innocuos eggnogg

Bless me father for I have sinned. It's been 5 weeks since my last confession.

Yeah, it was a lame attempt at dark humor at that.

I am drinking eggnog. From a carton, mind you. I am not being "Martha" at 9:30 on a Friday evening. The last few days, maybe a week, I've thought of writing here. (Maybe even writing in general, but that's another post...) I always manage to channel those thoughts somewhere more constructive or productive. I call a friend, pick up a book, look up a good recipe for dinner... and "poof" it's gone. Shoved back into a corner of my soul.

I think the good news is I am happy. Happier? Focused? Better adjusted? But dammit, I have the right to let emo-Sabine out to rant if she wants to. She is a bit pissy because despite all her personal exploration, guilt over her sins, and putting her energy toward the future and her real loved ones, her husband doesn't think their marriage is any better than it was three years ago. And while all her therapy has taught her she has no control over his feelings and this is his problem, not hers, she can't help but be all, what the fuck?????

And when he starts saying things like therapy was a waste of time, and that that the reason he has these so-called diagnosis "black marks" on his medical record, i.e. "depression" is because of my antics... well, it's hard to take a deep breath and understand that it isn't your fault, and he's being an unenlightened ass, who can't accept that being abused as a child can cause you to be a fucked up adult and maybe that's why you and your wife had issues in the first place.

But I digress. And suck it up. And he kinda sorta quasi acknowledges he was an asshole without actually saying "I'm sorry"... [air quote]Whatever[/airquote]

So the "throw my past indiscretions in my face" anger episode came about 6 months after the last instead of three, so maybe we are making progress. Wake me in seven years when my ovaries shrink and vagina starts to dry up and tell me how it works out.

Enough about him. I'm here to visit you. Which is pretty sad really, because you don't even know who I am anymore probably. Which of course for you is a good thing, and I hope to all hell you have focused your energy on your wife and haven't been spreading your charm all over the fucking internet.

I am going to watch the movie tomorrow. I have the house to myself. I really shouldn't, only because there is a part of me that will look for an Easter egg meant just for me. But I have set myself up to be disappointed. I know even if there is something there, it will be so vague that I will still question whether or not I am seeing what is not there. If that makes any sense.

My daughter has been studying poetry, in 6th grade no less! Her teacher has her then modeling their own poem in the style of what they read. She has been reading Edna St.Vincent Millay, and William Carlos Williams, and her poems---no surprise are wonderful.

There is a song out right now, that makes me think of you. The lyrics just have this passionate emo-intenisty-angst that I recall being part of you and the songs you used to cite. I almost hesitate to post lyrics because then people search them and hit my blog and I hate when random strangers find my blog over song lyrics. It's the Airborne Toxic Event's "Somehwere Around Midnight".

And it starts...
Sometime around midnight
Or at least that's when
You lose yourself
For a minute or two

As you stand...
Under the barlights
And the band plays some song
About forgetting yourself for a while
And the piano's this melancholy soundcheck
To her smile
And that white dress she's wearing
You haven't seen her
For a while

But you know...
That she's watching
She's laughing, she's turning
She's holding her tonic like a crux
The room suddenly spinning
She walks up and asks how you are
So you can smell her perfume
You can see her lying naked in your arms

And so there's a change...
In your emotions
And all of these memories come rushing
Like feral waves to your mind
Of the curl of your bodies
Like two perfect circles entwined
And you feel hopeless, and homeless
And lost in the haze
Of the wine

And she leaves...
With someone you don't know
But she makes sure you saw her
She looks right at you and bolts
As she walks out the door
Your blood boiling
Your stomach in ropes
And when your friends say what is it
You look like you've seen a ghost

And you walk...
Under the streetlights
And you're too drunk to notice
That everyone is staring at you
And you so care what you look like
The world is falling
Around you

You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her

And you know that she'll break you
In two

Music is so good like that. Letting you emote. And drift. And laugh. And scoff. And scorn.

This is just to say

A colleague I hadn't seen in a while asked me this weekend if I was writing. I hate getting that question. I don't get it often, and I get it from the strangest people. Not that the people are strange, mind you, I mean it's often random folks I am not close with or see very often. So when they ask I often pause to think, "They must have thought it was cool/interesting, whereas others may give it that, 'oh, neat. Did you see Roche Bros. has chicken on sale?'" to the point where when the see me they remember and ask me about it. And then there is my dad. When my dad mentions it it really hits home. I turn into this puddle of mush who feels like a 5 year old who daddy wants the best for and did something that really made him proud, but is now just shoving it in the drawer with copies of Mozart's Requiem, and Beethoven's Mass in C. (Because I don't sing anymore either. Except in the car.)

