• Push-up bras don’t work if you don’t have anything to push up.
• Basically I get out of bed so that I can go eat my gummy bear vitamins. Once I’ve done that I’m like, “Well, that was a productive day. Let’s go back to bed.”
• On Saturday Jim walked around Virginia City with a green head tucked under his arm. We were there for pizza with his family and while meandering past tourist traps of all sorts, I spied a green glass head wearing a hat for sale. I tapped it’s nose and told Jim, “I want to get one of those.” “Well then let’s get you this one,” he said, picking up the display and taking it inside. Moments later, I had a green head of my very own. “Everything’s for sale,” he told me.
• Mine is the most dysfunctional gaydar of all time.
• I like to write, but I loathe writing bios about myself. Which is strange because, as a general rule, I looove writing about myself. I’m sort of the only thing I know how to write about.
• It is safe to be honest with my James because he doesn’t jump to conclusions.
• Cameron and I tried rock climbing. I failed. So we will go take a class and try again. Cameron posits that since there’s a chance we may get stranded on an island or need to survive somewhere someday this is a skill that may come in handy at a future time so getting proficient is just good sense.
• Josie has been denim shopping lately. The other night she was looking for a tape measure and when I asked what for she said she needed to know how long her legs are. Let me remind you: she is TWELVE. I am THIRTY-ONE. She’s, like, four inches shorter than I am. You see where this is heading. I know my inseam, and so I had her find her hipbone and we matched it to mine. My hipbone is only about a half inch above hers. “Hey, you can wear 12-year-old clothes!” she said. “That would be true,” I replied, “were it not for my lady hips and thighs.” I told her we were now fighting seeing as those are the legs I signed up for in heaven, and God went and gave them to her. Jim was ROTFL. Yessir, I wrote that.
• Cake.
• What with all my yoga stuff and work junk and personal laptop and girl tools and toiletries I require to reconstruct myself after yoga, it’s not uncommon for me to leave in the morning hauling 40lbs. worth of gear. I know because I have weighed it.
• 18.5% of my body is fat. That sounds like too much, though I know it isn’t.
• When I sit next to Jim in his truck or even in the passenger seat in his little car, he wraps his right arm over my knees and tucks his hand into the top of my boots.
• If I made a list of all the candy I eat in one week, it would be far too embarrassing to share (this coming from a girl who has no problem writing an essay about a trip to the gynecologist and sending it out for publication; apparently my shame threshold is uncommonly high). Yesterday day alone—all before noon, mind you—we’ve got white candy melts, an Airhead, Grapeheads, and a York Peppermint Patty. An entire week’s list would look like a candy shop inventory.
• Anyone had those Jolly Rancher carmel apple suckers? Are they good? I nearly snatched one from a basket by a doctor’s desk today. Then I remembered I’m supposed to be a professional, and I kept my grubby little hands to myself.
• I do not know where the big bruises on my shins came from. I never know where my bruises came from.
• Sunday night while we were eating dinner Jim asked me, “What’s a common misconception about you?” Hands down, most common of all? That I eat healthy. “Vegetarian” isn’t synonymous with “healthy.” At least not in my case.
• Why am I always cold after pounding a lot of water even when the water’s at room temperature?
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
COURTING
I haven’t posted in three weeks. Been a busy girl. Yoga, of course. My friend, Tanya, has introduced me to aerial silks, and that bug’s bit me hard. Jim’s going to hang silks of my own in my—wait for it—living room. (It’s my house, for heaven’s sake. I can hang whatever I want wherever I want.) I’ve been throwing myself at my drug job. And I’ve been writing lots and lots, just not on here.
I was talking with my mom the other day and she said, “You’ll be here soon,” (My sister, Cat’s, new babe Walt is getting blessed in a week, and I’m off to the ‘Tah for it.) “so we can catch up. There’s been a lot going with you since we last talked.”
“Actually, I think you’re up to speed,” I told her, “I have a boyfriend I love. He has kids. It’s complicated.”
That really is the story, but I will fill in a few in-between bits—
On the boyfriend: I’m stupid, silly in love. We are pathetic. It’s adorable. And annoying, I’m sure. I love everything about him, right down to the shape of his head. I am finally able to trust that he will see things through; he has always done what he said he would, but it took a long time for me to be able to believe that a partner could follow-up. His legs look like something Renaissance sculptors would chisel out of marble. The only accurate descriptor that I can come up with for how that man kisses is YOWZA!
All good things.
