Thursday, October 30, 2014

Take a day off

  I'm writing this in between breaks from eating. I'm one of those "emotional eaters" and eat my sadness. Anytime I feel down, I usually grab some comfort in food. This is why I have to refer to myself as "curvy" in dating profiles. I'm not overweight, but I'll never be thin in anyone's eyes.
  Life has just been stressful. I mean, everyone has their shit. Mine's the same as anyone else's. Work, love life, money, blah, blah, etc. I thought I was healing from my recent breakup with the Russian, when yesterday felt like a band aid being ripped off.
  We had a mutual break up, but were wishy-washy as to whether it was the right decision or not. My main issue was never seeing him.He's in school, which takes a lot of his time. I get it, I work full-time and have a kid. I'm the epitome of busy.  So, we split. There were texts and emails back and forth, debating about what to do. We agreed to the end of this month for a final decision.
  I had written him an email about a week ago, saying I care for him and I could deal with not seeing him while he's in school. The main thing is that we made each other happy. Quality over quantity. This was his response, I shit you not-"I'm recovering from some kind of illness. I don't know what it is. I have a ton of stuff to do now. I'll write you later." Days passed. I could only assume he had Ebola. Now, I kind of wish he had. He texted yesterday asking how I was and reminding me of our agreement. I told him I still felt the same. He told me he missed sex with me. Great. That's heartwarming. Thanks, buddy. But, he didn't miss me enough for us to get back together. Congrats. You've joined the list of men who have told me they are still physically attracted to me but hate my personality. It's a real pick me up. I've always thought the opposite about myself- I think I'm funny and kind and hate looking at myself. My heart is already a post-apocalyptic wasteland.  This is why people love pets. A fucking dog never looks at you and says "You're hot, but I hate talking to you." If one did, it would be a Youtube sensation.
  I feel raw again. Angry and sad. Crying in the bathtub. Hiding it from my child because he's already dealt with too many tears in his small lifetime. I fucking suck it up and eat my feelings. I'm so thankful I have him. He told me to take a day off today and not do anything. This is remarkable because he wants a sandwich every five minutes, just like my late grandfather. He's willing to forgo that for a day for my happiness and sanity. It's not going to happen. I have to do laundry. Besides, taking care of him makes me happy. My last bastion of happiness. I don't think anyone could ever fit into this household anyway. We're a very close knit duo. No man other than his dad ever fit in. No man ever will.
  Frankly, my chances are snagging someone at this age with my life are extremely slim. I have a better probability of being struck by lightning or attacked by a shark.  I think that was the mad panic for the idea of staying with the Russian. Hey, we don't have anything other than physical in common, but I don't want to be alone. It's not the right reasons. So, maybe he's doing me a favor. I haven't really craved a mate as much as before. Except when I see Adam Scott's character on Parks and Recreation for he is my dream man. Other than that, I'm fine. I think love is dead. It's not actually, It's just rare like a double rainbow or a retail day without any rude customers. The greatest couple I know is my sister in law, Nikki and her husband, Kirk. They have a true and beautiful love. It's the only thing that keeps me from thinking love is dead.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Let's not talk about contraception

  I finally made it to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. It was my six month checkup, but I was geared up to find a solution to my month long pooplessness. Seriously, a month is way too long to go without using the bathroom. I was distressed. My usual doctor is a very nice, older Egyptian man. However, this time, I got a young, attractive Egyptian man. Of course, because I would be discussing my bowels. First, he starts off asking about my breast because last I was there I had a weird lump in my breast. Nope, all good, let's move onto worse things. After I painfully explain my situation, he starts to think. Any changes in diet? How often do you normally go? Then, for whatever reason, comes this question "Contraception?"
  "No" I shake my head, but this only puzzles him more.
  "The pill? Condom? Contraception?"
At this point, I'm really flustered and blurt out "NO, There's no one! There's no reason!" which seemed to solve the issue. All the while, my child is sitting in a chair in the room. I swear after that he seemed friendlier to me. Almost like he was considering the fact that I was manless. He sees old people all day, so a woman in her forties is like Kate Upton in his eyes. There were a lot of awkward smiles and gentle brushing away of my hair when he looked into my ears during the examination. Plus, I couldn't understand a word he was saying. Thankfully, my regular doctor came in, and to my chagrin, performed the exact same examination. He seemed to think my problem stemmed from changing my anxiety medication. For a month, I was on Paxil, not pooping and recently broken hearted. I was a bitch. Joan Crawford was probably nicer than I was that month.  He wrote me out a prescription and gave me two boxes of stool softeners. This seems to have solved the issue. God bless that man. I was singing his praises the first time I was able to go. I know this is all too much information, but if you're reading my blog I think you've surmised by now that too much information is my thing.
  Now, I'm fully regular, but still not needing that contraception.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Yesterday was Fight Club and I don't want to talk about it