My husband even prodded me once, and I had to tell him how much I appreciated him encouraging me, but that it was just too hard to explain, and I was blocked and frozen and I just had to walk away from it. Which is the truth. Just not completely all of it, but as I said it was hard to explain.

Why do they care? Why do they ask? (God I just got deja vu again. Have I blogged about this?) Do I have some destiny to fulfill or some obligation to write? Psychological translation: am I wasting a gift? I highly doubt that.

I can't even go back and read the stuff here I am so mortified. Not about the smutty aspect of it, but the whole "Mary Sue" thing.

Next week will kick off another nanowrimo. I did it once. I'm not sure if it can be made into a publishable work. But the whole idea of writing is now in the forefront of my concsious. Everything happens for a reason?

So I come here to write, even if it's just my thoughts. Because you were my muse. October 13th came and went, and I didn't come here. It snuck up on me. I wouldn't have even noticed at all, that's how well I am doing now, except for the news story that came out not too many days before hand. It was jarring. Only because I know how PR works. And what I believe I know of you. If it was you. In bed, in the the dark I mentally composed thoughts, but it just was never apropiate to come down and write them. I keep normal hours now. But I had to wonder, is it a bi-polar type of issue? "Manic" could certainly apply to you my dear. I remembered how in our first exchange I teased you about delusions of grandeur, and how you laughed. But you, you self proclaimed work-aholic, I thought you'd changed that with your backpack across the world and adventures in surfing, string theory, and airplanes. So is it something more organic?

I didn't see the film. I probably will at some point, on disc. I can't do it openly, some people have short memories about my so-called indiscretions. I am also afraid to watch. In the back of my mind will be this hope there is an Easter egg for me. And what's even stupider is that even if there is I will always question if I am just seeing what I want to see and it's just coincidence.

But if coincidences are just coincidences why do they seem so contrived? *snort*

But Karen saw what they thought was one. I read her post about it. The cow. And fuck, Sheila got a wallet and a pie plate signed, that's even more tangible. She's too funny, bless her heart, and Karen, etc. They never let go. But who am I to talk as I sit here and write about it?

My daughter came home, and talked about a poem they studied in class by William Carlos Williams. I was so thrilled. Her exercise was to write a similar poem, apologizing for something she dis that she wasn't really sorry for. Her response was to write about how she didn't do the assignment. I wish I could remember how it went, but her grasp of word play and irony is outstanding. And she's eleven! I am most proud.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

at a point that you could walk across with five steps down

It's funny. Not ha-ha funny,
but in that ironic/coincidence/bittersweetness sort of funny.
"I Want to Believe"
I remember when Sheila used to say that all the time.

I see him now, this man
He sits on a stage;
an awkward nervousness shows through the smile of public appearances.
And I remember conversations.
He used the back entrance because he hated "that shit."

In interviews he says "um" a lot
and I laugh.
For all the intelligence in that mind form a concise coherent thought!
But then in makes sense.
It's easier to form the words on paper.
To tell stories.
It's "convenient to have someone with his face read [your] words."
And there the mystique was broken.
This fictional iconic hero that spoke to my unhappy heart
was a real person.

big pause to appreciate the ginormous irony of that sentence.

At least I believed.
I wanted to believe.
I am ashamed to admit I probably still do believe, despite the illogic insanity behind such an opinion.

He used to whisper poetry to the women he bedded.
I know this because he told me.
Do italics count as whispers?
Or was duplicitysecrecy more like the parenthetical comments that weren't suppose to count?
He couldn't bed me.
Which when all is set and done is a good thing.
Because, you know, he'd "ruin my life."
It just got ruined for the next few years instead.
Kind of like getting away with manslaughter instead of murder one.
Ok, it not really like that but right at this moment it was an analogy that worked for me.

He loved my words.
Sometimes I still doubt the sincerity of that high praise. Given how he encouraged everyone to write.
And his penchant for flirting.
Not many words coming from my pen these days.
It would disappoint him.
Not that I should care.
Actually he probably doesn't care either.
I'm sure my taillights faded to black a while ago.