But there is a sad thing regarding Jim. My sweetheart’s dad died a week ago. Though it’s a rotten loss, I know Jim has enjoyed being able to see all his sisters, brothers-in-law, and other family folk a lot this last week. And the viewing was a sight to see. (That was a strange sentence.) Shirl, Jim’s dad, was the quintessential 49er fan. So we all wore 49ers gear to the viewing. (Yes, even me. I now own a 49ers t-shirt. That’s weird.) The room was a sea of red. After the sad but lovely event, Jim, kidlings (sans Dustin; the boy was missed), and I went for froyo:
That photo is just moments before I dropped my frozen yogurt face-down on the floor. Gravity put me on a diet.
Court happened too. I mentioned that Thing One and Thing Two subpoenaed me. It was about this blog. As part of a convoluted case wherein they ended up being required to pony up the child care costs they refused to pay Jim and got slapped for refusing to tell Jim who is watching his kids when they’re not with The Inconsequentials, the exes were trying to get me to stop writing about them. Mean words. Hurt feelings. No shit. God bless The First Amendment. It got in their way a little bit. Holla holla free speech.
But don’t think they’re the only ones who got their asses handed to them. Regarding this blog, both Jim and I got it from the judge. Listen, I’ve had some really venomous moments on here, there’s no denying that, but it’s been part of my working-through process. There was a story I needed to tell. I told it in the way that best suited my feelings at the time of writing. The judge, a truly fair judge, said that things I’ve written about the affair/divorce are poisonous. He also said my writing’s like heroin. You can’t stop coming back for more. (Okay, that may not be what he meant with the heroin reference.) And then he told Carrie that if she doesn’t like what I’m writing, to not read it and to remember that she did, after all, have an affair with my husband and then marry him.
When we were out at dinner after the hours of court, I told Jim, “That was a seriously fun date.” I meant it. The circumstances were lousy, sure, but I learned things, got to see our terrible exes get reprimanded, and I got to hear the judge read aloud in court the mean names I’ve called Carrie on this blog. Here is where Thing One and Thing Two miscalculated—I really liked getting reamed for what I’ve written. It was a sort of dream come true. Here’s why: something I wrote got under my targets’ skin such that they ended up paying thousands of dollars to an attorney in order to fight about it.
I admit that there are times I’ve gone too far. I am constantly honest on here, and the times I’ve gone too far were my truth at the moment. I am not taking down or changing posts where I’ve pushed it too much, because the vehemence in those posts are part of the story. Sometimes I’ve been so angry or so hurt that those feelings have dominated the tone of what I wrote. That tone is where I was then, regrettable or otherwise. Here’s where I am now: I hope they shape up. Apparently Mark got a job, which is astonishing and wonderful. Jim’s minor kids spend 50% of their time with the exes; it would be nice if Jim wasn’t the kids’ only up-close male example of work ethic and effort to provide for a family. That’s a step in the right direction, and it’s the first one those two have made in a really long time. Jim and I hope there are more to come.
I was talking with my mom the other day and she said, “You’ll be here soon,” (My sister, Cat’s, new babe Walt is getting blessed in a week, and I’m off to the ‘Tah for it.) “so we can catch up. There’s been a lot going with you since we last talked.”
“Actually, I think you’re up to speed,” I told her, “I have a boyfriend I love. He has kids. It’s complicated.”
That really is the story, but I will fill in a few in-between bits—
On the boyfriend: I’m stupid, silly in love. We are pathetic. It’s adorable. And annoying, I’m sure. I love everything about him, right down to the shape of his head. I am finally able to trust that he will see things through; he has always done what he said he would, but it took a long time for me to be able to believe that a partner could follow-up. His legs look like something Renaissance sculptors would chisel out of marble. The only accurate descriptor that I can come up with for how that man kisses is YOWZA!
All good things.
But there is a sad thing regarding Jim. My sweetheart’s dad died a week ago. Though it’s a rotten loss, I know Jim has enjoyed being able to see all his sisters, brothers-in-law, and other family folk a lot this last week. And the viewing was a sight to see. (That was a strange sentence.) Shirl, Jim’s dad, was the quintessential 49er fan. So we all wore 49ers gear to the viewing. (Yes, even me. I now own a 49ers t-shirt. That’s weird.) The room was a sea of red. After the sad but lovely event, Jim, kidlings (sans Dustin; the boy was missed), and I went for froyo:
 |
| I swear Ben was having a good time. In the photo I took right before this one he was giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up, but Katelynn's eyes were closed, so I went with this one. |
That photo is just moments before I dropped my frozen yogurt face-down on the floor. Gravity put me on a diet.
