The tradition continues

This weekend has been pretty low-key for me, which seems to be the case lately. The only difference is I've added exercise into my daily life and I've managed to stick to it for five consecutive days so far - go, me! I'm really excited about the new blog and I think it's going to help me tremendously through this, my latest adventures in weight loss.

Grace called yesterday with some mildly upsetting news: her daughter, my favorite youngster, was caught sneaking out with one of her friends the other night. The story is confusing so I won't get into details, but what struck me the most is that for our hometown (and I'm sure many others), this seems to be an unavoidable right of passage. I mean, my friends and I certainly did our share, though my 120-lb German Shepard "brother" made it impossible for us to get away with it at home so we had to do most of our nighttime skulking from friends' houses. No problem making curfew when you knew the real fun wasn't going to start until after 1 a.m. anyway. Oy.

We thought we were so crafty with the whole "I'm staying over at Jen's tonight" plan. Even though Jen's place was THE primo place to stay, since her mom not only knew about the sneak-outs, but practically encouraged them - and loved hearing all about our adventures the next day! Yes, I know - she was a little weird. But she had her logic about it; if it was going to happen inevitably, she figured as long as the boys came to us and we stayed on their property, well then we were obviously safe and sound and that was just fine and dandy with her. Little did she know her daughter lost her virginity while on their property, but no harm no foul.

But even though her mom was way more liberal than most, that wasn't good enough for us and we had to still push the limits. Because, why not? Where's the fun in having permission; that takes all the rebellion out of it. Her mom's worst punishment for our night activities was loudly waking us up at 7am, forcing us to get showered, dressed and eat breakfast, no matter how hungover we were - the worse, the better. The bitch is lucky she made fabulous pancakes.

One night, the four of us, me, Grace, Jen and my sister were out at this house party. Jen and Sister were the youngsters compared to us - sophmores in high school to our already-graduated-but-still-living-at-home status. And while we had a hair more freedom than they did, we still lived under the "As long as you're under my roof you will have a curfew" regime. So unfair! What the hell, Dad, I'm 19 - I am a woman now and need to fly and be free!! Anyway. This party. It was one of those nights the guy to girl ratio was great and all the guys we had crushes on were present and accounted for. The cheap beer, malt liquor and Boones Farm was flowing and we were having a great time. Until so quickly, the clock (our enemy) was showing us it was time to get our asses home. But somehow in our drunken logic, Grace and I decided, Hey, we're older; why should WE have to go home just because the youngsters do! At which point I gave the keys to my car to Jen, not because she was less drunk, but because she knew how to drive a stick and my sister didn't. We told them to take the car and go straight home, that we'd be there shortly. Long story long, we went off with some guys to the big city of Ocala, thirty miles away, and spent the night at some dude's (we named him "That Guy") apartment.

Do you want to know the sickest thing a young girl can experience while driving home in the early morning hours as daylight fast approaches? No, not the hangover. Not sexual regret or wondering if the other girls made it home okay. The sight of Jen's parents PASSING YOU ON THE ROAD BECAUSE THEY ARE DRIVING AROUND LOOKING FOR ALL OF YOU. Grace and I saw them, looked at each other and quickly surmised that yeah, apparently poor judgment was made all around and the girls never made it home either. When punishments were handed out, Grace and I got off fairly easily, as we were considered too old to really be grounded; we basically received a stern talking-to regarding the fact we were the OLDER and therefore MORE RESPONSIBLE ones and they thought we were TRUSTWORTHY when it came to looking out for the younger girls. Oops. Sister got the worst of it and was put on restriction for a month, subsequently missing one of the greatest parties of that year the following week. And you can ask her - she's still pissed about that one.

So yeah, I vividly remember what it's like. The late-night adventures we had in our little town are some of my fondest memories. And living where we did, so sheltered compared to so many bigger, scarier places, our shenanigans were pretty tame. I'm very thankful Elizabeth is growing up in that same little town. But the thought that she's right on the precipice of all this scares the living hell out of me (So, haha, imagine what her mother must feel like, haha!) She's an intelligent, thoughtful and caring kid. She even inherited her mother's grim intuition, telling her friend, "You know we're going to get caught if we do this, right?" She has a conscience and God knows that's key. I'm not saying she's not going to screw up; I just think knowing when she's doing it, knowing there will most definitely be consequences, really will make the difference. This won't help Grace sleep any better at night, but I'm not sure that's avoidable when you have a teenager you gave birth to and are responsible for keeping alive.

And she's starting high school in August. This is one of the only reasons I wish I still lived there, because I have the feeling it's going to be an interesting four years.

Two funerals and an uppercut

I'm all geared up to finish the separation story! But first...

That electrician dude was buggin' me during the telling of the separation awhile back about being a cocktease (he may not have used that actual phrase, but it was implied) with regards to hinting around about the time I punched Brian in the mouth but then not telling the story, so I'll get that out of the way because I don't appreciate being called a tease.

It was March of 2002 and we'd been staying at Grace's house during the week but going our separate ways on the weekends. Though I do have some fond memories from this weird time, the majority of it wreaked havoc on my emotional state and everything else. I got down to 104 pounds (DAMN, that was cool! Not really. But sort of!) and I was becoming a card-carrying pill-popper. My dad had just passed away on top of everything else, so when I got the phone call that a good friend of ours had just died unexpectedly, it almost did me in.

Mario was thirty-three years old, had just married his longtime girlfriend and mother of his child, my good friend Arlene. We'd spent a lot of time with them; they were one of the only good things about our time in Lake City. We loved joking about us being the only white people to ever hang out at their house and their church. Mario loved leaving stupid phone messages to me pretending to be someone else and always made me laugh. Arlene gave me strength and inspiration during the shitty time just by telling me some of the stories she and Mario had been through only to finally be happily getting married and completely in love. God really has a cruel sense of timing sometimes. Mario had severe asthma. And was a smoker. He died from an acute asthmatic attack at home with Arlene and the kids around him. Before the ambulance got there he managed to tell their oldest son he would need to be the man of the house and help his mother take care of things from then on.

Brian was just as devastated, if not more than I was, as he and Mario were really close by that point. Mario told Brian once, "Why did you have to hurt Kim like that? Why couldn't you just have an affair and keep quiet about it like every other dude?" That was Mario's humor and it still makes me laugh to think about it now. I let Brian know I'd tell him when the funeral would be, and he could either come with me or go by himself. I did tell him bringing the girlfriend probably wouldn't be wise, as Arlene would have not minded one bit to interrupt the services in order to kick her ass, black girl style. (Her words) In fact, she told me that would be very enjoyable to her and all I had to do was say the word. And Brian knew Arlene well and was smart enough to take the hint seriously.

The funeral ended up being that weekend, on Saturday. I tried getting in touch with Brian to let him know the time and place, but he'd already left to be with Whorezilla for the weekend and I couldn't get him on the phone. I think I had a cell phone at the time but he didn't and of course she didn't have a home phone at her place - I mean why break stereotype like that? I left word with as many mutual friends as I could and stopped worrying about it.

I drove the almost two hour trip by myself and made plans to stay with friends for the night, knowing I'd be in no shape to drive back after all that (remember the pill-popping). The funeral was at their church, where we'd been to visit a few times, but was way out in the country, dirt roads and all. I impressed myself by remembering how to get there. I also horrified myself by barfing all over the inside of the car five minutes before arriving. (For me, heat + pills + nerves = vom) When I pulled the car into the long line of parked vehicles, I was glad to see one of Mario's cousins approaching. He was so sad, there in his dark suit, suffering from heat exhaustion, but then cracked a big smile when he saw me. And I was like, "Psst! Tommy! I need some help over here!" I showed him the barf chunks, which had somehow mostly missed my clothes and he ran to get me a wet towel. I made myself presentable, but I can truly say that was one long, hot, heartbreaking day. Brian never showed up which I thought was very weird, but chalked it up to the ditch witch not allowing him to go since of course I was there, and where better to reconcile oru marriage than at a good friend's funeral. I apologzied to Arlene for him and she told me it was okay; she'd slap him the next time she saw him but for me to tell him she loved him too. God, I'm freaking crying again right now. Awesome.

Back at Grace's house Sunday late afternoon, Brian showed up a few hours after I did and I couldn't wait to hear what stupid excuse he'd have for not going. But oh no - surprise, HE was pissed at ME! Um, excuse me, whatthefuck did you just say? We took our argument from the front yard, COPS style, into the garage/laundry room where we could fight in private. He started bitching - and he was seriously red-faced pissed off - carrying on about how could I not tell him when or where the funeral was, that no matter what was going on with us that was so selfish of me and he couldn't believe I'd do something that shitty. He said something like, "I wasn't going to bring HER, if that's what you were worried about."

Aaaaand, CRACK. Right-handed uppercut to the jaw, and it connected perfectly. Now I'm glad there were no witnesses (I exposed Elizabeth to way too much as it was; she didn't need to see my first foray into domestic violence) but at the time I remember thinking, Damn, that was a great punch! He just looked at me all shocked and shit. It says a lot that he didn't hit me back, because I believe anyone, ANYONE who hits somebody should at least expect the same in return. But he didn't. I yelled something original like You have some fucking nerve, expletive, expletive, bad name, expletive. And ARE YOU HAPPY YOU'RE SO FUCKED UP OVER THIS BITCH YOU MISSED ONE OF YOUR BEST FRIEND'S FUNERAL??? Hurtful. But I was so mad/sad/tired/insane by that point. Two funerals in under three weeks. My husband half living with me, half with another girl. I'm in no way trying to justify my hitting. It makes me ashamed when I think about it now, but these days if I bring it up he says I barely grazed him anyway.(FALSE)

I do remember another feeling along with the shock and satisfaction. And that was feeling absolutely sick. My fist connecting with the face of the person I love more than anyone in the world? It was nauseating. I'm so sorry and sad it even happened. But it did, so remembering it now just makes me really thankful (again) we made it through all that shit and lived to tell about it. I just called him to say hi because I was feeling guilty after this and said Remember the time I gave you that righteous uppercut? He said, No, I only remember getting hit if it actually hurt, so why would I remember that? Then he laughed at me.