But, it's hard not to think of him, when pop culture resurrects an iconic hero.
Forty foot billboards in shades of gray
"I Want to Believe"
And I laugh through the twinge inside.
And of course I peeked.
Once a "ho", always a "ho".
I almost want to go.
I want my hero back to make me smile and forget life for an hour.
Even if he isn't real.
Even if sometimes, I want to believe he is.

pride goeth before a brawl

disclaimer: I might be incoherent. Working non-stop for 10 days to get your house in order to be shown + booze + ativan because all that + stress and PMS could be teh eebhvul. But now I am sitting in my pristine new family room and it is soooo peaceful. I am ignoring the parentalspousal unit making comments about how he gave up trying to have us not live in squalor for the last ten years. I can't wait to prove him wrong about the new house and how it will stay clean and pristine because we will have space. everyone keeps implying that I'm naive and of course it will get messy and the more space you have the more shit you accumulate but I will prove them all wrong. I may not have a high profile job right now but goramit if I don't mean business in the homemaking department. Fuckyasall as my sistah would say.

What I'm really here for is to exorcise some demonsnegative energy. It got the better of me last night. See, my brother-in-law had been up here helping us get the house ready to be shown. we had loaned him money to move east to join his girlfriend (sound familiar? Not a soul mate this time though. I think just a mother figuremeal ticket. $3000 to be exact. No sign of it bein repaid, so Hubby came up with a novel idea, work it off by helping us get the house on the market.

I will spare the long background story. All you need to know is the following descriptors:(and this is both of them by the way)
pride
arrogance
stubborness
anger
abused as a child
get defensive to the point where the most stupid thing is a threat to your well being.

They got into blows. D got pissed at being told what he'd been doing "wrong" and said "get the fuck out of my house...G, make sure he is packed and gone..." (this is the point where my anxiety kicks it up a notch and I enter this quasi-dissociative state.) Hubby storms off. B starts to check facts and measurements. He discovers he might be wrong about some stupid part of the argument. Hubby comes back down ranting about brother leaving his house. Bother says "why don't we take this outside..." then all is a blur and my husband is screaming to call 911.

This isn't my house. We don't call the police. We don't have domestic disturbances. I yell at them to cut it out. They are wrestling standing up in my foyer, bouncing against walls. My husband is screaming at me to call the police, but I am frozen. How can I call the police to my house. This is his brother. We all love each other. B would never hurt him. I can't do this to B.

But I think about how much he has been drinking all week. I hear my husband screaming at me. So I call.

I enabled him. I love him, he is a friend and a confidant. I didn't want to see or believe anything was wrong. I still don't want to. I am so broken into bits over the whole thing, especially when I think about it. What if he genuinely meant "go outside" so as to not disturb my kids. which was a whole nother can of worms as I had to comfort them as they heard everything and saw the police, who took brian away under protective custody.

We haven't heard from him. We know he got home on his flight. His girlfriend implied we "Should have known this would happen." well, no we never thought he would charge and hit his brother. He lived here for four months and did our kitchen and drank a lot of beer but was never violent. So now he is back there, unemployed (which is why he came up to work off the debt) and drinking. God knows what we should "expect" will happen. I am so so sad. and confused, because I hesitated to call, to support my husband, because he has a tendency to overreact, and has a temper. It was his whole "get the fuck out of my house" that started it. I felt I had some allegiance to Brian. but then I realized that was wrong. I needed to be on my husband's side no matter what. But is that right? I still feel bad. Brian allegedly said to his sister, about him attacking D, "G said that?" He has no idea what he did. But the thing that nags at me is I didn't see the initial contact. who put hands on who. who was reacting? what was alpha posturing? But D had scratches on his face, and huge bruise on his arm that is still there a week later.

My daughter was devastated. Her older brother a bit more worldly and mature about it, the little one, too young to understand. I held her as she cried and tried to explain it was kind of like where she and her brother both get stubborn fighting and don't want to give in, and then come to me asking me to pick sides, and in this case the police say the same thing, "It's not our business, work it out yourselves."

Right now my house is quiet and cleaner than it's ever been. The Celtics are down by two. Tomorrow is the last day of school. I can't wait to sleep for hours. I hope someone who saw my house today makes an offer.

Blasphemy!