Court happened too. I mentioned that Thing One and Thing Two subpoenaed me. It was about this blog. As part of a convoluted case wherein they ended up being required to pony up the child care costs they refused to pay Jim and got slapped for refusing to tell Jim who is watching his kids when they’re not with The Inconsequentials, the exes were trying to get me to stop writing about them. Mean words. Hurt feelings. No shit. God bless The First Amendment. It got in their way a little bit. Holla holla free speech.
But don’t think they’re the only ones who got their asses handed to them. Regarding this blog, both Jim and I got it from the judge. Listen, I’ve had some really venomous moments on here, there’s no denying that, but it’s been part of my working-through process. There was a story I needed to tell. I told it in the way that best suited my feelings at the time of writing. The judge, a truly fair judge, said that things I’ve written about the affair/divorce are poisonous. He also said my writing’s like heroin. You can’t stop coming back for more. (Okay, that may not be what he meant with the heroin reference.) And then he told Carrie that if she doesn’t like what I’m writing, to not read it and to remember that she did, after all, have an affair with my husband and then marry him.
When we were out at dinner after the hours of court, I told Jim, “That was a seriously fun date.” I meant it. The circumstances were lousy, sure, but I learned things, got to see our terrible exes get reprimanded, and I got to hear the judge read aloud in court the mean names I’ve called Carrie on this blog. Here is where Thing One and Thing Two miscalculated—I really liked getting reamed for what I’ve written. It was a sort of dream come true. Here’s why: something I wrote got under my targets’ skin such that they ended up paying thousands of dollars to an attorney in order to fight about it.
I admit that there are times I’ve gone too far. I am constantly honest on here, and the times I’ve gone too far were my truth at the moment. I am not taking down or changing posts where I’ve pushed it too much, because the vehemence in those posts are part of the story. Sometimes I’ve been so angry or so hurt that those feelings have dominated the tone of what I wrote. That tone is where I was then, regrettable or otherwise. Here’s where I am now: I hope they shape up. Apparently Mark got a job, which is astonishing and wonderful. Jim’s minor kids spend 50% of their time with the exes; it would be nice if Jim wasn’t the kids’ only up-close male example of work ethic and effort to provide for a family. That’s a step in the right direction, and it’s the first one those two have made in a really long time. Jim and I hope there are more to come.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
DOLLOPS
• In the lobby before yoga class last night, my Cameron-teacher told me, “Every time you adjust your outfit in class you have to bark like a dog.” Apparently I fidget a lot. He said, “I don’t want to say that it’s between every pose in the standing series . . . but it’s between every pose in the standing series.” While I didn’t bark like I was supposed to, I only touched my clothes five times—three times on purpose and twice on accident.
• I cracked myself up in that class. Earlier yesterday Cameron posted this on Facebook:
So that’s how I did Standing Bow. Then I laughed so hard I fell out.
• A few weeks ago Jim and I tumbled into the SkyGuide app. It’s one remarkable piece of software. I took astronomy in high school and in college but that was more than a decade ago, and since I can barely remember what year it is, I definitely can’t remember anything I learned in those classes. I do remember though how much I enjoyed the subject. Not the parts of the topic that talk about stars’ size and death and black holes. I just like learning where the constellations and significant stars are. You know, the unimportant stuff. But go ahead and bet me $20 that I can’t locate Betelgeuse in under five seconds. I’ll take your money, and that will feel pretty important to me.
• Which reminds me—last year Jim, Josie, and I went to the planetarium for a show on black holes. While the topic is too big for me, the show was good. At least I thought so. Within ten minutes of the lights dimming, Jim was out. And he’s a snorer. Josie and I snickered and agreed that it was only a matter of time.
• While Mondays are an unequivocal bummer, there’s one part of each Monday that I always enjoy: the latest “Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me” podcast. While, sure, I like “This American Life,” and always get into “Radio Lab,” “WWDTM” is my best-loved show. I always hope that one or two of my favorite panelists—Roy Blount, Jr., Mo Rocca, Paula Poundstone, Bryan Babylon, and Maz Jobrani—will be on the show, but all the panelists are a hoot. Even though Capitol Public Radio broadcasts each week’s episode, like, six times from Friday until Sunday night, I’m never in the car long enough or at the right time to catch it all. So I listen to each week’s podcast on Mondays, making that dreary weekday informative and hilarious and something to sort of almost maybe look forward to.
• It would be really funny if adults started saying “lellow” instead of “yellow.”
