Cutting the cords

I deleted The Facebook and Instagram. I haven't been on the book of face for ages, but I posted to Insta occasionally and that would cross post to the book of face. 

There is just so much shit on the sites. And trolls. I wade through tens and twenty ads and "suggestions" before seeing a post from someone I actually followed.  Then trying to wade through the misinformation, the AI generated shit, the ads - so many ads.  So I slowly stopped going there. 

I still watch Twitter because I like a good train wreck occasionally, and I keep an eye on Bluesky.  Mostly I'm just tired of feeling meh about everything I see. 

The thing is, I don't miss either site. I don't think I'm missing anything by being gone.  Other than posts from my own kids.  Otherwise, meh. 

Memory Lane

He stuck his tongue out at her and she said “ewww, put tongue away.”  Then she said mom “Unk stick tongue out.” And she said TeeTee tell Unk be nice me.” 

It was funny.  And cute.

And it triggered a memory.

When I was 9 or 10, maybe even younger. We were at my aunt’s house.  All of us kids were playing outside. There were five or six of us. The oldest, we’ll call her Patsy.  She stuck her tongue out at an old man in the yard next door.

The old man promptly went to the front door and told my aunt that the “kids” were sticking their tongue out at him. 

We all got called inside. We all got yelled at.  We all got asked who did it.  Everyone denied it. Then Patsy said it was me.

My mom promptly went to the kitchen to get her weapon of choice. A metal spatula. The one with the holes in it.

I was crying and pleading promising my mom that it wasn’t me.  Agreeing I did know better.  But Patsy was older. “Why would she lie.”

My mom came back with the spatula and told me to pull my pants down because “you know better than that.”

I was crying. And pleading. And everyone was looking at me. My aunt. My uncle. Patsy. Patsy’s mom. Patsy’s teenage brother. I told my mom I didn’t want to pull my pants down in front of them.

She told me to go in the living room. So I did.

I started to pull down my pants and Patsy’s mom came and sat on the couch. Then her son. Then my aunt.

I was humiliated. Standing there in my underwear while my mom spanked me.

I don’t know how many times she hit me. I stopped counting years before this.

This memory has stuck around since that weekend. Living rent free in my head.  Hopefully now it can crawl back into whatever hole it came out of and never appear again.

Bucking Bronco

I bought a new Bronco. A 2 door. 

I named it My Midlife Crisis

And now I cannot stop thinking about quitting my job and living in it until the money runs out. 

I'm tired. 

I'm bored.

I'm restless. 

I'm . . . .  something. 

 

when I tell you I cried

I carry mom guilt. Not every day, but often enough. I always hope that I didn't screw up too badly as a parent. I have only a few regrets (thankfully?) and I can count them on one hand.  They're always there, in the back of my head, that nagging voice reminding me . 

Mom guilt. It's rough. 

Last weekend I was watching the GrandBaby#1.  She's two and very independent and very much likes to mimic me.  We were having breakfast and I gave her orange juice in a cup.  A cup with no lid.

She did very well and I snapped a pic to send to her mom and her auntie.  The conversation morphed into something unexpected:

Our childhood was the best.

Seeing the Dramas talk about these specific Friday night memories with such fondness made me smile. Something that at the time seemed so small and inconsequential to me.  Yet created such happy memories and left a positive lasting impression.

Reader. When I tell you I cried. Big fat tears. And I felt an overwhelming sense of, I don't even know - relief?  Relief I didn't even know I needed.  

Damn. 

Moron

I was going through old photos and deleting the 257gazillion screenshots of memes and screen shots, and other rando shit you save on your phone that you never look at again.  In the mix was several photos of the Ex. Mostly him and one of the dog's. Very few of him and me, or him and the Dramas.  It's weird that I feel absolutely nothing when I see him in person, but something about seeing those old photos made me feel some kinda way.  

I felt it like a pit in my stomach, like when you're on a an amusement park ride and your stomach falls out from under you.  But it also felt like an ache. In my heart.

Nostalgia? Grief? Indigestion?

Whatever it was, I didn't like.  And my inner dialog seized the opportunity to speak some harsh truths.

after everything he did?  

after what he put you though?

the lies? mockery? lack of respect and common decency?

you're gonna feel some kinda way?