These days are much happier and we keep the hitting where it belongs, in the bedroom.

Part hippie

If I'm as bored as this with the whole fucking stupid baby stupid fucking thing, I can only imagine how anyone who reads this is. I'm really going to try keeping that shit to a minimum until there's something interesting to say, like for instance if I were to actually, you know, GET PREGNANT. Fuck.

Work is just stupid too, so no talking about that either.

We were making more jokes about forming a compound/bunker the other day (because we're hysterical like that) and then I remembered something. We'd both be terrible in a place like that. Not only does he start to break out in the cold sweats if he doesn't have his daily dose of Fox News or the equivalent, but I get pretty grumpy away from the interwebs after a short time. Embarrassing but true. And that's only really a small part of it.

My parents bought an RV when I was nine and we spent many fun summers traveling around the country and also spending a couple of whole summers in New York. My parents always joked about how us kids didn't know from "roughing it" and that if we were ever forced to camp in an actual tent, we'd be horrified. Well, they weren't entirely right, but fairly close. We spent a fun weekend tent camping in the North Carolina mountains one beautiful Fall and I also spent three wet days in a tent at the Woodstock reunion in 1994 that ranks up there in the top five vacations of my life. But I will say I can only handle a tent if the weather is nice and chilly. The one time we tried camping in North Florida one Memorial Day weekend is a nightmare I've been mostly successful at blocking out completely. The heat. The bugs. The skin sticking together -(Zexy)- Hell no; you can HAVE that shit.

I like TV too. There, I said it. Our motorhome had a little black & white antenna'd thing that was mostly a pain in the ass and we rarely used it. But it made us feel good just knowing it was there.

Then this one Summer, my parents sent us to stay with our hippie aunt and uncle for a few weeks. I laugh now knowing it was actually only two weeks or so when it seemed like a lifetime then. These people lived in a commune-ish place in WAAAY upstate New York, like close to Canada, and they lived pretty much isolated from civilization on top of a mountain or some shit. My aunt's house wasn't, but their next door neighbors had one of those built-into-the-ground houses, which we thought was cool as hell at the time because we could walk on the "roof," which was actually just part of the "yard." Those people had a little blond hippie kid who they encouraged to call them by their first names - I wonder what kind of an addict he is today.

What we weren't fond of was the fact my aunt's house had no electricity or running water (by choice - hippies, remember) so that while we sort of enjoyed being hosed off outside for our showers, we did NOT enjoy the sun going down at 9:00 and them not allowing us to use the Coleman lanterns too much for fear of wasting the oil. Dude, if I can't read at night, even back in the day, I start to get panicky and weird. And since bedtime was strictly enforced to us all during the school year, Summer vacation was NOT when I wanted to go to bed at 9:00, damn it.

And do not EVER try to pass carob off as chocolate to me, ever, ever again. Same goes for rice cakes as a substitute for bread, bagels, English muffins or what have you. Admittedly Sister and I did have a fun time there, especially amongst ourselves, mostly by making fun of everyone around us and also amusing ourselves for hours every day singing Eddie Rabbit while swinging endlessly on the miraculously provided swing set. I actually don't recall ever really being bored while we were there, which is really crazy. They took us to a couple of really cool concerts-in-the-park things and also to see Raiders of the Lost Ark, which scared the living shit out of us on the big screen, and I am G-D OLD.

Fond memories of the Summer of '81. But I really do greatly enjoy lights and reading at night and water and my dvr, I really do.

Happy Cinco de Mayo - have a big fat Margarita for me, ya hear?

Happy Four-Twenty, Man

I was going to try to be a smartass and do a whole post like I was writing while I was high, but I figured no one would be able to tell the difference - HA! In honor of today though, let's talk about weed for a minute, specifically my history with it. You're not a cop, are you?

As with many things I was a fairly late bloomer. I think most people, if they're going to try it at all, usually try it first in their teens, but not me. I grew up in a small town with fairly protective parents. I didn't even SEE pot until I was a senior in high school. My boyfriend at the time (he now resides in the Florida state prison system since pot interestingly did turn out to be a gateway drug for him and he eventually graduated to crack) had some one night while we were a party and it wasn't long after he showed me the bag of evil green stuff (it smelled nasty as hell to me)(back then) I broke up with him. Not because of that though; it was more due to the fact he was a total lovey-dovey cling-on and literally bathed himself in Polo cologne. Oh, Mark. I'm guessing you've not aged well.

Skip ahead three years to when I'm now buying beer legally. I'm socializing with a new group of friends, one of whom is Delorme. You know, the guy who is pretty much responsible for the direction my life took. After being around these people for a few months and seeing them smoke without any detrimental results (besides having long stupid conversations regarding how awesome Carefree Sugarless Gum and Sour Cream and Onion flavored chips are and hidden meanings behind classic rock lyrics), I figured what the hey. And I don't understand this, but I'd heard the first time you smoke it doesn't really work. Maybe it's God's way of giving you one more chance not to try it? I don't know, but that's what happened to me. The second time? A lot different. All I remember is laughing until I sprinkled my pants and swiftly inhaling a Whopper with cheese, which is how I knew I was high - I HATE Burger King.

For the next ten years the Maryjane was my thing. I thought, like many others, I'd found the perfect drug for myself. It didn't make me feel shitty the next day like alcohol. It wasn't habit-forming (officially). It didn't make me lazy (sometimes) but instead made things like cleaning the house, going grocery shopping and many other mundane chores a lot more fun. It made funny movies hysterical. It made me want to do creative things like write and paint and do crafts. True, it made some things more difficult, like following the directions on the back of the Hamburger Helper box, but I managed. I figured okay, this was good. I'd be one of those hip fifty-somethings with a long gray braid and loose hippie skirts with a garden and a sweet ass hydroponic system, living somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and voting Green Party.

It didn't work out that way.

But this isn't an Afterschool Special story. I didn't have any big epiphanies or Aha moments.

During the Bad Time, when Brian and I had first separated, an opportunity arose to smoke with a friend. It had been awhile but I figured what better way to calm down and take the edge off, finally. I needed to de-stress badly. That's not what happened. For the first time ever I didn't catch a tasty buzz. What happened was more like an anxiety attack and believe me, I'm well versed enough in those (Expert Level even) to know real fast when it's happening. I thought, Oh shit; this is what all those ex-stoners talked about and I just thought they had turned into big wusses. But since it sometimes takes me awhile to catch on, I tried it again a few days later, you know - just to make sure. Same thing.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me sad that I knew my stoner days had come to an end. But since that time, almost eight years ago, there have only been a couple of instances (usually while on vacation, usually in New York) that I've done it again, with semi-okay results. I din't have any more panic attacks, but I didn't have a ton of fun either. It mostly made me feel stupid and tired and unable to concentrate on what I'm reading. And I can achieve those things just as easily by myself, without inhaling an illegal smoky substance into my already damaged lung situation. (The fact that it's illegal is completely ridiculous to me, but that's another story.)

But There's one thing left over from the days of weed though that I recently unearthed. It was this little notebook and in it, I saw I'd started writing (and illustrating!)a book. The working title is The (In)Complete Stoners' Handbook and in flipping through it, I saw the thing is damn funny. Even now when I'm not under the same influence I was when I'd written it. Brian thinks it's a masterpiece, but you know - he still smokes. In fact, he's spent most of this morning looking for his phone that he misplaced yesterday. He finally found it though. Where? Why, in the engine area of his truck, wedged safely in a crevice so tightly it managed not to fall out while he drove over to his mom's house to look for it. Of course that's where it was. You mean you wouldn't put your phone in a super place like that while putting new brake pads on your vehicle? I guess he celebrated 4/20 a little early, and by early I mean daily, but all's well that ends well. He just told me I left my keys in his truck yesterday too and looked around for them for a half hour this morning inside the house, finally having to take my spare set to work which doesn't have my work keys on it. What's my excuse, because it damn sure isn't drugs.

Disclaimer: This blogger in no way endorses or admits to the use of any illicit or fun substances including but not limited to: Marijuana, LSD, white sugar, crack, diet pills, caffeine, cigarettes, all stimulants, all depressants, and chocolate. You cannot prove otherwise.

Storm stories

There were some pretty vicious storms that passed through the Southeast Friday night/Saturday morning. By some miracle (perhaps because it is a holy weekend?) our power never went out all the way, it just did that weird dimming/buzzing thing a few times, which was enough to make me unplug the important things - TV, computer and microwave. You laugh, but when Delorme and I lived in the little house on the lake, our house got hit by lightning and we lost two TV's, a VCR (it was the early 90's), two cordless phones and our microwave. It was then I first learned about the existance of this neat thing called renter's insurance. And the fact it really sucks when you don't have it.

Tornadoes scare the living shit out of me, unlike hurricanes. As a former Floridian, I've experienced them many times to the point I think I'm immune to them. Sure, there was that one summer we had four fairly serious ones in six weeks and lost power for two days and almost had a tree crash through our bedroom, but really? No biggie. Hurricanes give plenty of prior warning and then almost never follow through with much action. I'm not talking about Katrina, Andrew or Hugo here; those are obvious and painful exceptions. But believe me, most of the time the weather forecasters get their panties in a wad for four days, especially the ones in Florida who finally have something to talk about besides hot and humid, everybody gets excited and starts buying plywood, batteries and gallons of water and then usually there's some wind and rain for a day. It's usually a huge letdown, really. Most Floridians have even experienced going outside during one so at least you feel like you've had some excitement over the damn thing. I once made out in the middle of one - that was cool.