• Sophie was angry with me all day yesterday. I wasn’t fun and I didn’t take her over to Jim’s to spend the day annoying Gus.
• DIY is my least favorite acronym. Why in the world would I want to do something myself?
• The other night Jim and I were sitting in his room talking and Ben was on the floor using his imagination. He built an X-wing fighter out of pillows. Deep in a Darth Mal performance, he wore a pillowcase cape and leapt off the fireplace with his light saber. Then he went into the bathroom and came out with the cape turned around like an apron and a shower cap over his hair, declaring himself a lunch lady. He used a bike pump to make the sound effects when he was an astronaut walking on the moon. He was a ghost, a droid, a zebra, a ninja. He put me in a jail made of chairs. That’s something I love about Jim’s kids—they don’t park themselves in front of video games or TV. Sure, they’ll play Wii from time to time or watch a show, but it’s not often. Mostly it’s rollerblading inside (don’t fret, Jim’s floors can take it), playing with remote-controlled anything, climbing the house, diving through the dog door, setting off rockets, jumping on the trampoline, playing ping pong, riding bikes, baking, and so on. It’s not uncommon for me to come over and within ten minutes be coerced into some kind of handstand contest with Josie. (She always wins.) Those kids are doers.
• Canadian jokes—that is, jokes about Canada and Canadians—will forever and always make me laugh.
• I love loving Jim.
• Little excellent bits: Vlasic’s dill pickle Snack ‘Ems, wearing fuzzy-on-the-inside boots without socks, unlimited cell data, a ceiling fan with a remote (thanks for fixing that, sweet Jim), secret Pinterest boards, Ambien (only from time to time and only half a pill, of course), and Hannah’s haircuts.
• Lately Jim’s been a garage-cleaning fiend. It’s a constantly evolving and improving space. His commitment to the task is titillating. And just seeing the piles of stuff he’s tossing leaves me breathless and blazing with passion.
• I cracked myself up in that class. Earlier yesterday Cameron posted this on Facebook:
• A few weeks ago Jim and I tumbled into the SkyGuide app. It’s one remarkable piece of software. I took astronomy in high school and in college but that was more than a decade ago, and since I can barely remember what year it is, I definitely can’t remember anything I learned in those classes. I do remember though how much I enjoyed the subject. Not the parts of the topic that talk about stars’ size and death and black holes. I just like learning where the constellations and significant stars are. You know, the unimportant stuff. But go ahead and bet me $20 that I can’t locate Betelgeuse in under five seconds. I’ll take your money, and that will feel pretty important to me.
• Which reminds me—last year Jim, Josie, and I went to the planetarium for a show on black holes. While the topic is too big for me, the show was good. At least I thought so. Within ten minutes of the lights dimming, Jim was out. And he’s a snorer. Josie and I snickered and agreed that it was only a matter of time.
• While Mondays are an unequivocal bummer, there’s one part of each Monday that I always enjoy: the latest “Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me” podcast. While, sure, I like “This American Life,” and always get into “Radio Lab,” “WWDTM” is my best-loved show. I always hope that one or two of my favorite panelists—Roy Blount, Jr., Mo Rocca, Paula Poundstone, Bryan Babylon, and Maz Jobrani—will be on the show, but all the panelists are a hoot. Even though Capitol Public Radio broadcasts each week’s episode, like, six times from Friday until Sunday night, I’m never in the car long enough or at the right time to catch it all. So I listen to each week’s podcast on Mondays, making that dreary weekday informative and hilarious and something to sort of almost maybe look forward to.
• It would be really funny if adults started saying “lellow” instead of “yellow.”
• Sophie was angry with me all day yesterday. I wasn’t fun and I didn’t take her over to Jim’s to spend the day annoying Gus.
• DIY is my least favorite acronym. Why in the world would I want to do something myself?
• The other night Jim and I were sitting in his room talking and Ben was on the floor using his imagination. He built an X-wing fighter out of pillows. Deep in a Darth Mal performance, he wore a pillowcase cape and leapt off the fireplace with his light saber. Then he went into the bathroom and came out with the cape turned around like an apron and a shower cap over his hair, declaring himself a lunch lady. He used a bike pump to make the sound effects when he was an astronaut walking on the moon. He was a ghost, a droid, a zebra, a ninja. He put me in a jail made of chairs. That’s something I love about Jim’s kids—they don’t park themselves in front of video games or TV. Sure, they’ll play Wii from time to time or watch a show, but it’s not often. Mostly it’s rollerblading inside (don’t fret, Jim’s floors can take it), playing with remote-controlled anything, climbing the house, diving through the dog door, setting off rockets, jumping on the trampoline, playing ping pong, riding bikes, baking, and so on. It’s not uncommon for me to come over and within ten minutes be coerced into some kind of handstand contest with Josie. (She always wins.) Those kids are doers.
