Friday, February 26, 2010


I am sitting on the kitchen counter and you stand between my knees. Talk to me you say but I stare over your shoulder. My eyes skip from the worn spot on the cabinet where my hand has opened it a thousand times to the wonky headed black construction paper cat with the yellowed scotch tape tacking it to the door of the cabinet adjacent to it. You get angry because I am ignoring you, but really it's just that I do not want to look at you for fear that I will begin to shout and not be able to stop. There is power in self control that I dare not let slip.

The phone rings and Charley tells me something that doesn't matter and then scolds me for having gotten out of the car the night before to pump the gas as you sat in the drivers seat, ungallant.

How many times have I done that? How many times have I balanced a dozen bags and unlocked front door to bring in the groceries as you sit on the sofa and don't acknowledge me? How many times have I folded the laundry while you complain that I am rolling the socks incorrectly? How many times have I rushed home to do your bidding and how many more times have I called someone other than you when things go pear shaped, because you can not be bothered with me?

This is what I want to say; You don't see me. I know you won't hear me either and so I let my eyes focus on the dust that swirls in the breeze of the fan and say Nothing is wrong even though we both know it's a lie.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


You are shouting in the next room. I can hear you rage, everything that comes from your mouth horrible and meant to hurt. I am beyond tears and still they flow, dropping furiously onto my shirt.

Handfuls at a time I stuff what I grab into a bag. This is mine, this is mine, this is mine. I stuff clothes that don't fit and single shoes on top of damp towels and lid-less hairspray. Bits of jewelry, hopelessly tangled, balled into socks and crammed into jacket pockets fight for space with the cord to the lap top and the birthday card my grandmother sent.

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine; I chant as I cram what is left of my life into a bag meant for trash.

The bedroom door doesn't sit right in the jam and I am lying on rumpled sheets, the scattered contents of my closet half unpacked and piled on the floor in haphazard ruins of a fight surrendered hours later as you sleep peacefully beside me.

Inside my heart the naked thing that guards my soul from you whispers this is still mine.


We are lying on our backs. There are a million stars around us and the river whispers from just over the crest of the hill as it rushes away to join the Snake just beyond the mountains. Behind us, the car door is open and the scratchy radio buzzes country songs from the 50's.

You roll to your side, head propped on your hand and look at me as I look away. There's Orion, I say; but you don't look.

There is a bottle of cheap wine that will give me a headache tipped over and seeping it's last pink drops onto the corner of the moth eaten wool blanket.

A breeze ripples the edge of my skirt. I hear you sigh and I know you are sighing because I am already gone. Whipped away on the breeze like dandelion fluff, I spiral unable to control my rise, unable to prevent my fall.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Je Regrette Pas

Of the things I should not have done
Of the things I should not have said
Of the things I should not have felt

You are not one

If I could have been other than I am
If I could have known you other than you are
If I could have altered the path time took

What apology would have been needed?

There is no season for lament
There is no occasion for penitence
There is no latitude for despondence

Love does not regret the price it has paid
Love does not regret the tears it has shed
Love does not regret the hours it has waited

I do not regret you

(originally posted Tuesday, August 26, 2008)

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Marco Polo

(Originally posted Wednesday, May 28, 2008)

We always danced around each other. I had a boyfriend and you liked me. You had a girlfriend and I lusted you from afar. You and she became "The Couple". He and I were "so cute". Finally, years go by and you are alone and so am I. The Boy plays in the next room singing a song about nothing while we get high in the living room and listen to Ella Fitzgerald.

You're leaned back against the mismatched pillows and I have my head in your lap, legs dangling over the arm rests. You pet my hair and pass me the joint. I miss the way she folded the towels you say at last. I tilt my head back, looking up to you. You blow smoke through your nose and stare at the ceiling. I have nothing to say to this but I know that you have told me something profoundly heart breaking. I should have had her show me how she got them all to be the same size; you say, I should have paid attention. You looked down at me then, eyes red and I understood what love was.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Mad Hatter

Want to see where I hang out all weekend? Check out this super cool site owned by a Richard Lowe Jr. Pretty awesome photo's.