You're a fucking moron.   

and it's not wrong, per se. 

I have a habit of holding on to shit I don't need. Literally and figuratively. During the past few months I've been purging; cleaning; unlearning old habits and archaic beliefs. Taking loads of crap to the dump. Washing my brain with soap. I gathered some of that energy and put it to use. I used those harsh truths to muster up something akin to bravery. Maybe determination?

As I deleted the memes-a-plenty, I also deleted the photos of him. Moving along, clicking next. delete. next, delete, getting into a rhythm, I came across a shitton of text message screen shots.

apologies. 

i love you's. 

it won't happen again's. 

this made me realize how much i need you's.

And I realized as I read the first few, my inner dialog was right. I was a fucking moron. All those years of staying in my comfort zone and snorting up hope that he'd change like a goddam drug. It got me nothing but older.

And as I proceeded to delete those texts, I got to a point where I didn't even read them. Because they didn't matter. And I sure as hell don't need to keep them for some self inflicted painful journey down memory lane at a later date. 

My life is different now. In a good way. In a calmer, peaceful way.  Guys, my fucking hair is healthier. Like, WTF?

People were right, it took time, patience, and reflection. And so much working on me. To find me. 

I cannot believe my life is what it is now.  I look back and don't recognize the old me or my old life.  I kinda like me again (it's a work in progress). I like the boundaries I've set. The goals I've set. The freedom to do or not do what I want, when I want. If I want. To like the things I like, without judgment.

And I sure as shit don't miss anyone commenting you got another box from amazon today. Or watching a constant rotation of Cops, drag racing, and golf.

The facts are he's miserable in his new life, and still broke, and still a liar. And well. I'll take it.  Chalk it up as entertainment for my amusement courtesy of the Fates. And Karma.

Karma's a relaxing thought ...

Ask me what I learned from all those years
Ask me what I earned from all those tears

Sweet like justice, karma is a queen...

~ Taylor Swift 

 

 

When the mind plays games

Sometimes I play the what if game. 

What if I had better parents.

What if I didn’t grow up dirt poor. 

Or in foster homes. 

Or moving every three months. 

Would my life be drastically different?  Would I have gone to college? Would I be an attorney? A mom? A divorcee? 

Maybe.  Maybe not.

I look at the things I have accomplished, and I seriously wonder if I would have accomplished them if I’d had a normal childhood. 

Would I have had the drive? The determination? The desire?

I know that I am where I am not just because of who I am, but also because I had something to prove.  

Even when I didn't believe I belonged, I always believed I could do it.  Just to prove a point.

There were a whole bunch of people who told me I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t. You don't belong there. People like us don't belong there. People like you don't belong with people like them.

I set out to prove to each and every one of them that I could. That I would. That I should. That I belonged. 

And all but one were proven wrong.

It’s me. I’m the one.

Getting back into it

Slowly but surely I'm getting back into a groove. I reactivated The Book of Face, and the Fan Page, and started an Instagram page for the review blog. I realized I miss having a semi-anonymous outlet for my secret thoughts and random ramblings.  It was great to see many of the OG bloggers on The FB. Almost everyone there was with me from the beginning and went through the ups/downs/moves/struggles/divorce. Y'all supported me in ways no one else did.  Seeing everyone kinda gave me the warm fuzzies. 

It also gave me a little boost of dopamine. And I need those when and where I can get em. 

I posted on the Review blog today about a DYI wine rack I installed after I bought my new house.  And scheduled a couple more posts.

I posted on Insta and FB about some journals I created. And a puzzle book. 

I'm finding it helpful to blog about things I've already done, rather than attempt to write meaningful anything at this point. I still have a block when I sit to write. So, here I am. Filling the socials and telling old stories.  

And for now, that's going to have to do. 😊

slightly damaged, maybe broken

The basement flooded last weekend.  Because the window well filled with water.  Because the rain gutters are leaking. Maybe they're just clogged and I need to clean them. Maybe the joints need replaced. I don't know shit about rain gutters.  

I do know I didn't need another thing to deal with right now.  