• Canadian jokes—that is, jokes about Canada and Canadians—will forever and always make me laugh.
• I love loving Jim.
• Little excellent bits: Vlasic’s dill pickle Snack ‘Ems, wearing fuzzy-on-the-inside boots without socks, unlimited cell data, a ceiling fan with a remote (thanks for fixing that, sweet Jim), secret Pinterest boards, Ambien (only from time to time and only half a pill, of course), and Hannah’s haircuts.
• Lately Jim’s been a garage-cleaning fiend. It’s a constantly evolving and improving space. His commitment to the task is titillating. And just seeing the piles of stuff he’s tossing leaves me breathless and blazing with passion.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
OWNING UP
The thing that most readers find appealing about this blog is that I don’t sugarcoat things or hide stuff. So lemme throw it all out there—
The truth: I physically cringed when I clicked Publish on my By Any Other Name post. As I sent that post to the public, I told Jim, “Crap. This time I’ve gone too far.” I’d already read him what I wrote before publishing, and he replied, “Not really. It could be worse.” But I was hesitant about that post because up until that point I hadn’t really attacked Carrie ad hominem. Usually I’d just lay out facts that didn’t put her or Mark in a flattering light because of the shit choices they made. In that post, however, I got catty.
My practice has mostly been to let the infidelity story itself do the damning, but then I decided to get spiteful, and, honestly, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.
While I do lay claim to a certain amount of intelligence, I don’t profess to have fantastic judgement. It’s like this: if I eat a bunch of chocolate cake I know I’ll regret it and end up repenting for a week. But I’m human. I want the cake. So I eat the cake. This was that. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wanted to. So I did.
I got attacked right back. It’s bound to happen from time to time. I’ve been [perhaps overly] feisty my whole life. This ain’t my first rodeo, and I do understand consequences.
On that blog post, some commenters with fake names went to town on me under the guise of caring for the innocent kids involved. (I’m not going to repost the comments here because they’re really damn long, but I strongly suggest you click over to read them. This post will make more sense that way.) And whatever. Really. Personally, I’ve been back and forth about my blog and its potential affect on the kids. Their mother made some horrible choices and I tell the world all about it. Dustin knows I write a blog. He’s not interested in reading it. I think Katelynn knows, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care either. And the only way the two littles would know what’s on this space is if Thing One and Thing Two showed them.
When Jim and I began dating and I’d say something in conversation disparaging about Carrie, I’d stop and apologize, saying, “I’m sorry. She’s the mother of your children. I shouldn’t insult her.” His responses would go something like, “Rock on. She effed up your life.” He has never tried to decide for me what I should think and say.
When I started blogging about all this affair/divorce nonsense, Jim and I talked about if it was okay. Until he got a feel for what I was writing, before publishing I’d read to him the posts that had directly to do with him or his kids or his ex and get his buy-in. But it was never him “allowing” me to post things. It was a courtesy for me to show him. I wanted us to be on the same page. We are. And that means that sometimes we make mistakes together. It means that sometimes I make a mistake and need to apologize to him. Which I did when I realized that in posting the By Any Other Name post, I'd done a not-terrific thing. He said that when I read him the post he knew that it wasn’t a great idea for me to be malicious, but didn’t express any concerns, because, well, he wanted to eat the cake too.
Mark is crap. Everyone agrees about this. But there are times that I’m harder on Carrie because it pisses me off that she gets very little blame for her actions. People condemn Mark for the affair and subsequent splits. They say that Carrie was mentally sick, that she couldn’t be held totally responsible when Mark was so aggressive and persuasive. That’s more than I can handle. While, yeah, Mark screwed up, he is only directly responsible for leaving me. Carrie left more than a spouse; she left her kids. But because she is a weak personality people just let it go and blame everything on my ex. Her responsibilities were more significant than his, but she gets a pass, and it infuriates me.
(Hey Carrie, if you want your old life back, all you’ll have to do is “get help” and your entire previous world will open their arms up wide to take you in, because they feel bad that you got tricked by a serpent named Romo when you didn’t have the mental strength to resist. It’s right then that I will slip into a coma and die.)