I went to confession tonight.
I’m serious.
I didn’t plan it. And it’s probably not what you might first think. I mean, with my infidelity and all.
I confessed I don’t get to mass and feel badly about it.
But what I felt was a worse sin
Was that I think poorly of myself sometimes. I don’t give myself respect.
That must offend God, if he created me in his image
And loves me and thinks I am special.
Maybe the irony of this is that if I went to church I’d feel better about myself, LOL.
This is why I journal, to have those kind of epiphanies.
They help you know. I wish I could physically write in a diary, but I don’t trust someone not to find it and read it. Which brings me to the point of this entry: my penance.
I didn’t get three Hail Marys.
No, Fr. Joe told me to do something nice for someone I don’t like
And not to expect recognition or thanks
Because I am doing it for God, and myself.
And I couldn’t help but think
Isn’t that the story of my marriage life?
I know, I’m awful.

A fellow blogger I once was friendly with is now divorced
And having hot sex
And got a book deal.
I feel so incredibly guilty not writing.
I had two people ask me about how my writing is going tonight.
Even my Dad over Easter.
I let Him down.
And I don’t mean Dad.
Or God
‘Cause you know the hubby was the Oedipal manifestation
….
Pregnant pause

Oh shit that’s another one of those ironic epiphanies.
Men just suck ass. I want to be a femi-nazi lesbian.
And knit socks and grow my own vegetables.

I’m proud of this.

Just a myth

Monogamy is a myth? These words were spoken (sic-written really) by a jaded but very adorable and lovable friend on Livejournal. N.B. the play on words applicable to my past dilemmas. BWAH! Myth believed in monogamy. In theory, I think. He also said he was a man-slut, so I might have to rethink that. My friend Alan says the best we can hope for is serial monogamy, which makes sense to me. That however leaves no room for marriage in the purest sense. Myth believed in monogamy as it pertained to trust and commitment. It was imperative I maintain my monogamy. He told me his wife failed in their pledge to be monogamous. She was sorry though, and they worked it out. I am glad for him. For her, really, if he could forgive her and regain that trust. Because despite remaining monogamous in body, I betrayed my pledge emotionally, and it was deemed an equal sin. I have yet to regain that trust. I don’t have intimacy. I have glimpses of it. It gives me hope.

Yet at the same time, I lack a certain amount of trust in him, because we’re due for the every three month freak-out-dredge-up-the-past-and-why-I-am-the-whore-of Babylon and not fit to be his wife or raise his kids… That’s the thing; I get hopeful, and think things might be getting better, then he takes all that is wrong out on me. And I shouldn’t. I spend so much time affirming how special I am, and worthy, to let him project his shit on me and make me feel inadequate and lowly.

You know what was very interesting? I did one of those memes via email, where you ask you friends to reply back to a bunch of questions that show how well they know you. Every one who responded said I was shy. Granted some said I was shy but have changed recently, or some said get a few drinks in me and I’m not… I never considered myself shy. Yet it does take me a while to make close friends so I guess I have that element. If I don’t know myself, how can I expect others to know me?

So what makes someone be unfaithful. The same adorable man from above told me if I wanted sex I should go find myself a boy-toy if I was unfulfilled sexually. Since I’m such a MILF and all. Just get one of those pay as you go cell phones, and don’t get caught. But it wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t the sex at all. It was the love, respect, and intimacy that would lead to sex. Granted, there is the occasional meet hot guy in a bar and no one will know fantasy now and then, but it isn’t real. That could never be real. Heavy breathing over DSL is not real. I do believe though, that the emotional connection, the caring, love, and respect can transmit. Can that translate into intimacy? I guess it depends on your definition. To someone who has none, any connection will do. Is that why men cheat? Why anyone cheats? Are they looking for the type of sex their partner can’t or won’t give them, or are they looking for an emotional connection? I suppose no one size fits all. And what happens when you both need to take, and you find that you have the strength to give so of course you do.

I feel so empty. A good friend helped me to remember to look for hope in the small things. My Golden Retriever is small. My kids are small. I wish they could get all they wish for, so sometimes thinking of them doesn’t help. I need to go to bed. He pissed me off today. I can say that here, even though he is my husband, and I love him, and if I didn’t believe in marriage I wouldn’t.’t be here. His mother is sick. He is stressed. I am doing all I can. But it’s so hard. He micromanages me. I end up feeling I can’t do anything right, and want to tell him to fuck off. But I don’t. because it isn’t right. No matter what I do something with be wrong, and someone will be unhappy.