Times like this are when I most I miss having a someone. My person.  Someone to lean on when things get heavy; someone to do the heavy lifting, someone to make me laugh, or fix things, maybe give me a hug. 

But at the same time, the thought of having a man makes my left eye twitch. Not because I don't like em, or because I don't maybe kinda sorta almost want one.  No, its the idea of commitment that sends me running for the hills.  I'm talking fear that lives deep down inside my heart. In the very darkest recesses of my psyche. 

In 2019 I had a quasi friends with benefits situation. That man was good at what he did. Very. Good.  

But. 

Something about him reminded me of my ex. I'm not sure what exactly, but something did, and when he would sleep over, I didn't sleep. I would toss and turn and jolt awake feeling like I was still married and the man next to me was a cheating, lying, asshat.  Even knowing he wasn't him, it didn't help. But having him there was something I needed at the time.

In the mornings, as I lay in bed half asleep, half awake, he'd get ready for work and kiss my forehead, say "thanks" and leave. 

Thanks. That felt so odd to me.

That situation went on for three or four months. And one night he said, "how would I feel about taking this to the next level" and I said what does that even mean?  He said "you know we could go to dinner and go to movies and stuff like that." 

I said "that doesn't sound very different from what we were doing already, do you mean, like, dating but don't call it dating?" 

He didn't reply. 

The next morning he kissed my forehead, said "thanks" and left.  

That was the last time I ever saw him. 

The "next level" triggered something inside my brain that we did NOT want to process.  

Danger. Abort. Danger.  I nope'd out.  I am slightly damaged. I realize this.

I haven't been on a date or had more than a fleeting thought of a relationship since. 

Well, except when I imagine Harry Cavill might stroll through my front door proclaiming his never ending adoration and love. Then I toy with the idea for a minute. 

Otherwise, nah.  

I have a very good friend who offers no strings attavhed FoB services when needed.  I got bored with that. 

What if I'm broken? 

Time

It seems to me that time passes much more quickly than it did when I was younger.  My kids are grown, having kids of their own, and I'm over here feeling like I don't have enough time. Like I'm in a race to complete some unknown agenda and I don't have time to finish and there is a clock looming just outside of reach 

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

The fact that the years left for me are shorter in number than the years I've lived is always present. Lurking in the shadows of my mind. Waiting for just the right moment to pop up and say "It's me. Hi" 

via GIPHY

And I know Its me. I'm the problem. It's me. 

morbid.  Yes

intrusive. Yes

controllable.  Probably.   

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

His apologies and excuses.

His promises of never again.

I wear a smile to hide the pain.

Snorting hope like it’s a goddam drug.

Assuming blame that isn’t mine.

His actions. My burden.

His lies. My heartbreak.

His smile.

Moving Forward

I’ve been thinking about stuff for a while now. 

I’m in a strange state of mind.  

Peaceful.  

Moving forward.  

Not so hung up in the past. 

That’s where the peace comes in, I’ve made peace with it for the most part.  Now I can move forward.

More on this later.  Now, I must sleep.

It’s true love

I was doing my homework on Wednesday while the man was mudding and taping the new built in entertainment center he built me.  I was reading about divorce and marriage and the following conversation took place.  We were made for each other:

Me: Did you know the average duration of marriage in the United States is just over nine years?

Him:  So we are done next year then?

Me:  No.  We?ve passed the nine year mark already.  I officially own you.

Him:  Yea.  Well, we don?t want to over do it.

Me:  Too late. We?ve already over done it.  We can?t go backwards.

Him:  Hmm.

Me:  Plus, the divorce rate has gone down.

Him:  Because the murder rate has gone up.

I wanna post but I don’t care about grammar or sentence structure so there

I have a couple things to post about but I can’t because I am retarded and cannot figure out how to make my private post thing work.  However, if I COULD have posted about these things it would have looked something like this but with far more detail;

I had lunch today with two people and one of them is in constant need of validation.  She is not old enough to go to a bar yet, but she is older than the legal age to vote - and yet - she cannot do her own hair.  I don’t fucking get it.  Anyway, I cannot really get into detail here but it went something like, you don’t like my hair.  why are you staring at my hair.  does it look fine or good? on a scale of 1 to 10, what is it?  will it look okay for dinner tonight?  does it look as good as it does when you do it for me? if it looks fine why do you keep looking at it?  are you sure it looks good?  is it good or fine…

All through lunch it went on like this.  I sat there, watching the exchange between mother and daughter and I thought to myself, thank god my kids aren’t like this.  They are confident with their own skills and abilities. Hell, they won’t even let me do their hair for school anymore. And they are only 10 and 8.  anyway, it is draining sometimes. 