As for Carrie being “drop dead gorgeous,” that’s a matter of opinion. The other night after I saw her at a church thing I told Jim that it does amazing things for my crummy self esteem to see his ex-wife. “It makes me feel super hot,” I said. Which is actually a good thing in my progress. When I was dealing with the fact that my husband was leaving me for another woman, I really struggled with the looks thing simply because Carrie and I couldn’t look more different. He went for my exact opposite.
And then there was the issue of size. I’ve got problems in my head when it comes to weight. I’m up front about that. I travel with a damn scale, for heaven’s sake. I’ve always seen skinny as superior. The skinnier the better. And Carrie’s a twig.
Listen, I’m little. Not many people are smaller. But my husband went and found, like, the only person who was smaller than me. Is there anything that could make me feel fatter? (For all I know Mark left me for a flat lower belly. I’ve never seen Carrie’s abdomen, but I know that my gut is capital-D disgusting.) So in Mark going for her, my head problems told me that I was gigantic and grotesque. Which rationally, I know isn’t true. However, this isn't a rational thing for me. Numbers-wise, I’m little—I tried on clothes yesterday and a 0P was too big—but in my messed up head, I’m elephantine. While I hate my body’s shape and will never give up my futile battle against it, the facts say that I’m anything but fat.
So it was a point of progress when I saw how skinny Carrie was the other night and was still able to say to Jim, “Damn, I’m hot.” There’s a mess of improvement combined with regression there. My therapist would be glad that I was able to see past thinness and would be terribly disappointed that I am still stuck giving a damn about Jim’s ex. I doubt that will ever wholly go away since I was married for ten years and my husband picked her over me. You think I can get past making comparisions? Maybe someday. But not yet.
One commenter said that my blogging isn’t the action of someone trying to get healthy after affair fallout, and my therapist would agree. I’m not totally healthy anyhow. Sometimes I am working really hard at getting healthy. But sometimes I get tired of it, trip over the high road, and end up lambasting Thing One and Thing Two beyond what I know is reasonable. Whoops. And it doesn’t make me happy. I know that. I write something that’s hateful and dangerous and post it and I know it’ll put me in a bad mood and make Them more of conversation than they merit. Yeah, I admit it’s not the actions of someone actively healing.
This last Sunday I curled up on Jim and cried into his shoulder. “I’m sorry your husband cheated and left you,” he said as he rubbed my back. I cried harder. No matter where I go or what I do or how I change, my history will always include the fact that I’m a girl who got left. There are instances where I choose to let that make me stronger. Other times I let it make me rotten.
I’m abrasive and often too honest. It'd be lunacy to think that everyone is gonna land on my side. There are crazies out there, and we can’t discount the validity of their opinions. I think that’d be discrimination.
I also got accused of narcissism, and that can’t be entirely wrong. Writing on a personal blog is its own form of being narcissistic. These are my thoughts, my life. Writing on here can be self-absorbing. I think where my blogging diverges from true narcissism is the self-love and admiration thing. That’s not my bag; I’m more into self-flagellation. It can be a problem.
So there you have the truth that you show up for. I did something unadvisable and I know it. I’m healthy sometimes and sometimes not. I'm bull-headed. I’m smart but can make poor choices. I am insecure and a careful reading of my egocentric blog makes that obvious. I’m in love with a man I got to know under unfortunate circumstances, and collaborating with him brings me joy. He makes me feel more beautiful than I am. He makes me laugh harder than anyone else ever has. And a truth perhaps not often apparent here but terribly important if we’re focusing on honesty: even though I’ll always be a girl who was a wife who got dumped in favor of another lady, my life is more than that. I have a big, messy family that is constantly growing and who I miss all the time. I have friends who care about me more than I deserve. I am part of a yoga community that makes me a better, more interesting person. I have adventures. There was even one day this week where I had lunch at a whorehouse. Now, that was weird.
As for you, Annie, I find you impressive. Your responses were thoughtful and written better than I could have done. Like I’ve said before, I’m grateful that my sharing all this garbage is useful to you and others. Thanks for not being anonymous.
Fake Name Commenter Guy, regarding the part where you called me beef jerky, that was a total crack up because it was so accurate! When I read the comment I’d just come from back-to-back Bikram yoga classes. I was shriveled ‘cause I’d just sweat out all my moisture. My fingers were pruney. I was literally dehydrated meat! And smelly? Oh, absolutely. If you sniffed the yoga stuff drying in my garage you’d puke or pass out. I work hard for that, and I swear that since my divorce my sweat has started to smell worse. I think it’s liquid hate seeping out of my pores, and there’s no way that has a nice fragrance.