But a tornado? Oh hell no. My cousin lived in Missouri for awhile, or it may have been Kansas. One of those states that has Kansas City in it. (Why are there two Kansas Cities? That has always pissed me off) Anyway, she told me after awhile she got used to hearing the tornado siren go off, it happened so often. It didn't even phase her. I don't care how long I lived there; every time I heard that, I would react by simultaneously having a heart attack and shitting my pants. Do not like.

My only real firsthand experiences with the evil bastards was twice. They both happened here, years apart, but very close in proximity. The first time was the night before Delorme and I were splitting up and we were spending the night in that same lake house for the last time with our cat. If the tornado didn't pass directly over our house, it came damn close, judging by the screaming wind, rattling windows and fallen trees all over our yard the next morning. We'd spent the night on a mattress on the floor of the living room with the poor cat squeezed between us and didn't sleep much, if at all. I told him it must be God's way of telling us not to break up but he didn't listen to me and we broke up anyway.

The second one, the way more traumatic of the two, happened on the same lake (Is Lake Murray a tornado magnet? Must research) but after Brian and I had been living together for awhile. We went out with our friends for the day on their boat. That morning we'd checked the weather and while it did look like there was a possibility of overcast skies and possible rain late in the day, it was a bright shiny morning (also the name of the James Frey book I just checked out from the library) and we decided screw it; boat time! These people were actually our Redneck Friends 1.0 and we had just a few weeks before gone riding around in a mud hole with them (oh, you doubted the redneckness?), gotten stuck within the first ten minutes and had to walk three miles to the nearest civilization which happened to be a Waffle House which is like a beacon of all that is good and holy when you're cold and beer-drunk. Wow, got a little off track there.

Anyblah, we went out on their boat, just the four of us. Not sure where their kids were that day, but very thankful now they weren't with us. We tooled around for awhile having a great time, when late in the afternoon the skies did indeed start to darken. Then the sky started to look really weird. The air temperature literally dropped what felt like twenty degrees and looked to be almost this sick yellow/green color, if air could have a color. I forget who spotted it first, but sure enough there in the distance, one of the swirling clouds formed into a funnel before our eyes and dipped down into the water. Had I not actually been so close by on a fucking BOAT, I would've thought it was one of the coolest things I'd ever seen, and I guess now I can actually say it was, since we're alive and all. We actually saw a tornado form, touch down into the lake and become a water spout, spin around for a few minutes and then go back up into the evil cloud from whence it came.

The two shapes I'm scared of most: funnels and that weird pointy shape of the windows of the Amityville Horror house. It's true.

We didn't have time to be freaked out about just seeing that whole situation, because within seconds the clouds went from a light pissy rain to a torrential Noah's Ark situation. Dennis was driving the boat and shouted to Brian he couldn't see past the boat's bow. Brian climbed up there to guide him as lightning stopped fucking around and started getting serious. Michelle and I huddled together in the boat's tiny covered area and I tried to hide my extreme fear and the fact I had started to pray. No one else seemed freaked out and Brian even let out a few WHOOS and ALL-RIGHTS! Dumbass. In retrospect sure I felt dumb, but at the time I seriously thought we weren't going to make it. Though Florida may have made me unaffected by hurricanes, it did give me a healthy respect for lightning, and that's what was scaring me the most.

Of course all's well that ended well and now it's nothing but a stupid story for me to tell whenever someone brings up the subject of tornadoes. Or in this case, even when no one brings it up but I just feel like talking about it.

The only problem I discovered yesterday was not any damage to our house or cars (there had also been widespread hail reported) or any tree limbs down, but came about when we decided to watch the season finale of Friday Night Lights we'd taped the night before. The local news channel, the same one who a month ago swore we were going to be buried in snow for twelve hours straight and we got nary a flake, deemed it necessary to INTERRUPT THE SEASON FINALE OF MY FAVORITE SHOW three or four times throughout the episode. That was in addition to running that constant red line at the bottom that kept telling us we were under severe thunderstorm warnings and a tornado watch until 1 a.m. and that horrible beeping noise. If you don't think I haven't already sent a very angry email to WIS-TV, you don't know me at all.

Happy Easter!

April Foolish

I've been sitting here trying to think up some funny April Fool's joke, but I'm having problems thinking of anything that doesn't involve a bodily function (as is my way), and nothing is even sounding funny to me, so screw it. I feel all jinxy right now anyway, so saying something like "I just pooped my pants!" even if it's followed by a sheepish "Naw, April Fool!" I'd be scared the rest of the day of pooping in my pants.

My dad LOVED this holiday and in particular having me be the sole recipient of his jokes. Every year it was something: rigging my bathroom with boobytraps: a cup of water falling on my head when I opened the door, Saran wrap on the toilet seat, no water coming out of the faucet and "The Fool Was Here" written in soap all over the mirror. That was funny. Once he hid my car; parked it around the back of the house so that when I walked out to go to school, I had a heart attack, while he watched from the front window laughing his ass off. Even when I was on vacation away from home once he packed a bunch of plastic spiders in my suitcase and coordinated it with my boyfriend at the time to have it scare me on April 1st. I'll admit it - I miss that a lot. All those things were good, but one year he lost his mind and went to the extreme.

I was eleven years old and completely obsessed with The Dukes of Hazzard. My sister and cousins will verify this if you have any doubts. Posters - not only all over my bedroom, but also all over my bunk bed area in our motorhome. Teen magazine collages abounded. Every Friday night at 8:00 without fail, was the highlight of my week and I was not to be interrupted by anyone (not much has changed there, but at least now there are dvr's). I was all about Bo in particular, but loved them all; that show was my everything. We still had antenna then and only got reception on the three main networks, which was jolly good by me, as long as CBS was one of them. One dark sad night a train went by just as the show was starting, we lost reception and couldn't get it back for hours. Unexplained to this day and also obviously very scarring to me, since I remember it.

We lived in Wildwood, Florida at the time and my dad was the golf pro at the local country club. Someone passed the information along that some relatives of Tom Wopat, the guy who played Luke Duke, were members of our club and lived nearby. It was rumored that Tom himself also had some property and a house there and I don't remember how but we did end up confirming that was true. Strangely a few years later when we lived thirty miles west in Inverness, we met the guy who played Roscoe P. Coaltraine (and the dog who played his hound dog Flash who was also his dog in real life but who was a girl dog) who had a house THERE. I don't know what it was about small little bumpkin Florida towns and the cast of that show, but apparently they loved the area for whatever reason.

Did you know John Travolta has a house in Ocala, right there as well? That has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but it just surprises me so many of my celebrity boyfriends lived so damn close by yet we never met and had the romantic times I dreamed about. Sucks.

Anyway. A few days before April Fool's, Dad started really bringing up the whole Luke Duke thing, saying we'd have to ride around and see if we could find his house (stalkers!) or maybe see if he liked golf and give him a free round, etc. Assuring that I was in a highly agitated state, right up until the day I got home from school and my mom told me my dad had a surprise for me. Hmm? Yes. She told me she wasn't sure, but she thought my dad might have found Luke and was maybe bringing him to our house?

Wait, WHAT?

She said, "Now don't get too excited, Daddy's just going to try." Too excited? Oh, but it was already well past that point. I did what I always do in those situations and went straight to the toilet. Then after that I went directly to my room and shut and locked the door. I had to get a grip on all this somehow, because I was straight losing my shit. (Literally)

Then I heard it. Remember the Dukes' car, the General Lee? Of course you do. Remember how the car horn played "Dixie?" That was the sound I was currently hearing and it was coming from my very own driveway. I don't think I actually shit in my pants, but I came pretty damn close. I know I made some high pitched squealing sounds. Then I dove into my closet and slammed the door shut, refusing to come out. I'd like to think I've matured and could handle something like that better nowadays, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it.

I don't remember how, but they finally got me to come out. My dad was pretty much crying he was laughing so hard. He led me outside to the driveway, where the only car there was his little red Fiat. Wha? He leaned in the window and beeped the horn. And it played "Dixie" again. He spent $80 (and remember this is 1979 or thereabouts; that was a good amount of money back then, at least for our family) to get this horn and have someone hook it up to his car, all for a joke on me. The horn played something like a hundred different songs, but he bought it for one song. You would have thought I'd be mad at him for not delivering Luke Duke to me, but actually all I felt was relief. As much as I loved those Duke boys, I guess that love had to be from afar for me to be able to deal with it.

My dad was so awesome. He got the biggest kick out of making me laugh. I miss the hell out of him.

I didn't mean to make so many references about pooping in pants. I'll try to avoid that going forward.

Hot for preacher

Tomorrow is my dad's birthday and instead of feeling sad, I'm going to tell a little story. This story was one of my dad's favorites and when we first told it to him, he laughed so hard he blew snot and his glasses fell off. It might not have the same effect on you, but that's okay.

Back in the early 90's, my sister and I were going to college in Tallahassee. We shared an apartment with two of our good friends and hung out a lot together; it was a fun period in our early adult lives.

I was taking a Humanities class, and in that class was this HOT-ASS DUDE. Long hair, tattoos, big blue eyes. Come to think of it, Brian resembled this guy very much when I first met him; I am nothing if not consistent with who I'm attracted to. So this guy was beautiful, and even though he'd smiled at me a few times, I was too chickenshit to talk to him of course. But oh happy day, for some reason (we'll soon learn why) he talked to me first, one day while we were walking into class.

