Archive for November, 2009

Tonight I sent the following to my friend, Ann:
UGH. yeah. no one is fatter than me. fuck. I worked out tonight and felt better. but now it’s after 11 and I’ve been drinking, because it’s thanksgiving and do you remember what it’s like the first set of holidays after a breakup. hell, is what it is.

I just want to kiss him.

_____________
After I hit send, I thought about how seriously lame it was. And how, when I sober up, I might find it a little funny. Consider this my version of drunk dialing.

Except I have been known to drunk dial.

And I haven’t even told you about Him. Geeze. Skipping ahead, I know.

I look forward to one of these.

I get growth and regret and learning from our mistakes.  But when I can’t even have a simple conversation with him?  We spent five years together, most of them were okay.  Most of the time we really liked each other.  Genuinely.  We had fun together.  We got along.

And now I will admit it here, humbling and embarrassing as it is, and something that I don’t really want my son to know:  I do not like my son’s father.  He isn’t kind, considerate, or funny.  He is mean-spirited and petty.  He hasn’t bothered to put his son first.  He is spending a lot of money on the babysitter.

“Mommy, I want candy.”

“Mommy, I want ONE candy.”

“Mommy, candy.  PLEEEAAAASSEEE.”

I should have thrown the candy in the trash last weekend when he wasn’t here.  I forgot to take it to work.  I don’t eat the stuff, so it just sits on the counter, doing nothing.  Until he gets here and all he can think about is the damn candy.

I propose that we shoot the guy who invented halloween.

Today I received word that there will be no Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate at sbux this year.  Shall we boycott?  I called it crack in a cup last year.  I have waited patiently for it to return.  Now that it’s November and the peppermint mocha has been sighted, a friend of mine asked her favorite barista about the whereabouts of our beloved drink.

“No, it’s not going to be sold this year.”

Note to potential suitors:  Whip me up one of these babies and odds are totally in your favor.

It’s like starting a new notebook.  It’s always intimidating, fresh pages staring back at me, taunting me into spilling my drama onto its pages.  I was cleaning out some boxes that I moved over here the other night and so far I count seven notebooks.  Spiral bound, varying sizes, all in different states of full.  The timelines are parallel because I write when I feel like it.  I don’t keep track of which notebook I was working on.  I don’t ensure that I’ve only written in one book at a time.

And really for the most part, I don’t go back and re-read material.

So here I am, starting it up again.  I’ve relocated.  The last place gave too much.  My real name.  My real me.  I had readers who I didn’t want reading:  anyone who knew my name and could figure out how to use google.  Family members I don’t wish to talk to, ever.  The ex.

Part of the move is due to the fact that I will be changing my name.  I’m starting to use it now whenever I can get away with it.  The old domain was my first and last name dot com, so it didn’t make sense to hold on to that.  Part of the move is because I’m tired of my ex husband reading.  I’m tired of hiding some things.  I’m tired of expecting a blowup anytime I say something remotely incriminating.

So the archives are gone.  Nine years.  Gone.  Maybe this means I get to write about old stuff again.  Maybe this means I will worry less about duplicating that one entry I wrote in 2002.  Maybe it just means that you won’t have nearly as much to snoop through.

Today, what it means is that I don’t know where to begin.