So Then:

We had a discussion about losing one’s virginity.  I was ancient by today’s standards when I lost mine (22 and 9 months old). My second youngest sister was like, 13.  My other sister lost hers on prom night, senior year.  she also got knocked up the same night.  My friend who is old enough to vote but not old enough to go to a bar officially became a woman a couple weeks ago.  and she PLANNED it. I mean seriously, notes, lists, music, date planned it.  which I find foreign really.  I mean, I had ideas in my head as to how it would be and I never dreamed that when it was done and over with the first time I would say “that’s it?  Do it again.”  And I really never dreamed that as I drove home that day to shower and pick the grass and weeds out of my ass crack that I would be thinking things like “I can’t believe I waited for that.”

Valentine’s Smalentines

I found it rather ironic that today was Valentine’s Day, the day of mushy love songs and undying love and wicked sex and stuff, and I was having a vaginal exam by someone other than my husband. 

As soon as I got into the exam room they had me strip down to naked, then gave me a paper towel to cover up with.  What the hell happened to actual sheets. Sheets that wrap around the naked sides of your ass cheeks that always hang out?  And a robe.  A robe would have been nice. Instead, I got another paper towel, only this one was pink with two arm cut outs. Oh, and, did I mention that the room was 14 degrees? 

Doc: How long since your last pelvic exam?
Me: Shivering Let’s see, my daughter is eight and I had a pelvic at my 6 week check up after she was born.
Doc:  Blank stare
Me:  Stare at the ceiling while I see Doc staring at me, because really, do I want to make eye contact with the chick who has her hand up my vagina?  Not so much.
Doc:  Was it normal?
Me:  I guess as vaginal exams go, yes.  Speculum, gel, rubber glove.  Ya know, the basics.
Doc:  I meant the results. 
Me:  Oh. Ohhhh.  Yes, as far as I can recall, I was normal back then.
Doc:  Have you ever had a mammogram? 
Me:  Nu Nuh Nuh N-Nope.
Doc:  Why not? Are you cold? 
Me:  Shivering Um, honestly?  I have not had that burning desire to repeatedly slam a big heavy metal freezer door on my breasts?
Doc: Blank stare
Me:  Tension in the air. Everything look good down there?
Doc:  Yep. 

Then she jabbed me with a hot poker or something because I felt it.  A jab.  A hot poking jab that reached all the way to my belly button.  Afterward we discussed the myriad of other symptoms which made me get off my fat ass and finally go to the doc after eight years.  Every symptom was met with “oh, that sounds normal for your age.”  Summing up the conversation went something like this:

Mood swings - normal
Irritability - normal
Anxiety - normal
Increased allergies - normal
Achy breasts and wrists - normal
Inability to concentrate- normal
Hot flashes - normal
Tired all the time - normal
Dryness and discomfort - normal
Hair falling out - normal
Sudden weight gain - WHOA! 

Doc: how sudden?
Me: Like, 10 to 15 pounds in the past 3 or 4 months.
Doc: Have you changed your diet? 
Me:  In fact, yes. I don’t drink soda like I used to, I walk on the really expensive quilt holder two to three times a week and I’ve cut out carbs for the most part.  I don’t eat fast food and have been having Cardboard and Styrofoam Peanut Slimfast granola bars for breakfast since December.
Doc:  And you are gaining weight? (said with raised eyebrows)
Me:  Yes.  My waist is now non existent. I have a glob of goo that rolls out of my jeans to hang precariously over the top of them and my thighs have taken on a life of their own and at this rate will need their own zip code by summer.
Doc: Hmmm.  I want to test your Thyroid and hormone levels and test you for anemia. 