It was then I learned a big lesson on appearances being deceiving. Here I figured he'd be some beer-drinking, pot-smoking rocker dude (yeah!), so it was quite a shock when he introduced himself (his name was Robin) and invited me to visit his church for the upcoming Wednesday night service. Uh...wha? He told me the church was non-denominational and really laid back; no uptight stuffy people, in fact it was mostly young cool people. He also told me he was studying to be a pastor. Holy Hotness, Batman; I was lusting after Pastor Robin!

Now, I'm sure you've done some strange things in the past when you've been strongly crushing on someone and so had I. But going to church? That was a new one. After hearing me talk about this guy for weeks, my sister was excited for me, the fact there had finally been actual conversation. You have to understand; I'd already built this guy up to mythical proportions in both our heads. I'm pretty sure I even compared him to Jon Bon Jovi, which back then for us was the ultimate male compliment. I told her about the church thing and in true sisterly support, she agreed to go with me that night. There's no way in hell...I mean...heck I would've had the balls to do something like that by myself. God, having a sister is so handy sometimes!

So Wednesday night arrived, and with directions in hand off we went. Our roommate friends, especially Jen, thought it a bit humorous, but whatever. All's fair in the name of hot dudes and she understood. The church was just some small building downtown and like Robin had promised, it was casual and intimate. He spotted us as we walked in and happily greeted us. Sister gave me a look like, Oh yeah; you were not lying about the hotness. He led us over to where there were folding chairs set up (again, casual) and told us he'd join us after he talked to some people. He ended up sitting a few chairs down from Sister; I think there might have been one or two people in between them.

During the service, which was pretty good as I recall, a great idea came to me. I had been dying to know Robin's last name; I don't know why - the better to stalk him with I guess? So I logically figured, someone like him would have a fancy personalized Bible. And many times those fancy personalized Bibles have the person's name printed on the front. Usually in like that gold lettering? I wanted to know his last name, so bingo! I quickly whispered all this to Sister and told her, Look over there and try to get a peek at the front of his Bible - see if you can read his whole name! She began to lean over and do her best to subtly get the visual without being obvious. A minute or so passed, and suddenly she snapped her head back around and faced forward. She bit her lip and wouldn't look at me. I could see her face starting to turn pink.

What! I said urgently, What did it say; what's his name???
She turned to me with tears in her eyes and answered: Genuine Leather.

At that moment, we immediately both faced forward, too scared to look at each other for the rest of the service for fear of interrupting it with our loud, raucous laughter. And to our credit, we held it in until about an hour after we left, when we were over at her boyfriend's house telling the story to him. And then we called our dad later after getting home and he had the reaction I described above. Anytime after that, all someone had to say was "genuine leather," and he laughed until he cried.

Sadly, I quickly found out, ol' G.L. was dating another member of the church, a very pretty brunette. Our interaction thereafter was a friendly hello here and there and after the semester ended, I never saw him again. I'm sure he's a good preacher now and is living a wonderful life. I never got a date from him, but I got a great story and like Mick and Keith say, You can't always get what you want but if you try sometime you just might find you get what you need.

Splish splash and crash

Aight.

Enough with those pictures staring me in the face every time I bring my blog list up to read other people's stuff today. As attractive as I am with a big blue penis in my face, I'd rather not see that. Like ever. It does remind me of a funny story though.

When Brian and I were first living together, way back when the earth's crust was still cool and I hadn't yet turned fiscally conservative, a friend of ours was getting rid of a waterbed and asked if we wanted to buy it. Having never owned one, I said sure. I was mostly excited about the fact it had one of those cheesy 80's built-in bookshelf headboards. Give me something with a bookshelf on it and I'm yours 4-ever. Fifty bucks - a real bargain, considering our friend hauled it over and helped Brian set it up.

We lived in a two-story apartment at the time and Brian asked me to call the apartment managers to make sure we were allowed to have the bed in a second story bedroom. He's a pretty logical person and figured with a two-thousand pound hulking beast of a piece of furniture, we should play it safe. The day our friend arrived with the bed, Brian thought of it again and asked if I'd called the front office. I lied and said I had. I'm not proud, okay? I was all excited about my new bed! But either way, in it went, up it filled and we happily settled down for our first night of aquafied fun. Until I saw noticed something. That bookshelf headboard? Had a fucking MIRROR on it. Don't ask me how I didn't notice that before, but I've never claimed to be Captain Observant, okay? It certainly was easy to notice when it was reflecting white asses in the air. I made a mental note right then to fill the headboard with books first thing in the morning. There would be no more peepshows after that night, thank you.

Let's put it this way. I am exhibitionist-opposite. I could not cut it for a career in porn. (At least not in front of the camera. I could write and direct the hell out of one of those things; it's called a PLOT, assholes, look into it!) I do not gaze lovingly at my naked reflection, and even though Alanis says we all should, I don't walk around naked in my living room. I don't EVER again wish to see myself in flagrante delicto. That's Latin for Ukingfay. And that's Pig Latin for you-know-whattay. That night the best idea I could think of was to indicate a change of positions was necessary. Tout de suite. (What's with all these weird words today?)

That's not the end of the waterbed saga.

A few nights later, we had a party. Several of our friends had come from out of town and were spending the weekend with us. I drank hundreds of rum and Cokes and had a rip-roaring good time. After everyone who was leaving left and everyone who was staying passed out, we eventually wandered upstairs. We got into bed and all of a sudden it hit me: two of my very close friends were sleeping right below us on the living room futon. In my drunken state I started freaking out, convinced the bed was going to crash through the floor and squash them dead. At this point, Brian was laughing his ass off at me while also attempting to calm me down. Finally he reminded me the apartment people wouldn't have let us put the bed upstairs if it was dangerous. And of course this is when I had to admit my ugly deceit. Lucky for me I have a really laid-back and forgiving man, but even though he forgave me for lying, he refused to join me to sleep in the walk-in closet no matter how much I pleaded and begged.

Moral of this story? Waterbeds are stupid.

"We were on a BREAK!" -Ross Geller

It's getting close to wrap-up time with this story. Hang in there with me a little while longer - I promise, it gets better. Obviously.

So there we were, staying part-time at Grace's house in a sort of suspended time-lapse. We slept together on her couch bed, but there were no relations for us during that time. The one time we tried turned out disasterously - he was still way too emotionally wrapped up with her and I still obviously had a lot of resentment toward him; it wasn't good. That was pretty painful, let me tell you. After that episode is one of the few times I actually considered the possibility of divorce. We had an hours-long, drawn-out tearful conversation about it in her back yard and in his car driving around the neighborhood, but he still asked me not to go through with it, knowing it was totally unfair to ask me to continue to wait. Apparently I didn't really want that either, because it didn't happen. But it wouldn't be the last time I came really close and it's weird to think of how different things would've turned out had a couple of crazy things not happened...aaand, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Our friend Jody, who had indirectly caused this mess (I don't blame him, but my sister refused to ever speak to him again after the shit settled, as did all of our mutual friends and now no one has been in contact with him in years), "let it slip" to Christine Brian and I were staying together during the week. I guess it was his way of getting Brian back for leaving him in Lake Shitty with no one but a housefull of women and kids for company. She, as you may imagine, was Not Pleased and handed down another ultimatim. Brian had a good job in Tampa. She was ready to leave her sister's house and get all set up like a proper Welfare Woman deserves. She told him it was time he got a place for them.

Which is what the dumbass did. Trying to keep it from me, he put a deposit and first month's rent down on an over-priced three bedroom apartment in Tampa. Obviously I found out about it. But things were so shaky with them still, I decided to let things play out and not fight it anymore. Of couse NOW I'm glad I didn't push a divorce through but then I wondered what the hell I was thinking. Except that I kind of knew if they actually did move in together, it would be the final straw. Out of her element, not having her sister to party with or neighbors to flirt with, living REAL LIFE as a mother and a girlfriend? I doubted she was cut out for it.

Coincidentally another friend of mine had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend and was crushed. She came over to Grace's one day to talk about how fucked up everything was for both of us. Out of that conversation, we decided the best thing would be for us to move in together, knowing it wouldn't be permanent. When I told her about Brian's new apartment in Tampa, she told me she was thinking about moving to Brandon, a town twenty minutes south of there. Her favorite cousin lived there, she didn't want to be in Inverness anymore; our very small hometown, where she'd run into her ex constantly - she was ready to get out and start over. I'd known Jen forever and we'd lived together successfully before, during college. And she's a lot like me in letting her fight or flight instinct take over in a crisis; she started making plans that very day for our move.

I told Brian about the plan. He was happy. Happy that I wasn't going any further in my relationship with JR, happy because he liked Jen and most importantly because I'd be close to where he was living. He still wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be with her. Selfish? Absolutely. He admitted as much. It was at that point he told me he knew he carried things too far and he didn't know what to do to make things right again. He didn't trust her anymore, not that he ever did much after the first couple of weeks. The newness had mostly worn off and he was upset to find out she wasn't a very nice person. The problem for him was the kids. They'd gotten used to him and he was even more attached to them now, especially the baby. In the time he'd been around, the baby had grown up so much, had started walking, talking. Calling him "Daddy." He got to experience all of that. That sound you just heard was me throwing up in my mouth.

But that's okay. No one ever spent a night in that big stupid apartment. At least no one I know. The beginning of the end had just begun.

Next phase: The halfway point

Maybe I'm getting sick of the story because I spent too much time in the sad/bad beginning part. It wasn't all doom and gloom and once I escaped Lake City ( or Lake Shitty it will forever be known as to us), things did start to improve. Like I said, I spent a few weeks as a gypsy to stay with different friends until I sadly realized it couldn't go on forever and I needed to decide where I would settle down, at least temporarily. I spent New Year's Eve of 2002 in a hotel room in Tallahassee with JR and his friends, thinking This isn't how I pictured married life.

