of feminist blogs and one this morning caught my eye from a blogger who is forgoing makeup. I have spurned makeup, treatments, beauty regimens and the general idea that I am a walking mannequin for the fashion/beauty industries for at least a decade, possibly longer. I wear what feels comfortable, brush my hair and teeth at least once a day and don't use makeup at all. Part of it is that I am really quite lazy when it comes to my own personal care. I love to be clean, shower daily, sometimes twice a day, but rarely shave my legs or armpits. I mean, why should I have to, men don't?? And the makeup, or lack thereof- why do I care? I don't have to look at myself and I don't spend much time before the mirror. If my looks cause pain, then look away. Plus as a fairly frugal person the stuff is frigging expensive!!

Last year a friend of mine started selling Mary Kay and asked if she could have a party at my home. I had participated in these in my early 20s, always bought shit I didn't really like or need, because they were my friends, but I'm 44 now and have had enough. I said it was fine, I'd be happy to host, but I wasn't going to buy anything, so don't ask. She said, "Oh no they have lovely stuff for your skin and hair." To which I replied, Please don't be offended by what I'm about to say, but I don't believe in makeup or beauty treatments. I think they are silly and unnecessary. I find their existence and perpetuation to be repugnant and offensive to my feminism. If you want to spend ridiculous sums of money on stuff you don't need, feel free, but do not ask me again to purchase said stuff. I won't. And the discussion was dropped.

My sister, who always looks beautiful, classy and well-put together (I've always said she could wear a potato sack & look glamorous) does buy this shit. And whether it's the hugely expensive snake oils or just natural & a really lucky genetic disposition, I'll never know, but she looks great, all the time. She has also had some treatments, botox, laser something or other, and convinced me to go for a consult. The woman at the spa counseled me that I'd have to stick to a really strict daily regimen of cleansing, moisturizing, sunscreening, avoiding the sun, etc. I said, No, that is not how I operate. I wash my face with water in the shower and never put on sunscreen. I refuse to spend an hour in the bathroom to cleanse, tone, demist, mist, etc. Can we work on some of the wrinkles without all of that insanity? What are my other options? She said perhaps I should see a surgeon. HA!!

Oz

As always when I was in this shower this morning I had a ton of ideas of what I wanted to write about, then I get on the road, am annoyed at the assholes who insist on tailgating, jumping lines and generally being inconsiderate narcissists, and everything had flown right out of my head.

Lat night I was in the middle of a dream about climbing a mountain when the alarm went off. It was midnight. My partner needed to get up this morning and, since he's a guy and changing the alarm time doesn't require a penis he somehow gets it wrong EVERY time; this time was no exception. So I was taken out of this dream, where I am sure my brain was going to try and repair itself.

The dream comes about, I think, because I've recently discovered Facebook. And I've made contact with people I've not seen or talked to in almost 30 years. When I was about 11 years old (33 years ago) I was hanging out with a much older crowd of teenagers. There was one girl in this group, the younger sister of my boyfriend, who I think was 10. Physically I was a developed teenager & I looked about 14 or 15, but the younger girl was tiny & undeveloped, like a typical 10 year old. It was upstate NY so there were lots of place to hide - in the woods, up a mountain, along a river or lake. This group of about 8 kids ascends a mountain to get drunk & stoned and make out. The little sister of my boyfriend gets alcohol poisoning and ends up in the hospital. The sheriff pays a visit to my house to get me to tell who bought the alcohol & who supplied the pot. Yesterday I made contact via Facebook with the guy who supplied it all to us.

I can't remember if I ever told the sheriffwho it was and I'm unsure if the incident where my mother beat me with a billy club was related or a separate incident. I think, as a result of my noncooperation, my mother raided my room and found my pot stash. She wanted to know where I got it, I refused to tell and then the billy club came out. As she was beating me and screaming at me I simply went away. It was like my brain and body parted ways for a little while so I could endure the beating. My father walked in and when my brain saw the look on his face everything came back into focus and I got the hell out and locked myself in the bathroom. My mother threw both me and my father out of the house that summer.

After I got back to sleep last night I dreamed about tornadoes in California and there was one bearing down upon us but since we don't have basements, there was no place to hide. It was terrifying and I woke back up at 3:30 with my heart racing.

Connecting all of this, when I lived in MN we had tornado warnings all the time, it seemed. I was the only one who took them seriously and when the sirens sounded I grabbed a wineglass, a corkscrew and my cat and would head to the basement for a little comforting vino and shelter. Everyone else was on the back deck looking for the funnel cloud. Since I now haven't had wine for 3 days, I wonder if my brain is asking for the tornado so I can have the wine. Or perhaps it was triggered by the power outage (I really wanted a glass of wine last night during the power outage, but didn't cave to the temptation). Or maybe my life is like that tornado, bearing down upon me with no place to hide and the wine has been my comfort, the thing that helps me forget, just for a little while, all that was.

Bar tabs

I've decided to give up my wine for the month of March. Sort of a lenten sacrifice, although, being an athiest, it sounds like a poor excuse. Lately it's been every day of 1/2 to 1 bottle of wine. And I really don't need the extra empty calories. I am haunted, too, by the memory of my father who used to pass out sitting at the kitchen table nearly every night after consuming what I think was scotch. Later in life it was wine. But there was always something. He gave it up, cold turkey, in the late 1980s. He also quit smoking and lost 100 lbs that year. It was quite an accomplishment. In 2002, relatively early into his Parkinson's/Lewy Body Disease, while he still had the capacity for speech, albeit with some truly mixed up word choices, he said to me, "Michele, you & I have the same," and he struggled to find the words but came up with , "bar tab." It's true. We do. We both consumed to excess, almost everything in life. We don't have a "stop" signal and so go on way past the time when others would cry "whoa."

I have an acute sense of smell and can recall the smoky smell of my parents' breath. It was the 70s and everyone smoked and drank all the time it seemed. One of my first boyfriends smoked. He was 16 or 17 and I was maybe 10 or 11. I loved the taste of cigarettes as we kissed. I craved the warm smell of smoke in his clothing as we feversihly made out and dry humped like dogs in heat. My next boyfriend didn't smoke, but by then I did. His clothes had the fresh scent of laundry soap and I longed to bury my face in his body to extract that clean smell. I worry now, that each night, as I tuck my daughter into bed that she smells the wine on my breath as I kiss her soft cheek, and that she will seek that smell in a lover. It's a dangerous smell to be sure, particularly when you have this family's bar tab.