Then, she agreed to let me put my clothes on and warm up a bit. I went out to have my blood drawn and the lady said “your arm is really red here.” and I said “yea, I just came from exam room 2 where it was all of 14 degrees and I think I might have rubbed my arms just a little to vigorously and made it red.”  Guess what she said (except Miss Ann - you don’t have to guess).  She said

“Oh.”

All in all, until the test results are back, I don’t know shit.  What I do know is that they won’t give me drugs for anxiety until they know my hormone level to rule that out.  The doc thinks my recent moods/irritability/anxiety issues are all age related and not a mental issue.  They are sending me information on the Endometrial Ablation.  They won’t call unless the PAP is abnormal.  They won’t have the Thyroid results back for a couple weeks, and apparently, this whole aging thing is going to be a royal pain in the ass. Yay me. (or is it Yeah! Me)

What’s eating you?

A couple things. 

First, have you seen the commercials for that new “game show” where the person takes a polygraph and then answers the questions in front of his friends and/or family and if he answers wrong he loses the money earned so far?  You haven’t? Well, you don’t need to.  I just explained it.  BUT, the real question is this:  the commercial shows a man, the question is “would you cheat on your wife IF you knew you wouldn’t get caught?”  BOM BOM BOM…  This commercial irritates the piss out of me. 

Secondly:  If you bought a home during the “boom” in your state, and you are a fucking idiot who got an Adjustable Rate Mortgage (ARM) and “didn’t know” your payment would go up on a certain date, and now you are crying and whining on the news because your rate ADJUSTED - hence the “adjustable rate” part of your mortgage - and you cannot make your payment and now you might get foreclosed, and you cannot sell because the market has tanked, well, fuck you.  If you can read enough to buy a house, READ YOUR CONTRACT YOU STUPID TWAT.  Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us.

Thirdish:  If you are my children and don’t go to bed on time tonight and if I have to tell you One. More. Time. I am going to fantasize about beating you with a stick

(because if I say I will beat you with a stick some mommyblogger with a stick up her ass will send me hate mail about how wrong it is to spank a child and how we should use our words, and frankly, I am not in the mood)

SO what will really happen is this:  you will be grounded until you are twenty three and it will be MONTHS before you step foot out of this house except to go to school and Every Free Minute you have will be spent on some lame ass chore like washing the baseboards or re-folding the towels and sheets and washrags in the linen closet.  Twice. Do You Understand Me? 

Next number:  If you are a God of any type of weather or relationship related tragedy, can you either a) flood all roads leading to hell; b) blizzard the entire state so roads in and out are impassable; or c) make them fight and call off the wedding.  Please?  Oh, and sleepy gods, can you hook me up tonight, absent the freaky dreams?  Thanks dude.

Bloody Hell

I have to go to Utah this weekend for my youngest sister’s wedding.  She is marrying some guy that she’s known for a few months.  They met online.  The same place she met her ex, who is also the father of her baby.  Her baby is not even a year old yet.  I don’t know why she is marrying this guy. I don’t think I give a shit anymore.  We will leave to drive Saturday morning and should arrive by mid afternoon. The wedding is Sunday and we’ll drive home on Monday.  I am secretly hoping for one hellacious snow storm that will close all roads leading to hell so I don’t have to go. The way I look at it, this is my last family obligation and I don’t have to go back. Ever. 

Although, up for debate with the man is whether or not I’ll go back for my mom’s funeral.  He says yes. I say doubtful. 

In other news, since my parents showed up here a couple weeks ago, and the pending date of nuptials and the dread that comes whenever I have to spend any amount of time with them, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.  The other night, I had a wicked dream that woke me right the hell up.  My step dad was going to kill me.  I’m not sure why.  My youngest brothers were in the dream, as was the new puppy a/k/a the domestic terrorist (who is currently running through the house at Mach III, bringing every dog toy we own and dropping them at my feet.  Personally, I think she is retarded).