Lucky for me, my sister and brother-in-law (they weren't married yet, but may as well have been) offered to let me stay with them in Orlando. What was good about that was it was far enough away so that I wouldn't be tempted to see Brian. That still wasn't going anywhere and it hurt too much whenver we did see each other and we kept it to a minimum, only enduring short and painful visits when we changed puppy custody. Yet it also wasn't the smallness of my hometown where I'd originally run. Have you ever been to Orlando? There's a lot to do there. Even though I wouldn't describe myself as happy, I mostly remember that as a positive, even fun experience. I got to know my sister's husband better than I ever would have otherwise. We went to a few Orlando Magic games, which was fun because they'd just turned into a decent team. There was a Disney trip in there somewhere, because you can't spend too much time in Orlando without getting sucked in there through osmosis. I was making fairly decent enough money at a temp job I'd found and though I saw JR a few times, I spent most of my time with Sister, Travis and good friends.

That era lasted a little less than three months and a few key things were responsible for its demise. The biggest one was my dad died suddenly sending me and all of us into a scary tailspin. Almost seven years later, I still can't say I'm recovered; it's just something I live with now.

I was working at the temp job in downtown Orlando that morning when I got a call on my cell my dad had been rushed to Citrus Memorial in Inverness, an hour and a half away. I didn't know at the time he had passed already; I guess whoever called decided it would be safer for me to drive not knowing first. I still can't remember who called to this day. Very weird. When I got to the hospital and found out he was gone, I found my mom and sister, who had gotten there a little before I had. There are whole blocks of that day I don't remember, but I know I called Brian immediately. He'd just started working at a golf course in Tampa - a job my dad had gotten him. He knew by that time we were separated, but he also still loved Brian and was optimistic we'd get back together. And that's the part that sucks the most about the whole thing - my dad never got to see that the shitty story had a happy ending. (Here's where somebody usually tells me He does know , and I start crying. If you'll excuse me for a few seconds.)

Brian arrived a little while later and went through that nightmare of a couple of days with us. He was as upset as all of us were; my dad was an amazing guy. His funeral at our town's main little funeral home was attended by so many people, they didn't all fit inside the building. Family came in from everywhere and most of my friends were there as well. Brian was more than a little uncomfortable being there, knowing a lot of people there thought he was the anti-Christ. But he was there through the whole thing. As were both sets of his parents, which is something I'll never forget. But here's the part where you need to remember how kind and decent Brian's been through most of this; and this was one of the hardest things I had to forgive him of after all the shit settled.

The day after the funeral he left Inverness and went back to Lake Shitty to HER. Yep. He'd spent a few too many days away from her with me and even though his father-in-law dying was an acceptable enough reason even for Ol' Crosseyes, she decided enough was enough and put the smackdown on him. I guess I was still in so much shock (and not-quite-sober for most of my waking hours) that I wasn't even too affected by it at the time, beyond being obviously hurt and pissed. It sucks to have to remember it, but there are no rules in a game like this. Maybe you would've handled it differently - bully for you. It's been dealt with as far as I'm concerned.

Thus began another strange few months. Brian worked during the week in Tampa and I still had the job in Orlando (though it wouldn't be for very much longer for me). We were both staying with my best friend Grace during the week now; I like to say she accepted both our emotional and literal baggage into her house without question. Which meant we both had 70 - 80 mile commutes, ONE WAY. EVERY DAY. On the weekends, he'd go see HER and I'd do whatever; sometimes see JR, sometimes stay with Grace and Elizabeth - and that's when I realized how close I was to the kid and what a rare source of happiness she was for me at that time. She didn't really understand what was going on at six years old, but she was some damn good company. You can't be sad too much around kids; or at least not that kid. I took her to Orlando to pick up my last paycheck and on many other fairly good-sized road trips for someone her age. We sang in the car. We went to the beach. I took her to see Crossroads, glad I had a child with me as an excuse to go see it. I sometimes dropped her off or picked her up from daycare; like I said, we got close. It's amazing how I actually now miss some things from that time.

Grace and I started referring to this as our "In the Ghetto" period. There wasn't a whole lot of money coming in for any of us but we pooled as many resources as we could, realized that no matter what is going on in our lives we still felt the need to buy groceries every week and make dinner (almost) every night. We had a lot of fun together and even though she was extremely pissed off at Brian, she never said anything mean to him or made him feel uncomfortable in her house. Amazing, Grace. Too easy, but I'm keeping it. So another couple of months passed this way and it sort of felt like controlled chaos. In addition to dealing with my stupid marital sitation, I was now in the beginning stages of grieving for my dad. I'm indebted to a lot of people but especially to Grace for the rest of my life for keeping me from going over the edge, because believe me there were times I was very close.

Please now sing a few lines from Lean on Me in honor of my friend Grace. Stand by Me works just as well. Or In the Ghetto by Elvis. It's fun, trust me.

Moving right along

Okay, I'm officially sick of this story, so I'm going to skip ahead about two months to the next significant thing that happened. During that interim I can say nothing much changed except I had more to do to occupy my time and kept losing more and more weight. During this time I let some friends and family in on what was going on. It sucked. We all cried. Nothing changed.

Finally early one morning in mid-December I woke up and something snapped. I don't know if a particular event caused it or I'd finally just had enough. I can't imagine it was only one particular thing, as I'd already had to deal with seeing and hearing things no married person should ever have to see or hear and I was still alive. I think I was pretty much done with that place and what was going on. The only time I felt okay was when I was not there, so I figured it was time to leave for good. Whatever was going to happen would have to happen with me living elsewhere.

I wish I could tell you I did the responsible thing as far as my job was concerned, but I'm all about being truthful so I can't. Once I decided to leave, I didn't want to be there another day. Another hour. I got dressed, packed a small bag, wrote a long and probably very psycho letter to my bosses which I left on my desk before anyone else arrived (I made sure to get there before daylight just in case), filled the gas tank, bought cigarettes and got the fuck out of dodge. I had seven dollars left. How very bohemian of me.

Now that I think about it, Brian must've had custody of the dog during that time - we were taking turns because both of us love him that much.

So I was alone when I left, no furry buddy by my side. I'm sure I was sad about that, but as I merged onto I-75 south I shot the whole town a bird and turned the radio up. I felt like I could breathe easier already. This would kick off about a month of me hitting the road whenever I got too sad. I don't know how I managed it money-wise, but if ever you find yourself in this situation, I can't recommend road trip therapy enough. I had people who loved me all over the state and all of them - ALL of them told me to come and stay. As long as I wanted, it didn't matter.

But, the first place I headed was pretty logical - my hometown. I knew I wasn't going to stay with my parents, as they only knew the bare minimum of what was going on. My best friend's house, on the other hand, was a very attractive prospect - it is like a cocoon of security in a big and shitty world. I showed up without calling first to her job at a doctor's office on a Tuesday morning. When she saw me walk in, she didn't say much but got out her house keys and handed them to me. Mind-reading comes in handy when there are people around you don't want hearing your bidness.

The only awkward part of going there was her boyfriend at the time, who happens to be Brian's best friend. Except it wasn't really awkward since he was on my side throughout pretty much the whole thing. Not that we made people take sides. It just sort of started happening naturally after a few months had passed and Brian still couldn't seen to make up his mind as to what he wanted to do.

That Christmas was one of the worst days of my life. I didn't talk to him, but I did talk to his parents, which made everything worse. They were sad and told me they hoped Brian would come to his senses soon (he was classy enough never to share with him my portion of the blame - you'll need to remember that soon when I tell you something else that will piss you the hell off). I'm pretty sure that was the only day I took sedatives while it was still daylight - anything to make the day be over. Another friend swooped in toward the end of the day and forced me to go to Orlando with her, where more of our friends were and also my sister and brother-in-law. I didn't really want to go, but getting on the road again was better than sitting around like a lost pathetic character in a bad novel - I was in and we were out.

Somehow later that night, JR tracked me down. He was someone that also spent a lot of time on the road, for a myriad of reasons, none of them good. But he was only a few hours away - did I want to see him. The truth was I sure did. I mean, come on. I hadn't seen my husband or dog for a long time by then.

Here's where details get swirly for awhile, so I'll end here for now. Let's just say this started the Dark Period, where sobriety wasn't a big part of my life for a little while. A little vacation from reality was what I wanted and it was easy to choose. I admire people who handle a crisis without a crutch. I was not one of them.

Ethics and annivesaries

Before I get into the latest installment of Marriage: The Crisis Year, I just have to comment on the story that's going around the news and blogosphere this week. You know the one - where the woman who already had six kids from fertility treatment just gave birth to octuplets? I wasn't planning on talking about it because it's already received too much attention, which I think is one of her motives to begin with. She's already receiving book and movie offers and she'll likely make a lot of money from this. However, currently a fertility customer myself, I have to say something. No, I don't want to be told how many kids I'm allowed to have (I don't live in China for a reason), but isn't there such a thing as common sense? Responsibility? Maybe this woman is crazy; maybe she has greedy motives - hell, maybe she just LOVES KIDS THAT MUCH. Whatever. What blows me away is not so much her, but the doctor or doctors who allowed this to happen.

And another thing: who's paying for it? Apparently her parents have gone broke trying to help her support the first six kids, so it can't be them. She hasn't worked since 2002, so it's not her. She's single, so unless there's some guy footing the bill, there isn't an income there. I know how much money we've already put out for this stuff and I haven't even been implanted yet, so...what? Did she watch too many episodes of Jon & Kate Plus Eight and think, hmm...what a good idea; if they can make money, why can't I? (I'm a Jon & Kate fan and only bring it up to support a theory.) Are the taxpayers paying for it, as some have suggested? That would mean she would've had to apply for some type of financial assistance, which brings me back to: who the hell would put their stamp of approval on this idea?

