words of words

I actually got my favorite table at the coffee shop, and the place isn’t too crowded and no one I know to distract me. My nerves are in place, although not in check. Every time I sit to begin to write (especially when it has been so long) I get so nervous, I don’t even think I can begin. And for today, I might not be able to write, it might just be re-reading and getting ready to write later. However, I took the whole day off to write and a lot of tomorrow, so either way, at least two days of my spring break will be exactly what I want.

Yesterday went to the movies with a dear friend—we saw How to Train Your Dragon, a movie I thought would be cute. It was phenomenal. Great story, and continuous laughter, and gorgeous animation. After, we went to Boulder spur of the moment. While we were there, we went to a bookstore on Pearl Street. There was an author promoting her new novel. Paula Reed. Her new novel is filling in the missing years of Hester (the protagonist in The Scarlet Letter). I didn’t really want to hear a lecture, but after listening to her a few moments, I joined the small throng of listeners—even asked a few questions of my own about agents and editing. It was pretty amazing hear her speak (both of her life and about her process). She has been a teacher for twenty years at Columbine High School. She was there with the shootings. She spoke how her depression the years after the shooting lead her to take a two years off after the freshman who had been there graduated, and how it lead her to pursue her passion instead of only daydreaming about it. She has written eight books. Only four have been published. I still wonder if I have that in me. I struggle with feeling like I am wasting time. Even today, there a little guilt of not taking massage clients when I need them so desperately—on a day when my folks’ house is closing and will no longer be ours (we got everything out—thanks to my friends), and we all need the money.

I guess I just keep going. I don’t want to be the one who always talked about what he wanted to do and what he wanted to be but was always too scared to get it done. In a year that my weaknesses have been abundantly evident to everyone in my life, I’ve also seen a few ounces of strength that I didn’t really know I had. The life I lead with Chad, while not ending the way I hoped and planned, took courage on my part and a lot of work (for him too, I am sure). I was terrified to give him all of me, and tried to break up with him a few times in our first few months because I was so scared. But, I did it. I gave every ounce of who I was to him, bared it all—good and bad, and left it there for him to judge as worthy or not. I risked everything with him. And while I learned how much more pain that leaves you open to, I also know I wouldn’t do it any other way with him, and I never would have experienced the magic I’d never dreamed of. Likewise, I will be a fool for this—for writing. Even if my writing sucks and no one publishes, I am going to continue writing. Just as at some point, it quit being a choice to continue to love Chad, it just because who I was, likewise, I don’t have much choice to write. I simply must. Even in this, in a blog that doesn’t really say anything, with my fingers constantly making typos, I can breathe easier.

At least there are newly cleaned sheets to crawl into in a bit...

The last day of moving my folks is over. Life can kinda get back to normal. I will need to go hard and heavy on extra massages to try to get caught up to being equally as far behind as I was before, but after so much work, I don’t think I can complain about two jobs again. . . for awhile. However, I do hope I get to write a couple days this Spring Break, but who knows. Tomorrow I am going to go see How To Train Your Dragon. I need something fun and light and cute. Not to mention movie theater popcorn. Then I will start working out again on Wednesday. Finally.
Maybe it was seeing Chad today and once again having it shoved in my face that I’ll never be with him again. Maybe it was seeing the house empty. Maybe it was seeing the card that one of dad’s students gave him today with some of his tithe money to help out his teacher. Maybe it was spending time in the new apartment (term used loosely). Maybe it was all of it, but for the first time in this whole process, I started to break. I am really struggling with my anger with God. To be honest, it seems like a really bad time to be struggling with that. If a miracle doesn’t happen in the next couple weeks, things are going to get a lot (A Lot) worse. So, not a good time to be all Grrrr at God.
So, GRRRRRRR. Please don’t hold it against my family that I’m constantly mad at you. Doesn’t change the fact that I have nothing else left but to have hope in you all at the same time. Which is just as scary as giving all my love to Chad. Hmmmm. Not a good sign.

dessert needed

Survived. Even thought I didn’t want to for a bit after. Still did.

As always, from the moment we met, the conversation didn’t falter. I was in the company of my best friend, the one whole holds my heart. I didn’t cry until after.

I’m glad he is happy. And, he really was. He’s genuinely happy. I think he still loves me. Obviously not in love me any longer, but at least loves me. I wish I could be half as happy as he is. I don’t want the life he is choosing, and it makes sense why he would stop choosing me with the life he is choosing, but still. I wish wanting him was enough.