Anyway, my step dad is behind me, chasing me down a street. I know he wants to kill me.  Then, I am in a house, where my youngest brother is a little boy again, maybe three or four, and I am trying to wake him up to tell him I will get help.  He is sleeping on a mattress on the floor and there are clothes and toys everywhere. I need to kick a path to where he is sleeping.  He knows my step dad wants to kill me.  He is faking that he is asleep to stay safe, but I need him to wake up and take my cell phone so when the police finally fucking answer, he can tell them where to go.  My phone is wrapped in plastic so I don’t get blood on it and I tuck it under his pillow.  I also want him to hold the puppy because I know she will be safe with him.  I go to pick her up off the floor and I see that my step dad has chopped her head off, only when I pick her up, she is alive and her head is still attached with only a three or four inch slice on her neck.  I started walking down Blair Street.  This is a street we lived on when I was 14 years old.  It was a small street, maybe 12 houses on each side.  I was walking down Blair Street and my step dad was behind me with a shot gun.  He was firing off shots and I was weaving between cars and yelling for someone who could help the puppy.  A lady came running out of my aunt’s house and said she could help so I handed her my puppy and I went running down the street to the end of the road because there was a fire truck parked there.  By the time I got to the fire truck, there was a carnival going on.  Suddenly, I was riding this airplane type ride, my second youngest brother (who is a colossal disappointment to me) was in the front and I was sitting behind him.  I asked if he was having fun and he said ‘yes, but only because I am here with you.” and he looked at me with his eight year old face, front tooth missing and the biggest grin, beaming from ear to ear. 

Then I woke up crying.

Wrap Up

I finally got off my ass and took down the christmas tree this past weekend.  I cannot tell you how glad I am that is gone.

Then, in a moment of insanity, I went out and bought all new frames for my family photographs.  None of my old frames matched, which was not an issue so much as the fact that they were shitty dollar store frames.  Plastic and metal.  No character or wow factor.  In the midst of putting my photographs up, I got one helluva paper cut and immediately shelved that idea until next weekend.  I may lose a finger. Not sure yet.  The cut was deep and painful and I bled a LOT.  I tried to get the man to kiss me better but he thinks my injury is further south.  Perv. 

In other news, I was minding my own business friday night, going out to dinner with the man and dramas and my cell phone rang.  When I see any family member’s name on my caller ID, my heart skips a beat.  My stomach falls to my knees and my chest tightens just a bit.  Just talking to them on the phone brings on the sleepless nights and it takes days to shake the feeling of darkness. It was my step dad.  I don’t know why I even answer it. But, I did.  He was delivering down here and wanted to know if he and my mom could spend the night. I froze.  In my mind I said no but the words falling out of my mouth were “okay.”

I’m such a sucker.  If talking on the phone causes such anxiety, just try to imagine how bad it is when I have to spend time, face to face, with any of them.  They called me many times saturday to let me know when they’d be here and how far away they were.  The last call, around 7:30 p.m. my mom said “Dad wants you to tell the dramas that we were going to come down but there is just too much snow and we can’t make it.”

(you see, they do this.  They call and say shit like, we’re coming, then they call and say we can’t make it, then they show up. And sometimes they don’t.  But you never fucking know.)

ANYway, I said I wasn’t going to tell the dramas.  So my mom says “well, Dad wanted to know what they said” (it is some kind of sick twisted game he plays and I could tell you stories.) and I said, “No.  I will not tell them. I will not play with their heads. They have no idea you’re coming so they’ll be plenty surprised when you show up.”

Within minutes of their arrival, I regretted even answering the phone.  I forget how I feel when they’re around.  How I doubt things and feel uncomfortable and cannot sleep.  I forget how difficult they make life becaues a) my dad won’t eat anything if there is a visible vegitable and/or it isn’t made of hamburger or fried potatoes; b) My mom sits and reads a book the entire time she is awake, never a part of any conversation; c) They insist on telling me about my other brothers and sisters and how good they are doing when I don’t really give a shit because living on welfare and not having jobs and giving kids aways is NOT good to me; AND d) they stink. They both smoke 3 to 4 packs of cigarettes PER DAY.  When they’re traveling, they DO NOT roll down the windows so they reek of cigarette.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give two shits if people smoke or not.  I don’t care if they smoke in their house or car or while they’re taking a shit.  However, I do care if my house stinks because of it.  When I woke up sunday morning, that is all I could smell because their coats were hanging up and their bags were in the bedroom.  When they weren’t looking, I Fabreezed the hell out of their stuff.  I almost felt guilty. 