That said, if you want to insult me, don’t go the meat route. I’m a vegetarian, so that’s not relevant enough to hurt. If you really want to get under my skin, call me fat. Even if it isn’t true, I’ll believe you, go on some severe diet, and damage my organs. Calling me fat would be way more effective than saying Carrie is a piece of steak and I’m jerky.
Hey, and high five on the fake names. They’re a lot more creative than what I would have come up with in your situation. I probably would have used stuff like Huck Fun, Temperance Brennan, Ender Wiggins, or Darth Vader. Yours were almost believable.
The truth: I physically cringed when I clicked Publish on my By Any Other Name post. As I sent that post to the public, I told Jim, “Crap. This time I’ve gone too far.” I’d already read him what I wrote before publishing, and he replied, “Not really. It could be worse.” But I was hesitant about that post because up until that point I hadn’t really attacked Carrie ad hominem. Usually I’d just lay out facts that didn’t put her or Mark in a flattering light because of the shit choices they made. In that post, however, I got catty.
My practice has mostly been to let the infidelity story itself do the damning, but then I decided to get spiteful, and, honestly, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.
While I do lay claim to a certain amount of intelligence, I don’t profess to have fantastic judgement. It’s like this: if I eat a bunch of chocolate cake I know I’ll regret it and end up repenting for a week. But I’m human. I want the cake. So I eat the cake. This was that. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wanted to. So I did.
I got attacked right back. It’s bound to happen from time to time. I’ve been [perhaps overly] feisty my whole life. This ain’t my first rodeo, and I do understand consequences.
On that blog post, some commenters with fake names went to town on me under the guise of caring for the innocent kids involved. (I’m not going to repost the comments here because they’re really damn long, but I strongly suggest you click over to read them. This post will make more sense that way.) And whatever. Really. Personally, I’ve been back and forth about my blog and its potential affect on the kids. Their mother made some horrible choices and I tell the world all about it. Dustin knows I write a blog. He’s not interested in reading it. I think Katelynn knows, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care either. And the only way the two littles would know what’s on this space is if Thing One and Thing Two showed them.
When Jim and I began dating and I’d say something in conversation disparaging about Carrie, I’d stop and apologize, saying, “I’m sorry. She’s the mother of your children. I shouldn’t insult her.” His responses would go something like, “Rock on. She effed up your life.” He has never tried to decide for me what I should think and say.
When I started blogging about all this affair/divorce nonsense, Jim and I talked about if it was okay. Until he got a feel for what I was writing, before publishing I’d read to him the posts that had directly to do with him or his kids or his ex and get his buy-in. But it was never him “allowing” me to post things. It was a courtesy for me to show him. I wanted us to be on the same page. We are. And that means that sometimes we make mistakes together. It means that sometimes I make a mistake and need to apologize to him. Which I did when I realized that in posting the By Any Other Name post, I'd done a not-terrific thing. He said that when I read him the post he knew that it wasn’t a great idea for me to be malicious, but didn’t express any concerns, because, well, he wanted to eat the cake too.
Mark is crap. Everyone agrees about this. But there are times that I’m harder on Carrie because it pisses me off that she gets very little blame for her actions. People condemn Mark for the affair and subsequent splits. They say that Carrie was mentally sick, that she couldn’t be held totally responsible when Mark was so aggressive and persuasive. That’s more than I can handle. While, yeah, Mark screwed up, he is only directly responsible for leaving me. Carrie left more than a spouse; she left her kids. But because she is a weak personality people just let it go and blame everything on my ex. Her responsibilities were more significant than his, but she gets a pass, and it infuriates me.
(Hey Carrie, if you want your old life back, all you’ll have to do is “get help” and your entire previous world will open their arms up wide to take you in, because they feel bad that you got tricked by a serpent named Romo when you didn’t have the mental strength to resist. It’s right then that I will slip into a coma and die.)
As for Carrie being “drop dead gorgeous,” that’s a matter of opinion. The other night after I saw her at a church thing I told Jim that it does amazing things for my crummy self esteem to see his ex-wife. “It makes me feel super hot,” I said. Which is actually a good thing in my progress. When I was dealing with the fact that my husband was leaving me for another woman, I really struggled with the looks thing simply because Carrie and I couldn’t look more different. He went for my exact opposite.
And then there was the issue of size. I’ve got problems in my head when it comes to weight. I’m up front about that. I travel with a damn scale, for heaven’s sake. I’ve always seen skinny as superior. The skinnier the better. And Carrie’s a twig.