Yes, I probably COULD get a bigger hat. Shut up.

Imaginary Friends

Look! My imaginary friends aren't ALL imaginary! That's KWR221, me and Kristin's daughter hanging at Dave&Busters.

Relatedly, waiters? Not photographers. Although, to be fair, I am not particularly photogenic, so I suppose I can't blame him. But I'm going to.

Also relatedly, Cherry Berry Mojito's are DELICIOUS. Like, really, really DELICIOUS.

Next up, stalking the Blogslur girls in August...I'll bring the prickly pear syrup and we'll hail cabs using our bras and then pass out on Lorrie's floor.

It's going to KICK ASS.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


I'm sure that very few of you will believe this, but I'm actually not at ALL out going in person. I am awkward and shy until I am comfortable. Which usually works out fine because I'm a total eaves-dropper and not talking allows me to listen much more effectively.

However, being shy? And working in what essentially amounts to a nine hour improvisational play in front of between ten and twenty thousand people a day?



Especially when any number of thousands of cameras are around. It's pretty much like being a Disney character, but with out the big foam head for protection.

Not to mention that I? Am Crazy. Therefore, I'm always at least half convinced that I'm the subject of a photo so that later, they can be like OH MY GOD! This lady was HOMELY! She's TOTALLY the troll from that bridge! (I sit at the end of a bridge most of the day)Yes, I know. I understand that's Crazy. But still. That's why it's The Crazy. Because you think things that don't make a whole lot of sense. Unless, they really ARE thinking that and then I'm not Crazy! I'm right! HA!

It should also be noted that as part of being Not Brave, random bits of flattery leave me...flabbergasted. Yesterday (which was a Really. Long. Day. at the end of a Really. Long. Week.) I was kissed; cheek or hand, by no fewer than twenty random people. Not other players either, which I've come to accept at least some what gracefully (though there are no doubt other opinions about this) but random patrons, both costumed and not. One? Might have been a woman, which, I can't lie, was a little MORE flattering even.

Speaking of women. OH MY GOD. I don't know how many times I have to say this but, Fat Girls? There are flattering clothing options out there, I promise. There is no reason to wander around with your under butt dangling from beneath your cut-too-short sweat shorts. There is NO REASON for you to allow underbelly either. Skinny bitches? You're not exempt here either. Frozen Iguana invented mirrors for a reason. That reason is so I don't see you and have to physically suppress the need to shout OH HONEY, NO. NO. NO. NO.

Because I have to shout other very important things like "If you wish to continue to the joust, you will find easier passage to the right! The Right! No, M'Lord YOUR RIGHT" seventeen thousand times in five hours.

I seriously can not fathom why people feel the need to stand in a line when they can step TEN FEET and pass freely. Is there some sort of sub conscious need to line up behind others? I wonder, if I were to stand in front of a closed door alone, would people line up behind me?

I smell a new Operation Obnoxious....

(PS. Finally met Long Time Commenter Eric's lovely NEW fiance!)
(PPS. Having drinks with KWR221 tonight! Woot!)
(PPPS. No, I'm not REALLY Crazy. I'm insecure. But Crazy sounds far more dangerous and therefore hotter)

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.

It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.

But this is my blog. And this is my side.

We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.


For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.

When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.

A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.

He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.

What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.

But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.

It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.

And also?

I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.

Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.

I told him that I am done.

But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?

HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.

But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?

What can I say?

There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.

Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.


How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.


Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The one where I whine

For the last four years, my husband has spent at least one day, usually two and sometimes more hunting.

For the last three years, he's also spent an entire week at hunting camp. Some years two.

For the last seven years, he's spent at least one evening a week competition shooting. At least one other night a week preparing supplies. Every few weeks he goes to a meeting about the club or a special event or something.