I will not sleep the rest of this week.  I feel the tension already. We are eating hot dogs for dinner because that is something my dad will eat.  I don’t want to go home. I cannot even shut myself into the computer room because that is the spare bedroom.  They were supposed to leave today.  I just found out it won’t be until tomorrow. 

I think I need therapy.

Assholes

I had this a whole post written in my head.  Random snippets of the weekend and today and Christmas stuff. 

When I got home *poof* and away it went.

Now I’m sitting here.  Staring at the screen.  Wondering what makes people do the things they do.  What makes the say the things they say?  Are we as human beings hard wired to be fucks?  Because sometimes I wonder.

My children’s godparents got a divorce this year.  After 17 years of marriage.  Husband said one day “I just don’t love you anymore” and wife was devastated.  She married young, around 17 or 18.  Marriage and husband and kids were all she knew.  She never had a career she cared about. Hell, I’m not sure she graduated high school because she had her first child at 15 or 16 and married the next year.  About six months after the separation, husband confessed to an affair.  Wouldn’t say who, just that he’d had one and it had nothing to do with the way he felt now.  Wife was again devastated.  Then he moved in with a woman.  Again with the devastation.  It has been about a year since this all went down, the separation, divorce, news of the affair.

Tonight wife sent me a text message that said “you’ll never guess who husband had the affair with.”  She was right because I wanted to think he didn’t really have an affair, that he just said that to make wife mad at him to make her stop clinging to the hope of reconciliation. I wanted to believe he said it because he really didn’t love her anymore but didn’t want her to pine for him and honestly, to make him the asshole made the whole thing seem easier for both of them. They hadn’t been happy for many years before the separation.  I just really didn’t peg him as a cheater.  I would have NEVER thought he would cheat.  Turns out, he’s been having a part time fling with wife’s best friend of 24 years!  The very woman who held and consoled my friend during the separation and divorce.  I never cared much for her but wife and she met in Jr. High and have been friends ever since.  At one point, apparently when the affair started, they lived next to each other in a duplex (twin home).  The fling has lasted ten years. Husband and friend both came clean today. 

Many emotions went through my head when I heard the news.  Disbelief at first, then that weird “no shit” feeling, then that whole “wow, I woulda never guessed that!” feeling, and finally, while talking to wife, that whole “what a fuck” feeling. 

You see, I don’t think there is ever an excuse for cheating. If you commit to a person, that committment is the most important thing ever.  Period.  There can and never will be a justification for cheating as far as I’m concerned.  I know plenty of people who’ve cheated, some the cheater, some the cheatee.  I don’t hate them, I don’t not want to be friends with them, I simply don’t support their decision and I cannot be an ear when their world falls apart.  (oh, and I would never date or marry them).

What I still don’t understand is what makes a person cheat? Friends have said that it “just happened” or that they didn’t mean for it to happen.  I call bullshit.  They wouldn’t have been there if they didn’t mean for something to happen. Cheaters to me are one level above child abusers.  I can honestly say that I would never cheat. I’ve been presented with the opportunity.  I could have in the past.  I didn’t.  I wasn’t even married yet, this is back when I was just dating but still, I was committed to the person I was with.  Period.  End of Story.  That didn’t stop my first fiance from cheating on me.  I am certain that given the chance, my husband would cheat on me. Especially if he thought he wouldn’t get caught, he would be all fucking over it.  But why?  Is it the thrill?  Is it the danger of getting caught?  Is it the power or control? 

I just don’t understand.  It makes me sad really.  Because when a person cheats, their actions have a ripple effect.  So many people are affected by the actions of a cheater, and that one act, that the cheater thinks only effects him/her, in reality, hurts everyone down the line. 

Honestly, if you think you need to cheat, leave the person you’re with first.  (Wo)man up and fucking walk away before you do it.  Show some respect for the person who believes in and trusts and loves you. 

(this is not directed at anyone in the blogosphere. I feel bad that my friend keeps trying to get on with her life only to be constantly reminded of the past and then to find out a week before Christmas that her husband AND her best friend were fucking cunts.  Now, I’m in a shitty mood)

Emotional much?