  Yesterday was monumentally bad. In fact, the Travel Channel is starting a new show hosted by Don Wildman called Monumental Shitty and the first episode is devoted to this day. (Viggo would appreciate that joke)
  Somehow I realized that there were messages sent to me on Facebook that I've never seen before. Lots of people I didn't know and one I wished I've never met-my ex's wife. She seems to think I made a fake profile for her. She then proceeded to say my kid was messed up in the head for being my kid, that I'm old and so on. If she ever mentions my kid again, she has a whole list of people ready to give her a piece of their mind. I'm top of that list. My friends made some very good points about the message. One friend said that insulting a child is very sick and that she could be charged with telecommunications harassment if she persists. Plus, "She looks like a horse and he got chubby. I crept." God bless, Kate. You are my hero.
  Several other friends stated that she seems pretty psycho to still be creeping on me. It's weird, very Single White Female of her, I agree. Constantly looking at my LinkedIn profile which has never changed since I started it is VERY weird. She's unhinged. Oddly, I had wished them happiness. Now, I'm pretty sure no one should get stuck with that kind of crazy. It would be like the Michael Douglas character marrying Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Another friend said she probably made the fake profile herself just to accuse me of making it. I agree. The whole thing has a Gone Girl tinge to it. If she keeps it up, I will see what I can do about a restraining order or whatnot. Never mess with my child.
  After all that nonsense, I get a text from my mom. Two psychos in one day is way too much. She's finally learned to text. At least they aren't drunken phone calls. Since I'm not speaking to her anymore, I agreed to give her my address so she could send Viggo letters. I'm not going to keep him away from her like she did with me and my Dad's parents. I get this infuriating text - "A fake address. Really?" She claimed a letter was returned saying it wasn't a real address. Yes, the "not a real address" stamp that is so popular at the post office. Anyway, after I texted back that it is indeed a real address, I don't know what to tell you, she said she's sick of playing games. Dear sweet baby Jesus in the manger help me keep my sanity. I realized I had told her the wrong zip code, which seemed to somehow connect in the ball of crazy that is her head and she shut up.
  If you've met me for five minutes, you know I'm not a fan of drama, games or anything similar. I like things easy like a Sunday morning, man. Have you ever noticed that people who say they're sick of playing games are the ones who love them? I want to breeze through my day on an even keel. This probably stems from my childhood which was saturated with drama due to my mother. When I would stay with her on the weekends, it was 24/7 fighting with her boyfriends. I hated it more than anything. I would cower in another room, covering my ears from the shouting. It's why I'm so passive as an adult- I swore I would never be that way. My marriage had a total of maybe three big fights. So, if anyone thinks I'm sitting here like Shonda Rhimes, working on some drama, you're surely mistaken. It's more like a Buddhist trying to usher a spider out the door instead of killing it.
  At the end of the night, I sat in the bathtub. listening to the Walkmen, sobbing. Is it a ying yang thing? If you lead a normal life, must weirdness attack you to even out the universe?  Fuck this universe. Seriously. Any world that would take a great guy like Bob out of it is horrendous. This is what rules it, the crazies and the maniacs. It doesn't matter what good is out there, it gets stomped out by some monster going out her way to say shit about a kid. That's the world. These people run it.
  I feel like Wyle E. Coyote after an ACME anvil smashes him into the desert sand. Fucking defeated. After Bob died, I feel like I'm walking on an ice lake, ready to fall through. His death has haunted me. I'm carrying so much weight. And it breaks, breaks, breaks thinking of the pain his family feels. I never dealt with my own pain. I can't. I have to do this, you know. I have this boy to care for. A leaf could blow me over and I'm plunging into the darkness. I want to be left alone. I want the crazies out of my life. I'm becoming someone I don't want to be.
  I don't know how to fix anything, so I maintain. It's all I can do. We Can't Be Beat by the Walkmen plays in my heart-hopeful lyrics followed by a sad melody. This shit has to be dirt off my shoulder because my priority is making my kid's life as normal and good as can be. Bury this shit with any other pain or anger that dwells inside of me into a deep, dark pit. Fucking bury it.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Keep your day job

  I've been in this awful mood since the break up. It's relentless and has attached itself to me wherever I go, especially at work. So, yesterday when we had to participate in a mandatory storytime, I was less than enthused. All month long, we've been having weekly storytimes  dedicated to one book and it culminated into yesterday's big event. All the managers participated. Not eager to read aloud, lead a parade or make hats, I chose to face paint. I think I've done it once before and honestly, how hard could it be?
  The book is very cute and funny and the kids were quite adorable, which helped lighten my monstrous mood. Right after the story came my time. A very excited little boy rushed over to be first. We went to the table and he watched as I struggled to open the little tube of paint and pick out a little brush. Since the theme of the book was crayons, I thought it would be a great choice to paint one on his little round cheek. His enthusiasm was brimming as was mine. I was actually enjoying myself. A co-worker joined me and started painting a little girl's face. My joy was quickly dashed when, to my horror, I realized my green crayon looked exactly like a penis. Mortified, I tried adjusting it with more paint, only to make it appear even more phallic. I tried to offset my blunder by painting a balloon attached to a string on his other cheek. I gave up when I realized it only looked like sperm. Great, a penis and sperm. His parents were all happy saying "Let's get a picture." I grimaced and started on his baby brother's cheek. No more crayons or balloons with string. Thankfully, my co-worker whispered in my ear "My crayon looked obscene." He was having the same trouble. I mean, this kid's parents had to think that's what it looked like. They have three kids. They're well versed on genitalia at this point. I was thrilled to see that my shift was up and I tore out of there before I could see anyone's reaction to my artwork.
  The moral to this story is never try to paint a crayon on a kid's cheek. Plain and simple.