One of the first things I read about the fertility place we're using is that they do their best to prevent multiples. It's in the best interest of both the mother and the children, and while there were pictures of twins and one set of triplets on the wall in the waiting room the other day (and they were SO BEAUTIFUL!), that's pretty understandable. You start taking fertility drugs and having procedures done with the sole intent on creating a life - it's an unavoidable side effect. Personally, I wouldn't mind twins. I'm almost forty and this might be the only big show; to end up with a family of four like the one I came from is a very pleasant proposition to me. Of course this also is from someone who has no idea what it's like to take care of ONE baby for any length of time, so that sounds pretty cocky just saying that.

I don't know what will come of this, if anything, but I hope things turn out okay for all those kids who never asked to be born into this chaos. And I was just thinking nothing could surprise me anymore...people will never cease to amaze me.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the day we met, so that ties in conveniently with another annivesary, the saddest one I've ever had.

All the shit hit the fan September 12th. Our second wedding anniversary was October 9th. You can imagine how difficult this day would be on its own, but what made it even more horrific was the fact my parents had no idea what was going on (yet). We lived almost two hours away from them. They wanted to celebrate with us, and being a weeknight the best idea was meeting in the middle for them to take us out to dinner. It was what we'd done for our first anniversary and it had been a lot of fun. I told Brian what they wanted to do and he for some reason agreed. I don't know what the hell we were thinking, to be honest.

The drive down was quiet and though I tried not to think about our wedding day two years before, that was fairly impossible. It had been such a great day; a day I never would've imagined barely two years later would bring us to where we ended up. We talked a little, but tried to keep things light, knowing we'd be putting on a show and would need to save the mental and emotional energy for that.

It was so bad. My parents met us at a Ruby Tuesday's near the mall in downtown Gainesville. Brian grabbed my hand as we got out of the car to walk to the restaurant and that one little gesture nearly made me fall apart. My parents were happy and excited to see us and among the hugs and kisses, handed us a present. For the love of God. I just called Brian to see if he remembered what it was: a Fry Daddy. I knew it was something big and for the kitchen. I don't remember what I ordered to eat that night, but I do remember how hard it was to fake eating it, considering I'd pretty much given up on eating by then. Always someone with a good appetite especially when out to eat, my parents noticed, but didn't make too much of it - I made some excuse about having a slightly upset stomach (not a lie) and got a doggy bag for the leftovers.

My dad and Brian loved each other a lot. It was good to see Brian perked up while in his company - one of the hardest things for him during that time was the thought of disappointing our parents. Which is why you should really try to keep your affairs secret. I'm kidding - I had to lighten the mood a little.

After we parted ways, I'm not sure what possessed us to continue with this horrid evening, but we decided to see a movie while we were right there. The hell! Of course it was bad - did you ever see The Others with Nicole Kidman? Some people liked it - I guess I'm a little biased about it and probably wouldn't have liked my favorite movie of all time if I'd seen it that night. No, I really think it actually sucked. Over two hours of creepy mystery with a totally obvious pay-off. Ugh.

We drove home. He knew better than to spend the night elsewhere that night and I was glad to have him home. The year before we'd danced to the song we danced to at our wedding - "I Love You" by the Climax Blues Band (the lyrics were so perfect for us, there was never any question what our wedding song would be) and we'd said that would be a tradition we'd do every year...that night we didn't dance, but just listened to the song quietly sitting on the couch together. Sad, sad. As with everything in this story, there was no cinematic moment of realization that we belonged together or that we'd get through this somehow. Real life is never that convenient.

Exhausted from the night's effort, we finally went to sleep - me in our bed and him on the couch, the dog settling down with a big sigh in between the bedroom and living room, not understanding at all what the stupid humans were up to these days.

Lighter fare

I'm...not in the mood to talk about maritial mistakes or making babies today. I had a long-but-too-quick weekend that's left me a little groggy. Also today is the 13th anniversary of Brian and I meeting for the first time (at a bar called Wings & Ale). In honor of that and the fact I'm mostly brain-dead, I'm keeping it light today.

Laundry seems to be a running theme with the bloggers I read. All of us hate it and most of us let it get out of hand long before we motivate ourselves to do something about it. Why is that? I know if I kept a regular schedule with it, it would be much easier to control, but I haven't done that in a very long time. Why do laundry when I can read/sleep/play on the computer/do anything else. Brian put together an awesome wall unit shelf thing in my closet room so that for the first time in a long time I have adequate space for my clothes. It was so beautiful when he was done and I'd put my clothes on it, I took pictures of it. By the time this past Saturday had rolled around, most of the clothes were on the futon in baskets of dirty/piles of clean clothes and the wall unit was almost empty. He made a smartass comment about it that made me want to slap him in the mouth, but I couldn't deny he was right. I hate when that happens.

That, coupled with having an overnight guest Saturday night forced me to get off my ass and put all the clothes away. I am telling the God's honest truth when I say it took me over three hours. THREE HOURS. Of course the guest ended up passing out in a beer/Playstation stupor on the couch, so the removal of the clothes from the futon was technically not necessary. But oh how much fun it was to pick out something to wear to work today - it was like having a bunch of new clothes to choose from. And it'll be like that the rest of this week! Exciting. Maybe I'll try to keep it under control for awhile. Don't quote me on that.

The guest in question was an ex-boyfriend of mine and no, there's no juicy story there. He was a guy I was more best friends with than anything and who I originally moved to SC with in 1992. We broke up a few years later (obviously amicably) and I stayed here and met Brian a year later. After we'd been together for awhile, they ended up meeting each other and getting along. We don't see him that often, but whenever we do it's always a good time (don't be a pervert). Also what happens every time is I get really thankful I didn't end up with D and got to marry Brian instead. That cheesy Garth Brooks Unanswered Prayers song? Totally me. He's a great guy and I'm happy we're still friends but as a husband? Noooo. No. No. No-no. In fact, he's currently going through a divorce right now and I really like his new girlfriend and want to tell her to have fun with him but don't make any long-term plans. But I would never do that. They'll be coming to my birthday party this weekend and we've made plans to spend that night with them afterwards, so that should be interesting too. I'll be happier having her there to balance everything out and do the guys outside peeing off the front porch/girls inside talking about guys and babies hang-out thing.

He also talked me into doing a birthday thing for him next month; going to see this Beatles cover band that's supposed to be amazing. He and I are both huge Beatles fans (we saw Paul McCartney here in 1993) and he's seen them like three times before and said we have to see them, so I'm trusting him. They're called The Return in case anyone's seen them and they totally suck. Which if you have and they do, don't tell me because the tickets are non-refundable and I bought them online Saturday night. I'm sure it'll be great. I now have Hey Jude in my head and will for the remainder of the day. Naaaa, na na na na na na, na na na na....hey, Jude...
Okay, I lied - one baby thing. Does anybody know how to tell if you're REALLY ovulating, like the best possible day of your cycle to get knocked up? I've heard so many different things and read a million things online...a common one is that you start fourteen days after the first day of your last period; does that sound about right? If that is the case, that means it's today...and even though we're doing the IVF, it couldn't hurt to try one last time on our own, right? We'd save money plus it would be a proper way to celebrate the anniversary thing today, right? (Even though the anniversary for the first time we did THAT is eleven days from now. Yes, I waited eleven whole days after we met. Do not judge me; it had been awhile)

Yeah, why the heck not; there's nothing good on TV tonight anyway.

B.I.H.T.D. Part 4 (I seriously need a better title)

To reiterate: Yes, I cleared it with Brian before I started writing this story and sharing it with the internet. I got a weird email from some weirdo just now, so I feel I must address Mr. McWhackjob. Brian has been skimming some of it and skipping other parts entirely. He didn’t want to read it at all at first and did so only at my request. I feel like he’s the only other person who I can fact-check with and the main opinion I care about with how I tell this story. This actually happened to us and it wasn’t fun and I’m not trying to make light of it. But having a sense of humor is one of the things that got us both through it in the first place, so if I’ve offended anyone by acting like it wasn’t a big deal…I’m sorry but you don’t know me or us, so shut it, Wingnut. Besides my dad dying, this was by far the most traumatic event I’ve ever gone through. And not that it matters, but these two things happened almost six-months apart from each other to the day, my marital crisis being the first. I don’t look back at the end of 2001/beginning of 2002 with fondness, but I’m entitled to my dark sense of humor, just like you’re entitled to your no sense of humor.

Okay! Back to the Flux Capacitor, set to September 2001.
A few people made the excellent point after reading the last post that DUH – of course he felt happy and loved with the Other; the relationship was brand new! Which I didn’t address in the last post but I most certainly said to him at the time. Um, hello idiot – remember our first six weeks together? Pretty fun, right? Yeah. Well now it’s been five and a half years; excuse me if I no longer have that new car smell. What a strange metaphor. But seriously. You’re not exactly Mr. Excitement yourself these days. He acknowledged that. It didn’t matter by then. He was well on his way past infatuation, which was pretty hard to believe.
When it was all over he admitted that in his head he’d already messed up so badly that he didn’t think there’d be any way to turn back. He’d hurt me, felt like he let our families and friends down and pretty much felt like an all-around fuck-up. I add that in case someone ever thinks it’s too late. If you’re still alive and above ground, it’s never too late. You can get a divorce and get married again; it’s never too late. For some people that’s what it takes. For us we went to the brink a couple of times, but never crossed it – which is the economical way to do it if you ask me.
But of course that took a long time; almost a year. The first month or so of this was not a very pleasant time, as you may imagine. It’s one thing to learn about your husband and another woman and quite another to see it in action. While we were in the first few days of trying to live with this, it started to become apparent they were seeing each other almost every day. One night in particular, he actually told me he was going to see her, but that it would just be a little while. I knew it was coming, but that didn’t mean as soon as he closed the door behind him I didn’t break down into a hysterical, fetal snot-choking, vomit-inducing hour-long cryfest on the floor. When 2:00 in the a.m. rolled around, and he still wasn’t home, I couldn’t stand to be inside our house any longer and was out walking with the dog around the neighborhood, crying and dry-heaving in my pajamas, I decided this was unacceptable. That was one of the worst fights, when he got home that night. Things got broken, including our big framed wedding photo, a ceramic pedestal I’d gotten a great deal on at my favorite pottery store and my only pair of (very necessary) glasses. The dog, not used to us screaming at each other, quietly slipped out the door while we weren’t looking. Thinking about that one still makes me very sad.