And I? Have encouraged every minute of it. I think it's good to have separate interests.

Apparently, he disagrees. Well, not exactly. He thinks it's FINE for him to have things to do that take up his evenings and weekends and don't involve me. But GOD FORBID I am not spending every waking moment attending to him.

For the last week or so, I've spent part of each evening getting ready for Faire to start. Either sewing or packing or mending or what have you. My sewing machine is in the dining room which is at one side of the the great room that includes the entry way and living room and leads to the kitchen. Basically, I'm in the middle of everything. Usually while I'm sewing I'm also doing laundry or making dinner and I'm always with an ear to what's going on in the living room, whether it be the program on TV or whatever he's talking about to whomever is there, interjecting my opinion about whatever it is (you know how I do). I've also made dinner every night, baked cookies, done laundry, cleaned the house and done the maintenance my car needed like topping off fluids and airing the tires. In short? I've been BUSY.

Then, as scheduled, as discussed for the LAST TWO MONTHS, Faire started and M and I were gone from Friday evening to Sunday night about nine.

Before I decided to commit to working seven days a week for two months, I asked him if he would mind. Not because I wanted permission, but because later, when he started to whine, I wanted to be able to rightly point out that he'd had his chance to object. He didn't. He said he thought it was a good idea and that I should go and have fun.

Only, apparently? He either didn't mean it, or didn't think I'd actually DO it. Because he's been a complete and utter ass about the entire thing.

The first thing he did when I got home Sunday, bubbling over with what a good time I had, the people I'd met, the things I'd done and seen (and OH MY GOD DO I WANT A ROBOT CAMERA EYE) including six separate Jack Sparrows on one day; he started complaining about how I'd ignored him.

Excuse me? What the fuck? For twelve years I've never ONCE said anything about the time he spends on his hobbies. The thousands of dollars we spend each year to support them. Well, that's not totally true. I do say things about it, but I don't complain. I encourage it. Because that's what you SHOULD do when someone finds something they enjoy, right?

Last night, exhausted from nine straight days and knowing that it was just going to get worse, I stopped at the grocery on the way home, made dinner (steak and gourmet mac & cheese with a ceasar salad), did the laundry, shampooed the carpet, worked on a few little costuming items that I'd agreed to make or repair and stripped and re-made the bed. All while engaging in a conversation from my corner of the room.

At 9:30, as I waited for the dryer to finish so I could toss in the final load? He starts complaining AGAIN.

What do I say to that? I'm sorry for ignoring you? Because a) I'm NOT ignoring him and b) even if I was, I wouldn't be sorry.

What is so terribly hard about being happy that I've found something I enjoy? Is it necessary to poke holes in my little happiness bubble? And if so why?

I know, I know. Complaining to you guys doesn't fix anything. It's not like I don't KNOW what needs to REALLY be done to ultimately stop the complaining.

I just don't understand why he can't be nice.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Man

It's not that I believe in ghosts so much as that I don't disbelieve. There are things, I think, that are inexplicable. Unless they can be explained by the presence of an energy that feels the need to hang around.

The house that my parents live in was built in the mid 1920's and was purchased by my great grandparents for a shockingly expensive $20 a month. To make ends meet Grandma Fred (yes, Fred) sold eggs and chickens and kept a garden. Back then, the suburb was an apple orchard and the trains ran through the valley on coal fueled steam. Great Grandpa raised fighting chickens (I know. But it *was* the 20's and they had a very different view) in the back yard and Gram was charged with feeding them. To this day, she won't touch chicken skin.

Grandma Fred lived in that house for about 60 of her 86 years and so it's really no surprise that from time to time the attic that had been her bedroom and then was mine would grow cold. No surprise either that when you were sick, you'd feel her sit down beside you and lay a hand on your head. It wasn't scary, it was just Grandma. It was her house and that's all there was to it.