The kids have no school tomorrow and we get to sleep. I actually stayed up tonight on my own, so I feel this sense of empowerment, usually I go to bed with him, so he trusts me, and maybe we will have some kind of physical touching. I wish I knew what to do.

I'll have a cosmo

Sometimes I really hate that I let so many real life people (i.e. and especially my spouse) in my main/original blog that I really can't espouse anything too personal or revealing there. It's lost its role as a diary or journal. Granted I should just use a *gasp* real pen and bound paper to record my private thoughts, but all this journaling was born out of some narcissistic addiction to having people read them, so... plus I still am not comfortable having such a book exist in my home lest my husband choose to seek it out and read it, again.

Then comes the dilemma of coming here to unload, given the type of baggage it was born out of. But what the fuck? Am I going to open yet another anonymous account at LJ or Blogger? This is here, might as well use it. And I have that added edgy, masochistic thrill of knowing a link to it is tucked away. :p :p ;-)

So here's the "I am naughty" thought of the day: I went to the big box electronics and appliance store today, to scope out a new refrigerator. The sales boy, and I mean boy because he couldn't have been more than twenty-five came up to offer his assistance. I would have blown him off, but he was so confident, congenial, and cute I was amused. God help me he had this little Mona Lisa lilt and smile I found it attractive. Maybe I was just enjoying having male attention payed to me. Because a woman knows when a man is noticing her. Then of course I had to go and read Cosmo while I was waiting to get my nails done. There was an article about the top voted sexual positions by readers. The first one had you laying back on one of those exercise balls and I thought I was going to orgasm right in the chair just thinking about it. I mean shit, that is hot. I actually had a gym fantasy once, but it just involved the weight bench. I am so boring.

I make it sound like all I do is shop and get my nails done and that really isn't the case. It's just only when I'm free and out on my own doing things like that my mind wanders and the bad Sabine comes out, then I think about writing about it.

Should I mention I visited Cosmo.com later that afternoon when I got home?

He actually did touch me last night, in an affectionate, dare-I-say-physically-suggestive-sort-of-way last night. I want to get my hopes up, but much like I can't get too excited about this new house yet because he keeps ruining it for me, I am afraid to. If I thought we were heading in that direction I'd email him the Cosmo article. LOL
That's dark, self-depreciating humor by the way.

I am all alone this evening, which is really wonderful. I need some down time. I have a morning tomorrow where I can sleep in and not have to get anyone on a bus or to the mountain. It's an estrogen fest! I had dinner with two girlfriends tonight out at this great Vietnamese place, which is BYO, and tomorrow a bunch of us are heading to the Cape for a girls night sleepover. It's so funny I can't read these women sometimes. The last email we got from our hostess said this:
I told Sue people can share beds but there is also the fear of creating lesbianism (is that a word?) which was a big theme in some of our books this year. Also I don't like to sleep with anyone but Peter and sometimes not even that!!)

I wasn't sure how to take that. I mean, I have never been involved sexually with a woman, but I can see it, and understand it, (even more so lately) and it doesn't repulse me. Not to mention sharing a bed has nothing to do with sexuality and it seemed a bit sophomoric to even make that joke, no? I replied all that I was comfortable enough in my "womanhood" to share a bed, and I promised I would keep my hands to myself. LOL

I have a date with iTunes to make a kick ass playlist for the drive, (three of us are going in the BMW and the stereo rocks) then perhaps a pink, battery operated device. *weg*

She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out "goodbye"

My heart was so full yesterday. My daughter, 11, is involved in a creative writing project at school called “The Mystery of Harris Burdick.” Without having to copy and paste the entire forward from Chris Van Allsburg’s book, (but do visit the link, it's a great story) briefly, Harris Burdick was a writer and illustrator that once visited the home of publisher Peter Wenders with fourteen drawings, and said he has stories that went with each one. Wenders loved the pictures and wanted to read the stories. Burdick promised to return with them the next day, but never did. Attempts to find him led nowhere. Since then though, the pictures have inspired many people, adults and children alike to create their own stories based on the images and the caption that accompanies each. Allsburg published the pictures in a book to inspire others to write and has started a website in honor of them, and there is currently a contest being held for children grades 2-8 to submit stories to be published on the website.

Now, my girlie girl is already quite the writer. A while back I thought it would be her brother to inherit all of his mother’s creative genes but apparently not so. Her school actually has a writing class that goes along with her English and language arts class, in 5th grade! Isn’t that awesome? (I think the schools in this hick town are the state’s best kept secret, and another reason I don’t wish to move.) I love reading her assignments, she blows me away with the stuff she comes up with. She is so excited about this contest. She asked me if I knew about Harris Burdick and when I said no, she told me the whole story, lol.