So. I decided instead of watching the affair unfold before my eyes and seeing him visibly torturing himself, it was time for me to make a decision. I told him to go to her. I didn’t want him to leave, but it was better than being a witness to this madness. For my own sanity I knew it had to happen. Things were going nowhere like this. And logically I’d figured out the more time they spent together, the quicker the honeymoon phase would wear off and more than likely some problems would set in. I wasn’t wrong.

Here’s the part where I tell you a little about her. From what I knew at the time, she had recently moved down to that little shit-hole of a town to live with her sister and her three kids. She’d just broken up with the father of her youngest child, a six-month old baby boy. Her other two boys were both under the age of six and as previously mentioned both had different fathers. She liked to party and though I won’t get into specifics, a lot of partying was done in that house with the two sisters, the six kids, my husband and my friend Jody. She didn’t work and lived off of child support and her parents. She was a few years younger than me. That part always hurts, right? But she wasn’t real smart, based on a couple of love letters I’d found in his jeans pockets and she didn’t like to read. That part made me happy – books and reading was our thing. He told me he wasn’t allowed to bring me up at all; that she told him he talked about me so much, why didn’t he just go back to me. Bitch. She, however, enjoyed flirting openly in front of him with their biker neighbor. Curious. My amateur opinion? Not only was she a run-of-the-mill whore, she was also somewhat of an attention whore. But hey. She wasn’t the married one and I don’t give two shits about her personality traits. Now, anyway.

I would later learn she was very tall, skinny and had light brown waist-length hair. Up close her face wasn’t the greatest, but it was passable. The only flaw I immediately noticed was her eyes – slightly small and beady and even a little crossed. The funny part, and by funny I mean sick, was that before I saw her, I was actually picturing someone who looked similar to me! What the hell – ego much? Believe me, my insecurities are many and have never been as prevalent as right then, but I seriously pictured a short-ish, kind of big-boobed brunette. I never have liked tall women and this certainly didn’t do anything to endear them to me (no offense – if you’re tall and don’t fuck my husband, I don’t have anything against you now) You can change many things about your appearance but as far as I know, height isn’t one of them. Her appearance really doesn’t matter, but I’m female – of course I wanted to know every last detail to take apart and analyze and torture myself with. It didn’t help; it didn’t hurt.

Okay, in the interest of keeping this story moving along and this post under 5,000 words, let me quickly sum up the next couple of weeks. I somehow managed to function enough to go to work (almost) every day. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet – I didn’t even know what I’d say. So this was definitely a dark time for me, dealing with it alone. Some of the weird things I did during this time:

- I became almost completely incapable of keeping food down. It was hard enough forcing myself to eat on the rare occasion I actually felt hungry, because my mouth was always completely dry, making it difficult to swallow. Two things I was able to consume I bought at the gas station every morning – vanilla Cappuccino and those rectangle Keebler crispy wafer cookies. Don’t believe them on The Biggest Loser when they say you have to eat to lose weight – I’ve never found a more effective diet than this 300- calorie-per-day-plus-vomit plan. I eventually bottomed out at 104 and while it was interesting to fit into size 0 jeans, my boobs disappeared and I looked like I’d traded necks with a chicken. I miss those size 0’s, but I’m much happier being a size 8 – 10, knowing my husband loves only me now. Well, me and football.

- I could no longer listen to music of any kind or watch TV. The only form of entertainment I could stomach became talk radio. Very, very weird. Except not really, because that’s what Brian always listened to, so I guess that was one way of keeping something normal? I don’t know, but it became a permanent habit for me. Luckily my love for music eventually came back. Sadly so did my love for TV.

- Always a book lover, I found it hard to concentrate on reading anything more challenging than a magazine. Until I decided to start the Harry Potter series. I give a lot of credit to J.K. Rowling for helping me keep my sanity during that time, though she doesn’t know it. Tip: when real life goes to hell in a hand basket, Sci-fi/Fantasy children’s books really do the trick.

Brian still checked in regularly with me by phone because I told him it was easier for me not to see him. One night though he called to ask if he could come by and get some clothes and books and I said sure. This is a big example of how much I was on auto-pilot: After he got there, I started picking out and folding his clothes for him to get ready to take. When we both realized what I was doing, we began to laugh like lunatics. I said, “What a great wife I am – I’m getting your laundry ready for you to take over to your girlfriend’s house!” I was still laughing about it, but right then he stopped laughing, got really serious and said, “What the hell am I doing?” I said, “I don’t know. But it’s probably about time for you to go.” And before I could get too emotional (I’d already done all the crying I planned to do in front of him), I sent him on his merry (sad) way.

I’m not sure if it was luck, fate or God was just feeling sorry for me, but mere minutes after Brian left, I got a phone call. It just so happened to be my guy “friend.” He wasn’t aware of anything strange going on with me; it had just been awhile since we’d talked and he decided to call and see how I was doing. I had to make a big decision right then and there. Do the morally correct thing and not jeopardize my marriage further…or tell him I had some free time on my hands in case he wanted to hang out. Guess which one I picked.

Breaking up is hard to do - Part 3 of ???

You know what I'm having the most trouble with? Coming up with an appropriate title for this little marital tale of woe. Any input is welcome and appreciated.

Okay, here's where things get weird. There we were in our living room having the most painful discussion of our whole relationship, dare I say our whole lives. He'd just admitted to me he had feelings for another woman. Although I was shocked, hurt and reeling, I had to pause for a minute and remember: I know what he's feeling. I too had feelings for someone else and while I'd never planned on letting it go any further than where it was, currently on hold, I realized Brian was being more honest with me than I was with him.

Not that I was ready to admit anything yet. Because although NOW he knows the whens and hows of everything, I felt like I was in a much more vulnerable position at that moment and wasn't exactly in a sharing mood. I wasn't in love with the other guy. Unfortunately Brian's feelings for the other girl had already gone well beyond the point of physical attraction. And that was bad news bears, right there. How much easier for all parties concered if he'd done the normal damn thing and just had a one night stand like everybody else? No harm, no foul; what I don't know can't hurt me. But noooo...in his head he was in limbo hell, kind of waiting to get caught. Based on my temperment and personality, he expected to be immediately tossed out on his ass, thus having the decision made for him. He was not expecting the reaction he got, not at all.

See, in some small part of my effed up head, I actually understood and sympathized with him. Our relationship had been left unattended and had almost imperceptibly gone into a rut. We're human; we notice other people of the opposite sex. But instead following that all-important rule where you keep anyone else at a safe and appropriate distance, we obviously let ourselves get close to them. Although I try very hard not to give relationship advice, I can say with complete authority I would not recommend this. Unless of course you're a masochist who loves prolonged periods of heartache and chaos. Then by all means.

I asked the cliche'd question every wife in my position from the beginning of time has always asked. Do you love her? He looked at the floor. Uh oh. He answered:I think so. Then the inevitable,Do you still love me? This time he looked me in the eye. Yes. (The first flutter of hope entered my heart, though alas it would be very short-lived.) But. And here's where he started saying a bunch of stuff I'd pay large amounts of money to be like that Jim Carrey movie where you could have parts of your memory erased forever. Things like, I haven't felt close to you in a long time. When I'm with her I feel loved. We always hold hands and sit together - when was the last time you and I sat on the same couch or hugged while we're sleeping?

Excuse me while I go throw up dinner. Okay, much better.

The sucky part was, he'd made all good points. I couldn't argue. That didn't stop me from arguing; trust me - it had become obvious very quickly I stood a good chance of losing him, becoming one more of those thousands of divorce statistics, where we'd lived together happily twice as long as we'd been married. I always thought those stories were so ridiculous. (There's that pride again.) That was not what I wanted; not even close. I quickly realized how stupid and lazy I'd been. Taking for granted that I could coast along on the history of our closeness - marital cruise control - have my little fling and no one would be the wiser. Ever hear of karma? While I don't practice any forms of Eastern religion, I'm a true believer in that crazy shit. My Name is Earl? Yeah; my name is Kim, motherfucker, and I'm here to tell you that crazy shit is real. Real sucky.

And so it was we were at our first stalemate. As much as I wanted answers and a resolution, nothing was going to be solved that night. After hashing and rehashing, yelling, crying, pacing, and hand-wringing, he settled in on the couch to try and catch an hour or two of sleep before having to get up and go to work. And that's the difference between men and women right there. Sleep? I don't sleep that well on a good night, let alone that night. I've seen him fall asleep during a hurricane that was threatening to blow our house down...although I'm pretty sure in this case he wanted to be done talking more than anything else.

If I was smart, I would've tried to sleep as well. I didn't know it then, but I was about to need as much energy as I could muster in order to simply function every day. I was still naive enough that night to think things couldn't get any worse than they already were. Ha.

In which the husband is redeemed (a little)

Brian read yesterday's post and though he was okay with the content and how it was written, he said, Great. Now I look like an asshole. I assured him the next part of the story would include my assholery as well. So without further ado...