So, too, when Grandpa Jimmy (Grams husband) passed did it make sense that he would return to his home to pass the time knocking around in the basement workroom or sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood go by.

It's just the way things were. Are.

When I was a very little girl, just slightly more than six, our little family took a road trip through the northwest in a red Volkswagon van. It had one of those pop-up roofs and a wee adorable kitchen. We camped in it at night, Mum and Dad on the folded down seat, myself tucked up underneath it and CK nestled in the stairwell (she was three).

Near the very end of our trip, as CK, Mum and I dozed, Dad drove us through a twisty mountain pass on a two lane road. Around a blind corner, a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck us head on, rolling the van into the side of the mountain. We were lucky, the other side was a cliff.

I remember nothing of this trip, save for the this.

When I woke up, dazed, the side of my face destroyed by gravel, my arm was trapped under the vehicle. I had no idea what had happened, just that I was stuck and I was scared. I recall pulling my arm from the window (I think I broke it myself doing that) and then looking around for someone; an adult, to tell me what to do.

The roof of the van had come off when we rolled and through where the top of the van should have been, I had a clear view of the side of the highway.

God, was I grateful to see The Man. The Man (because that's how I've always thought of him) was in his sixties, grey haired and bearded; dressed in Levi's, boots and a work shirt.

He called me by name and told me to take off my seat belt. I did and then I dropped to the ground. He didn't come any closer, but that he was there was enough. He told me to unbuckle CK and I did and together we crawled (her femur was broken, but crawl we did) out on to the gravel. The Man stood a bit aside and he told me we needed to get far away from the van, it was going to explode.

It's eerie how quiet chaos can be.

By now, though, I could hear the horn blaring, I could hear Dad shouting, his pants burnt off, his tennis shoes melted to his feet, he was screaming for us, for Mum. I shouted back, but I doubt he heard me.

In the most serendipitous stroke of fate, the next vehicle on the scene was a motor home driven by a retired EMT.

They bundled CK and I into the motor home, the wife of they EMT's friend rocking CK back and forth and plying me with juice. Neither of us cried, there would be time for that later. Who were we? Where were we going? How old was I; was CK; were our folks? Where were we from? Whom could they call? It was a pretty boring game. I watched through the window as they led my father away from the wreckage, watched him hit the pavement only after they pulled Mum out on a backboard made of the table and laid her away from the smoking van.

"My mom is dead" I told them in the implicit logic only a child can conjure and of course, they assured me she wasn't. "Yes, she is. She's allergic to bees. If she wasn't dead, she wouldn't want them near her." The ladies looked at one another and one left to shoo the bees away with a white paper plate.

The roadway was scattered with nickles and Choc-o-dials. I could see one of my shoes on the yellow line. The hillside was scattered with poppies. There was a skid of red paint on the black top. The doors of the cabinets on the wee kitchens facade hung open, the plastic contents tumbled into a heap in the gravel.

Several minutes later, though it's hard to say how long, the van did indeed explode and I turned to the woman that had stayed with us and told her The Man had said it would.

"What man, lamb?" she asked

"THE man," I looked around for him then, but he was gone.

Much later, when I was grown up, my Mum (who had indeed died) told me that she too had seen The Man, she had seen him in the Summerland before she decided to come back. The man told her that he would watch me. Watch us.

From time to time, as I grew up, The Man came back. Never to the degree he had that day, but back still. In the corner of my eye, I'll see him in the hallway. I'll catch his scent, a mix of pipe smoke and the ocean, in a breeze. I'll turn around and expect to find him.

Am I crazy? Yes. But that's not the point. The point is that some time, some where in my past, The Man has come to see me as his. In times of great stress, I feel him more.

The day that M had her accident, I was sure The Man was on the porch.

I'd say he's not a ghost. Not exactly an angel (I rather get the sense that he was a bit of a trouble maker. And he's definitely a jokster. I hope he reads the interwebz, and if so I NEED MY DAMN EARRINGS BACK and I better not find them in the kitchen cupboards again) but something close. Some sort of other. The sort of other that makes a bump in the night.