Now, I am asked to read her drafts, but I am not allowed to get all critical about her grammar! She just wanted to know “what I think about the story”. The problem she was having though, was the maximum word count was 250. She was well over that. I was allowed to give her suggestions on where to cut words. She worked on it until 10 o’clock at night, then in class the next day. She was so proud of her final copy, and I have to admit, she did a great job of editing and still keeping the story intact, as she wanted it. Her story was based on this picture, and she wrote about a little girl who lived alone in the woods with mean parents who were criminals. She woke one day to find these caterpillars that could spell words with their bodies, and they made friends. Until her mother found them and made her get rid of them. So the little girl ran away with the caterpillars. She left the ending dark and hanging. I know someone who would have loved that.

I remember so well writing challenges, and prompts, making careful word choices to move souls and capture feelings. I loved doing that so much. Maybe I should look at Harris Burdick’s drawings myself and have a go. I miss writing. But I still can’t seem to do it. I’m not on an even keel emotionally, and I don’t want to go down a road that requires drawing from within.

I’ve come to realize that what brings me the most pleasure in life is being able to create with my hands. I’m not sure how music ties into that though, especially if my instrument was always my voice. Though I did play guitar. I love baking, and playing with dough. I love chopping and cooking. I love working with yarn now. All of these things, even writing since I must use my hands to transcribe these thoughts bear a tangible result, something to touch, wear, smell, hear, eat. It’s funny how I ended up choosing a career in science.

I’m waiting to hear about a house. It’s so much bigger than our current one. I’m convinced he doesn’t want the deal to go through, even though he went through with the offer. But, I’m sick of his passive-aggressive shit. And he’s the one tired of waiting and tired of looking, so he has to suck it up and deal with what isn’t perfect. And if he tries to hold it over my head in years to come that he never wanted it and it was all me, I will personally put his bags on the lawn and say, “fine, go find a nice townhouse with a pool closer to Maine and the office. See ya.” Well, I probably wont, but I’ll want to. Who knows, maybe by then I’ll have the balls to.

I still have a dirty mind

A disturbing thing happened this morning. I really shouldn't phrase it that way though, as disturbing. My therapist is always driving home the fact that I shouldn't be so hard on myself, and to not indulge in self-loathing, guilt, blah blah, and I have gotten much better at that in all honesty. Everyone has naughty thoughts no?

I was reading in bed. I need to finish for book club tonight. "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan" is really a wonderful story. Anyway, the phone rings and it's the man, of course. (Things have been a bit better, btw, there was a turning point I believe, but that's another tale for another entry.) When I twisted to put the phone back on its cradle, the cord brushed across my breast, my bra-less nipple to be exact. It gave me that certain shiver. I hadn't in so long, you know? And there I was all comfy cozy, still in my pj's alone in my room...

As a rule, when it comes to matters of self-gratification (pun! Hee!) usually faceless, anonymous men occupy my fantasies. I've long gotten past a lot of things. But God, my He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really is like a seasonal, quarterly visitation, a spirit who has the ability to surprise and haunt me. At least it doesn't upset me anymore, and again I don't beat myself up or let guilt gnaw at me for "thinking about Him". For a while I was afraid to, lest something think I am mentally ill or something. But he was important to me, and there is no Haitian Hero to come erase my memories of him, as much as I once wished for it. It is natural for him to come to mind occasionally when a song plays or a literary theme emerges. I actually erased some old files I found on a hard drive yesterday! He'd be so proud of me. LOL. "Why do you keep that stuff anyway?" No honey, it wasn't to blackmail you with someday. ::eyeroll::

Tangents, oy! I guess the rest is self explanatory. I think my words imply what compelled me here to confess. Consider this my semi-annual exorcism.

back to the future

What kind of wood would a woodchuck sport
if a woodchuck
could sport
wood.

I'm such a dirty girl. That just popped into my head.