Listen, I’m little. Not many people are smaller. But my husband went and found, like, the only person who was smaller than me. Is there anything that could make me feel fatter? (For all I know Mark left me for a flat lower belly. I’ve never seen Carrie’s abdomen, but I know that my gut is capital-D disgusting.) So in Mark going for her, my head problems told me that I was gigantic and grotesque. Which rationally, I know isn’t true. However, this isn't a rational thing for me. Numbers-wise, I’m little—I tried on clothes yesterday and a 0P was too big—but in my messed up head, I’m elephantine. While I hate my body’s shape and will never give up my futile battle against it, the facts say that I’m anything but fat.
So it was a point of progress when I saw how skinny Carrie was the other night and was still able to say to Jim, “Damn, I’m hot.” There’s a mess of improvement combined with regression there. My therapist would be glad that I was able to see past thinness and would be terribly disappointed that I am still stuck giving a damn about Jim’s ex. I doubt that will ever wholly go away since I was married for ten years and my husband picked her over me. You think I can get past making comparisions? Maybe someday. But not yet.
One commenter said that my blogging isn’t the action of someone trying to get healthy after affair fallout, and my therapist would agree. I’m not totally healthy anyhow. Sometimes I am working really hard at getting healthy. But sometimes I get tired of it, trip over the high road, and end up lambasting Thing One and Thing Two beyond what I know is reasonable. Whoops. And it doesn’t make me happy. I know that. I write something that’s hateful and dangerous and post it and I know it’ll put me in a bad mood and make Them more of conversation than they merit. Yeah, I admit it’s not the actions of someone actively healing.
This last Sunday I curled up on Jim and cried into his shoulder. “I’m sorry your husband cheated and left you,” he said as he rubbed my back. I cried harder. No matter where I go or what I do or how I change, my history will always include the fact that I’m a girl who got left. There are instances where I choose to let that make me stronger. Other times I let it make me rotten.
I’m abrasive and often too honest. It'd be lunacy to think that everyone is gonna land on my side. There are crazies out there, and we can’t discount the validity of their opinions. I think that’d be discrimination.
I also got accused of narcissism, and that can’t be entirely wrong. Writing on a personal blog is its own form of being narcissistic. These are my thoughts, my life. Writing on here can be self-absorbing. I think where my blogging diverges from true narcissism is the self-love and admiration thing. That’s not my bag; I’m more into self-flagellation. It can be a problem.
So there you have the truth that you show up for. I did something unadvisable and I know it. I’m healthy sometimes and sometimes not. I'm bull-headed. I’m smart but can make poor choices. I am insecure and a careful reading of my egocentric blog makes that obvious. I’m in love with a man I got to know under unfortunate circumstances, and collaborating with him brings me joy. He makes me feel more beautiful than I am. He makes me laugh harder than anyone else ever has. And a truth perhaps not often apparent here but terribly important if we’re focusing on honesty: even though I’ll always be a girl who was a wife who got dumped in favor of another lady, my life is more than that. I have a big, messy family that is constantly growing and who I miss all the time. I have friends who care about me more than I deserve. I am part of a yoga community that makes me a better, more interesting person. I have adventures. There was even one day this week where I had lunch at a whorehouse. Now, that was weird.
•••
As for you, Annie, I find you impressive. Your responses were thoughtful and written better than I could have done. Like I’ve said before, I’m grateful that my sharing all this garbage is useful to you and others. Thanks for not being anonymous.
Fake Name Commenter Guy, regarding the part where you called me beef jerky, that was a total crack up because it was so accurate! When I read the comment I’d just come from back-to-back Bikram yoga classes. I was shriveled ‘cause I’d just sweat out all my moisture. My fingers were pruney. I was literally dehydrated meat! And smelly? Oh, absolutely. If you sniffed the yoga stuff drying in my garage you’d puke or pass out. I work hard for that, and I swear that since my divorce my sweat has started to smell worse. I think it’s liquid hate seeping out of my pores, and there’s no way that has a nice fragrance.
That said, if you want to insult me, don’t go the meat route. I’m a vegetarian, so that’s not relevant enough to hurt. If you really want to get under my skin, call me fat. Even if it isn’t true, I’ll believe you, go on some severe diet, and damage my organs. Calling me fat would be way more effective than saying Carrie is a piece of steak and I’m jerky.
Hey, and high five on the fake names. They’re a lot more creative than what I would have come up with in your situation. I probably would have used stuff like Huck Fun, Temperance Brennan, Ender Wiggins, or Darth Vader. Yours were almost believable.
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