It's not so much that he portends disaster, but rather that he shows up to stand just behind and beside me to remind me that I am strong enough to sail a stormy sea. So too, does he show up when things are about to change. Just before a move. Right before I make a big decision. When I need a push because I refuse to just leap.

This morning, I thought I smelled the ocean.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Keeping Him in the dark

At risk of being repetative, one more Operation Obnoxious story.

Scene: Sitting on the tailgate of my truck in the driveway drinking a glass of $5 wine.

Door to Door Jesus Lady: How're you today miss?
Me: (holds up glass of wine) Exxxxxcelllllent
D2DJL: I'd like to talk to you about God.
Me: Okay
D2DJL: Do you know God?
Me: Yes, we're on a first name basis. I call out to him from time to time*
D2DJL: That's wonderful. Let me ask you one question though.
Me: Okay, but just one. This wine isn't going to drink itself!
D2DJL: Will you go to Heaven?
Me: Only if He doesn't look under my bed. **

*during sex. Obviously.
**No, I don't actually have that under the bed. It's in the top dresser drawer.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Operation Obnoxious

I almost never make New Years resolutions, but I did this year. Rather than follow the trend of making a resolution to do something I know I should but don't really want to do because it's torture, like quit drinking or work out more; I decided to make one about something that I tend to not do, but really DO want to. Thusly, I resolved to have more fun.

Being a severe type A kind of person, I tend to forgo fun in favor of things like cleaning the bathroom and alphabetizing the DVD's. Because, you know, that's what I SHOULD be doing. At least in my version of The Crazy.

Also, in spite of my loud mouthed interwebz alter-ego, in person I am not terribly outgoing and that too tends to curb my ability to have fun.

It's been a month and I was pretty much sucking at this resolution. So Saturday, instead of doing laundry, I took M to a movie and Sunday, instead of arriving on time (I KNOW) for a dinner party, I stayed and hung out with some friends.

Yesterday, I decided to ramp it up with a little project I'm calling Operation Obnoxious. My theory is this; people will go out of their way to be polite when put into an uncomfortable situation. So, I'm going to introduce the situation for my own amusement. I'm sorry, minimum wage workers of the world. It has to be done.

Mission Number One.
The Post Office

PO Lady: How're you doing today?
Me: I have a headache
PO Lady: That's too bad.
Me: Can I ask you a quick question?
PO Lady: Sure
Me: Does this hair color make me look too much like a zombie?
PO Lady (pause)
PO Lady: No! Not at all. It looks great.
Me: Well, if you're sure
PO Lady: I am. It's great with your skin tone.

Mission Two

Checker: Did you find everything you need today?
Me: no
Checker: What can we help you find?
Me: Quick lime?
Checker: Is that something you cook with?
Me: No, I need to dispose of a body.
Checker: Um. Maybe hardware?

See? It's not TOO terrible, but it's VASTLY entertaining.

Yeah, yeah. I'm going to hell. I know.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Three Awesome Things You're Going to Want

Some things are made of awesome.

For example, this wine glass necklace.

which can be found here. Sure, it's a bit tacky and a bit less than elegant, but COME ON. It's a glass of wine ON A NECKLACE. It comes in a set of two, which is a good thing because since CK suggested it, I imagine she'll call dibs on the other one.

And how cute is this?

It can be found here. Be sure to check out all the other UBER CUTE robots!

Or, your ass will hate you but your mouth will LOVES you, you can spring for the cupcake of the month club! Which is brilliant on any number of levels. I've not tried them, but the concept of a pair of cupcakes arriving in the mail every month is pretty awesome. AND they come in a jar, so they're not all squashed. Which I suppose makes them "jar cakes" or maybe more of a parfait.

But ain't nobody don't like parfaits, am I right?