Okay, so the school where the dramas go has this little christmas shop thing they do.  You send money with your kid, mark on an envelope how much they are to spend on each person and then they have a shopper who takes them around he room to “purchase” their goods.  Last year they bought us a coffee cup and some rinky dink thing for each other. 

Since I give them each money and take them to a real store to buy for each other, I usually allocate them $2 to spend on each person at the little christmas shop.  That is plenty and the trinket they buy is of course, priceless to me and dad. 

This year, #2 shopped first. She was so excited. She told me that she shopped today and I could see her little gift bags under the tree. 

I think it is important that kids learn to shop and the gift of giving and bla fucking bla.  SO. Imagine my surprise when #3 tells me that #2 bought HERSELF five things.  Stickers, a necklace, two bracelets and a furry pen thing. 

I was pissed.  Three deep breaths later, I called #2 out and asked her what she bought. 

She spent .25 CENTS each on her dad and me and #3, and then spent the other $5.25 on herself.

I kind of lost my composure and told her that her actions amounted to her being a scrooge and selfish and told her that I was really disappointed in her and then I cried. 

I CRIED.  WTF is that about? 

I sent her to bed and then sat on the couch trying to figure out where the hell this was coming from.  Flooded with memories of christmas as a child myself.  Growing up poor, I don’t remember ever having much for christmas and I recall one year when our christmas feast was boiled hot dogs on sliced bread.  mm mm good. But I did learn the gift of giving and to this day, I am more satisfied and would much rather give than recieve. (except sex. I’m totally on the receiving end of that for way longer than is probably fair.)

Finally I went into her room and told her that I wasn’t mad, but dissapointed and tried to explain why I was disappointed.  That was really fucking hard since I cannot quite figure it out myself. I mean, she did buy everyone something.  And it is never about how much you spend on a gift, which I have said for years and reiterated tonight.  It is and should always be the thought that counts, but I said her actions made me (and #2) think that the only thing she was thinking about was herself.  I tried to gleen from her why she thought she needed to buy herself presents when the Jolly Red Fat Guy is coming in 13 days and all she could say was that she wanted them.  She finally seemed to understand where I was coming from but I’m not sure she really gets it becuase I don’t really get it. 

I keep telling myself that her actions were semi normal.  I remember once, when I was around nine, before I was kidnapped and my mom would leave us alone to get ready for school oursleves, my mom left me some of her tip money to go buy My little sister lunch at Huber’s Market (becuase she went to a school for ADHD and hyper kids and she had to take a lunch everyday).  Anyway, I bought her an apple and a juice and I spent the other money on a soda for me and some ding dongs and when my mom found out She. Was. Pissed. I think I got a right good ass beating that day.  So, I’m not sure if my emotions tonight are the sole product of #3's actions and my desire to raise children who are not selfish fuckups who only think of themselves, or my own emotional baggage that I cannot seem to unload.  All I know is that it is bothering me. Still.  Three hours later.

Who will look out for the kids?

I was listening to the talk radio today on my way home.  The DJ was discussing a case that hit the news today, a child, five years old, beat repeatedly by her sperm and egg donors.  She had something like 100 bruises on her butt and back. 

ONEFUCKINGHUNDRED bruises. 

The DJ then went on to discuss with several callers the current state of the Arizona Department of Child Protective Services (CSP).  The DJ and callers were basically lamenting the sad state of CPS and the fact that this little girl will be in and out of foster homes and probably, more than likely, sent to live with a relative and then, eventually, depending on the jail time of the parents, she will be sent back to live with her parents.  The DJ was inflamed.  He pulled in another employee of the radio station, who is a foster care provider and they were discussing the state of CPS and how these kids are all shuffled around and back and forth between foster and relative and foster and parent.  The callers, radio guy and foster parent were all complaining about the fact that there is a standing family reunification policy, which basically holds that children should be reunited with their parents eventually, and the programs are set up so that reunification is always the goal. 

Now, my ears perked up at this because long time readers of this blog, and my other blog know that I was a foster care provider from 1998 until I moved to Arizona in 2005.  I took in relatives at first, then I became a provider for a private company in Utah.