I've decided I really need to express myself somehow. I need to vent. I went back to therapy, and I know that will help. See, there's Good Sabine, and Bad Sabine, and poor Bad Sabine has been shoved deep down in some Jungian closet in my psyche for a while now because it was just easier not to deal with her. This is all metaphor mind you, I'm not some schizophrenic psycho (despite what *he* came to believe.) He used to like metaphor. We had such fun playing with words. That was the best part, and what I miss the most. The intellectual stimulation. Actually, I'd take any kind of stimulation right now. I haven't had sex in over a year. Yes, you read that correctly. *sigh*

Or course that's an obvious discussion for counseling, lol. If I want it I should ask for it. But someone has already said he doesn't like me to "demand" things of him. Apparently, me saying I missed him kissing me goodbye in the morning translated as I was commanding him to do it, and he resented that. (So since it came up again in our last "what is up with our relationship talk" now I get this peck on the cheek with a grand sing-sony "goodbye!". It smacks of a little sarcasm, but whatever.) I 'm also afraid of being rejected, honestly. I made the last move a few months ago. We were lying in bed in the dark, and I started stroking him, and he didn't resist, so I got him off. He returned the favor with some kissing and a finger. At least I got some release. I don't count that as sex though. A week or two ago I offered him a massage. I had offered it earlier as well. He begged off politely, which really sounded like a "thanks but no thanks because I suspect you are thinking of using that as a seduction tool and I'm still not in the mood to be intimate with you."

The excuse is our door is broken and the kids are so close, so I am hoping maybe up north at the ski home this winter something will happen. If not, then I know it's me. Well, it's him. I guess it's us, us?

this post has no title but it looks better with words up here

I really don't hate you, you know. Despite the venom I wrote back last fall, I bear you no ill will. It was just frustrating. Upsetting too, I guess. I believed in you. After all the doubting I did, thinking you weren't serious, that you were playing me, despite all the posts you made, the stories you created, and conversations we had, what you wrote about being so ill, about losing weight, about the toll walking away took on you... it was then I truly believed you. (Is that irony?) And not just that, I defended you. That for all the bravado, all the times you called yourself an asshole, I knew there was this beautiful, kind man who cared about others so deeply. One that I was proud to have known. I still do I guess. Not that I can claim to know you. I don't know about anything anymore. What I do know is that the man I believed in wouldn't have disparaged me. Hence the hurt feelings. I know at the time it wasn't premeditated or intentional---the whole "feelings thing"... so whatever, as we tend to say lately.

What I do hate is that you're on my mind and that I felt the need to come here and post it to get it out of me. But I can't beat myself up. Just like a diet, no need to bag the whole thing if you eat a cookie (like I did tonight!). Just pick up where you left off and keep going. I've lost three pounds you know. I need to get my bikini body back.

I read about the actor from the show that brought us together having a new series on TV about a man who constantly falls in love with unavailable/unattainable women. I literally did ROFLMAO. I wonder where he got that idea from. I wish him well. He's due a break. God knows he still looks good in briefs. *weg* The promo shots were hot! I doubt I'll watch though. I need that like I need a hole in my head.

God the angst in this blog is pathetic. It served its purpose though. What's the point of journaling if you don't look back on what you've written and grow from the experience? I definitely have more confidence lately. (Can you imagine? How can people stand me, you ask.) I got this amazing hair cut. I think Sampson was on to something. (though look at you! Would all your masculine vitality go out the window if you cut your hair? *snort*) It should be amazing, with the color it cost over $300. I got it by Pini on Newbury Street. I swear, if I knew how to do my hair like this when I was 15, I would have lived a totally different life. LOL

I still wish I had that man as my friend back. I think he would like me even better now that I'm not that spineless emotional wreck. I am almost the woman I aspire to be. I just have to be patient, and enjoy the now.

This morning at work, I bought a yogurt from the cafeteria. The cashier was this pretty young girl, of South American descent I think, and she smiled so brightly as she wished me good morning. "How are you today?" She asked. I was good, very good in fact, and I commented on her enthusiasm and attitude. She proceeded to thank me for my words. She thanked me! She went on to mention vaguely about people have their problems in life but they have to go on, and how she goes to church and it helps her. I agreed wholeheartedly, and reiterated that if you can put forward positive energy it benefits us all. We pass it on. Pay it forward. This girl thanked me for for acknowledging her genuine greeting. I am so glad I did. Only God knows what she is struggling with, and I hope she has peace.

Pay it forward honey. Don't deny people. Don't disparage them to others, even if you may not really mean it. Fingers crossed doesn't really count.

Sentimentality is for suckers

So much for the innate goodness I told you I saw in you, despite what you felt about yourself and what others thought.