There we were in our little Ford Escort on the side of a dirt road, and he answered yes to the most hideous question I'd ever had to ask. Can I explain that even when I asked, I still didn't expect him to say yes? In the five years we'd been together, almost two of them married, we hadn't experienced any problems one would think would've led to this. We didn't argue very often and when we did it wasn't over anything major. Money was our biggest concern, with him being in school and only able to work part-time and me earning pitiful pay at my full-time job. He was (and is) a very kind and respectful person who though I sometimes push, has never disrespected or said a mean word to me. As I said before, he isn't the lying type. He certainly isn't the screwing-around type. But then again, I didn't think I was either and it was me who technically broke our vows first.

-Unavoidable backstory-

Ouch. That still sucks to admit. What's that saying, "Pride goeth before a fall?" Yeah. I don't usually throw the word "goeth" into everyday conversation, but I can relate very well. I so naively assumed we would never be one of *those* couples. We'd had a great time dating, fun living together and were both really excited and happy to get married. People still tell us how much fun they had at our small, casual lakeside wedding almost ten years later. We had eighty friends and family members drive and fly a long way to watch us get married. I don't think one person there that day thought it would ever come to this for us, and certainly not a month shy of our two-year anniversary. Including the two of us.

At the time he didn't know I'd been physical with another man, but he was keenly aware of how far emotionally removed I'd been in recent months. I worked at the college he was attending and had made some really good friends, some of them guys. Young, funny, witty, smart guys. You know - the good-for-the-ego kind of guys. One in particular led me down the path I never in a million years imagined I'd go. Not that I place a lot of blame on him. I was aware of what I was doing every step of the way and I've never been one to blame someone else for my mistakes. I was very open with my friendship with this guy in front of Brian and though he had made some comments here and there, I thought he was cool with it. Lying to yourself is very easy sometimes, as is coasting along with your relationship on autopilot. We did not fight any more during the months leading up to this than ever before. Which, as Brian pointed out later, was a problem in itself. Indifference can be just as poisonous as waging war and in our case it was the death sentence.

I'm not planning on getting too far into our sex life here (yes, I actually do have some boundaries, believe it or not); let's just say it was normal enough so that I didn't notice anything different in that area. The biggest red flag for me was the fact he'd started going out at night without me. A close friend of ours had moved back into town after HIS divorce and needed a friend to commiserate with him. Though I'd known and been close friends with Jody years before Brian knew him, as soon as I introduced them it was instant full-on Bromance. Not literally, dude; they just became BFF's really fast, okay?

Jody was a nice guy, but unlike Brian he was both a pathological liar and heavy drinker. Which were most certainly two reasons for the divorce he was practically suicidal from after eight years with his high school sweetheart. We weren't the type of couple who did a lot of the "Guys'/Girls' nights" where one spouse goes out with friends and gets wasted without the other. But Jody was in a bad place and it was much easier to deal with his shit by having a bud (and many Buds) and who better of a candidate than Brian, who was unhappy and bored and feeling distant from me? Whether it was going to a bar, playing cards, fishing or playing golf; they were spending an obnoxious amount of time together but I guess I was distracted with my own sneaky situation to complain too much.

The ride home and that night was rough. With the unrelenting 9/11 coverage (which provided a surreal and appropriate background - both my world and the world had cracked wide open), we started to get into the hows and the whys. I asked him how long it had been going on - About six weeks. I asked him who - You don't know her. Well NO SHIT, fucker! I wasn't exactly picturing you and one of our friends screwing!! Ahem. Sorry about that; that old pesky rage still rears its ugly head sometimes, even after all this time. Either way, he didn't tell me who it was that night. All I got out of him was that he'd met her at a bar one night when he was out with Jody. Oh. Oh, really. Brian was quick to defend Jody and tell me it was all his fault, and for me not to be mad at Jody. Even though Jody just so happened to be seeing and staying with this woman's sister at the time. And the two sisters lived together. With their six kids. Can I stress again how evil this town is where we spent almost three years of our lives? Evil, redneck and ghetto, all at the same time.

But yeah. This was the worst, ugliest, shittiest, most messed up part of the whole thing for me. This woman had three kids. (Do I even have to tell you they were all from three different fathers? Or that the youngest was just six months old?) I'd already been off of birth control for two years without getting pregnant. While it wasn't a major concern yet, it had already become a sensitive subject for me. Call me crazy, but I was sort of looking forward to having my husband's baby. Then here comes Looce Lucy with a ready-made family, just looking for the next sucker to become Daddy. And that's where it got real bad. That first night when all the nightmarish details started getting revealed? He told me he was very attached to her and to her kids and didn't know if he could stop seeing her.

The room tilted on its side and time stopped.
So where the hell does that leave us? I asked.
He looked down and shook his head. I don't know, he said.

Tale from the dark side

What an awesome response I got from yesterday's post; I was humbled by it. Not only did people say some very nice things in the comments, I also got a couple of emails that made me laugh, cry and pretty much get a healthy renewed faith in humankind. I think sometimes all it takes is having someone say, "I know what you're feeling; I went through the same thing." Relating and connecting with another person who knows exactly how you feel. It's like how I feel with people who've had a parent pass away, in my case a parent I was extremely close with. Unless you've gone through it, you can't come close to imagining how it feels.

That last phrase is something I said a lot during the Bad Time in our marriage. For about eight months there, we didn't know what the hell we were doing or feeling. We were both with other people, yet neither of us wanted to take the final step and divorce. Certainly there were times when I felt close; don't get me wrong. It wasn't exactly shits and giggles during those months. There were some serious knock-down drag-outs, to be sure. Navigating the emotional roller coaster in a situation like that is pretty effing treacherous to say the least, and at times it felt like I was in a day-to-day, sometimes hour-to-hour survival mode. It is not for the weak, I can assure you.

An example: One day while driving through the main road of the small town we lived in at the time (I like to call it Hell's Portal) and was enjoying a rare moment of actual peace. Singing along with the radio, windows down, sunroof open - I was feelin' fine. I stopped at a red light and happened to glance over to the car that was stopped next to me on my left. Wouldn't you know it - there was Brian and the other woman, She Who Shall Not Be Named. You may choose to believe this or not but I have no reason to lie. My first reaction? I started laughing. Which believe me, when I think about it now, all these years later, I still can't believe it sometimes. But I think I understand why. For one thing, I was obviously a little in shock. I'm sure I was thinking something like "There is my husband. With a woman in the passenger seat who isn't me. This might actually be one of the top ten worst moments of my life. And seriously, God? Did you think I was having too decent of a day or something? Had to put me back in check? Because that's some messed up shit right there."

I remember Brian had the weirdest expression; he was looking at me with this sickly smile that I think was a combination of shock, sadness, guilt...and irony. We both have a healthy appreciation for dark humor and it really doesn't get much darker than that. She on the other hand, was looking at me with pure unadulterated hate. Because I was with her husband or something? Because I was married to her boyfriend? I don't know. But I think that was the part that actually kicked in the laughing.

Our friends of course knew what was going on with us, and they were way more informed about everything than our families were. I mean, we'd only been married two years at that point; isn't it called the Seven Year Itch? We were five years early on that. And as we started to reconcile, you better believe some of my family members were full-to-burstin' with well-meaning advice. There were those who said divorce, period. No looking back. This is ridiculous - how could you ever trust each other again? There were some who said don't even think about getting back together unless you go to counseling. You need to find out why this happened and prevent it from ever happening again. Then, there was a select few (VERY few) who offered their support no matter what I decided. I still remember quite clearly who said what, trust me.

And I repeat: Have YOU ever been in an almost brand-new marriage and separated but still in love with your husband? Guilty of the same thing he's doing? No? Well, then I'm sorry but you don't understand. Not only do you not understand, you have NO IDEA. So while I appreciate all your unsolicited advice, kindly shut yer piehole. I am very careful now with offering relationship advice. I myself went through a crisis and luckily came out on the other side with a much healthier and stronger relationship for it. That certainly wouldn't work for everyone and I'm still by no means an expert on the subject. Nor would I ever claim to be.

Party like it's 1989

The other night Kristen and I met at Ruby Tuesday's (salad bar!) for dinner to discuss plans for our mutual birthday party. It's going to be at her house on February 7th, a week before my actual birthday and a couple before hers. It's always fun planning party food and we've decided to go with heavy appetizers and a cheesecake birthday cake. Actually cheese is turning into a large theme, since we're also having cheese fondue and a cheese tray. In my opinion you can never have too much cheese.

I guess planning for this party must have gotten me thinking about get-togethers in general because last night I came up with a humdinger of an idea.

I'm still in contact with a lot of the friends I grew up with. Coming from a small town, we were a pretty tight-knit and incestuous group and through the magic of the internet, we've been able to keep in touch or find each other again if we'd lost touch at some point along the way. Now that Delorme and I live in the same area again, it's been fun comparing stories of old friends and what they're up to these days. So last night I proposed my idea to him.

What if we had a reunion. Not a class reunion, as there are other people who deal with those things and although I had fun at my 10th, I didn't make it to my 20th. I'm thinking more along the lines of a reunion for our crew, the group of fifteen to twenty of us who were tight right after high school. The age range is different, but I think we're all within five years of each other. He liked the idea and said what I was thinking, that he has the perfect house for a large-ish gathering of people. So now the little wheels in my head are squeaking away, thinking about the potential of this. Maybe sometime in the late Spring or early Summer, before the weather becomes unbearable? A whole weekend of fun activities could be planned and that would include things other than playing drinking games, though that definitely has to happen as well. Yeah. I like the idea a lot. I think between the two of us and with help from a couple of other key players, we could really make this thing happen. I'm loving the idea a lot.

The late eighties/early nineties was a really fun time period in my life. To be able to see the people who were a part of it would be pretty freaking magical. I'm determined to make this happen. And when I get determined about making something happen, I'm usually successful.