So much for that caring, generous man who I saw not think twice about buying a plane ticket for a friend.

So much for the man I saw humbled by a woman who faced more adversity and physical challenges than all of us combined will see in a lifetime.

So much for Neruda, and well placed posts about nobly walking away and living happily ever after---"theoretically." I guess forgetting isn't so long now, is it?

But I am some batshit crazy woman, just because it was for me.


You self-serving, narcissistic, egotistical serpent. (Like that alliteration? I went back and forth on which word sounded best next to serpent.)

Fuck you, and the board you rode in on. Oh, and don't worry, despite the tone and the anger I'm not stalking you.

God that felt good. Screw my prose, now I really hope you find this blog someday.

I just can't get enough

"Is this good enough?" He asks.

Define "good enough", I think but I bite back the retort before it can escape my lips. The words sound so pitiful and meager. I can't help but picture two people negotiating a deal.

"I told you we want Mariah Carey."
"Baby, Mimi just isn't gonna do it, you have to realize she has a new CD. I'm telling you I can guarantee Ashlee Simpson though."
"I guess that's good enough."

It's just a slightly different twist on the "do you feel like you settled?" question I used to get from him. My husband is nothing if not king of asking questions he-already-thinks-he-knows-the-answer-to-but-want-to-hear-the-you-reassure-him-otherwise. He is perpetually a six year-old boy with thirty-five years experience in manipulating. Though that isn't true, I have never seen him manipulate anyone but me. I guess it does run deep: both his feelings for me and the depth of my betrayals.

Is this "good enough"---this life of co-parenting with a man who won't forgive me for what he sees as tantamount to adultery even though I never even shared airspace with my "lover?" We share meals, jokes, news. We vacation, make decisions about our lives, our kids. We do what needs to be done.

Is it good enough that he provides and loves our children, and is a companion to me? Is it good enough to know he will never look at me with admiration or adoration through those eyes veiled with mistrust and anger? Is it good enough he will never show me the passionate drive and desire that took my breath away across three-thousand miles? Is it good enough I will never feel a man's tongue against my sex? Is it good enough that this will always be a competition of who is getting their needs met?

Is it good enough that I will never feel the way I did when I saw myself though your eyes?

I think the amount I lie to myself is proportionate to the depth of emptiness that bores within me. While my grief wanes, the hollowness grows. In that respect nothing will ever be good enough. Sometimes I feel like all my energy gets sucked into that hole. Resistance is futile.

It has to be good enough.

I make it good enough for me. I am the only one who can.

"We do the best we can," I tell him. "It's good enough for now."

***********

He knows that the time of year I think of you more is coming. I am a wretched thing.
I want so much for you to find this blog, and my words.

HG Wells replies

Oh my sweet Sabine you have such a flair for the drama! I loved your fantasy of us meeting on the steps of the Old Bullfinch building. Only the Ether Dome itself could have made a grander setting. You may think I am teasing you—and maybe I am a little, but you know how much affection went hand in hand with my pokes. What is really funny is how much alike yet vastly different the day I did see you the hospital was.

You were not on the lawn you were in the cafeteria, stealing French fries off Alan's plate, likewise oblivious to me sitting in one of the recessed booths nearby. You were so close I did nearly panic, but you were not expecting to see anyone out of the context of your job sitting anywhere; you had no reason to be idly starring about the cafeteria ponder life, death, and circumstance as I was. You were taking a break from your hectic afternoon for some food and talking with your friend. I took it as the gift I think it was meant to be.

You had on a pink tee shirt and hospital issue scrubs, hair in a pony-tail and bespectacled. I could only imagine how horrified you'd be if you had run into me. I remembered the night you remarked you looked like a dishrag; how I laughed. Don't you know that you could be caked in mud and I'd embrace every inch of you?

You did look tired though. I couldn’t help but wonder if you were staying up late. If so, who were you talking or writing to? I told myself it was out of concern for you, but it was pride and jealousy thinking the worst of you. For that I apologize, for now I see the only person you keep writing to is me.

I like to envision that moment much differently. There is no angst. I rewind history instead of altering its future.
*****
It is New Year's Eve, 1990 is about to surrender to Father Time, and Downtown Boston is cold for the heartiest New Englander, never mind a Southern California boy visiting family for the holidays. Still, First Night revelers were undeterred; the streets were crowed with merry makers wearing sparkled top hats, and carrying giant plastic horns that sounded like a call to arms.