So, I keep walking. Keep crawling forward. Just keep moving. Maybe soon my steps will speed up. Maybe one day, I will talk about what-was with joy and thankfulness (as I should) instead of pain and loss.

Maybe one day, I’ll ride a unicorn.

where strength comes from

As ever, my friends are amazing. Saturday four gorgeous men came to help my family pack. Sunday four other gorgeous men came and helped load and transport boxes. The only bad thing about this, I realized last night as I put their picture in the right spot in my photo library (of course, I had them take a picture before they left), was how pretty they are. You may recall me talking about the new photo-editing tool that was part of the Aperture upgrade—the skin-smoothing tool. Well I have taken to using it on everyone—even friends. It doesn’t change anything, just takes away any blemishes and whatnot they may have on a certain day. Well as I got out said tool to help my Sunday friends out, I couldn’t even find a place they needed it. Nowhere. I love them, but it is really just rude and inconsiderate of them. They need to have at least one imperfection somewhere!

It was really amazing to see my family with them. It’s nothing my friends would even had noticed, but my folks, especially my dad, was a wreck before the first group came over—could barely sleep the night before—to the point I was re-thinking my request to my friends. However, (and it probably didn’t seem like that much to my friends—its amazing how much of a change eight new hands can make), my folks were so grateful to them when they left and seemed to feel pretty comfortable with them while they were there. It is so very hard for my folks to not only ask for help but to actually need it. Lucky for me, I am extremely used to needing help, uhg. What the boys did in a total of four hours would have taken my family days (literally). I know how blessed I am to have such a wonderful group of friends that are family to me. Even if they are too pretty.

On this first day of Spring Break, before I continue with helping my folks move (thanks to the boys, we are going to get it done!), I am having lunch with Chad. I can’t wait to get it over. I was hoping he’d cancel. I was scared he would cancel. It’s been three months since out last lunch. I don’t understand how you can go from loving someone, living with them, kissing them every day, falling asleep together every night, making love consistently, to seeing them every three months and that being okay with one of them. Well, he’d see me a lot more, if he wasn’t trying to not hurt me—the three-month thing is my fault. Him being okay when I’m not is his. So, off to lunch. Pretend to be normal. Pretend to be as okay as I can. Pretend that I’m stronger than I am.

watch out, anderson

I took a sick day from work today and just woke up about thirty minutes ago. It helped tremendously. I didn’t scream when my feet touched the floor and I didn’t have to use the railings to get down the stairs. I decided to come to the coffee shop and blog for a few minutes before going to the hot tub, walking the dogs (first time in over a week—poor puppies), and then returning to the moving farm. I’m so glad that I took it off. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to even help my folks the next three or so days, but I think I can make it now. I’m not sure why my body decided to shut down, but I hope it can keep trucking for a bit longer. The copious amounts of Advil probably aren’t hurting either.

I made another starling discovery yesterday. Gray hair. A ton of gray hair. I’ve had a gray hair for a bit, but only a few and it blended in perfectly with the blond of my old-‘red’ hair. Now, there is gray everywhere I look, especially in the sideburns. And, I swear it wasn’t there a few days ago. I had just gotten a hair cut a week or so ago, and it would have shown itself then. I haven’t really been dreading gray hair. I plan on rocking it. I think a gray Mohawk will definitely be in order. The only thing I am sad about is that I really wanted a few years of looking younger with the person I would marry—before being all gray. Guess that ain’t gonna happen. I know it sounds strange, but I loved watching Chad get grayer. (I know I’ve been using his name again, when I said I wouldn’t. I’m torn on it actually. On one hand, it feels disrespectful to him, but I don’t mean it that way. I love seeing his name, even when it hurts. However, it was so painful and to write him over and over. He gave me the best years of my life, I don’t think he would withhold his name from me, plus he was always my biggest supporter of my getting published and of my writing.) One, I thought the gray was unbelievable sexy. Two, it was a marker of some of our time together (maybe I was the cause of his gray—who knows). I was looking forward to my gray haired husband. Of course, he said he was going to dye it. I begged him not to—I loved it. Anyway, whatever the cause—it appears old man city is soon to be my own permanent residence.

As I need to hurry so that I can fit in everything I need to before moving, that is all for today. Plus, why keep going if I can end on a rather up note for once? I’m not really sure which part of that was an up note, but I going to say it was there—somewhere.

what it all comes down to

I will start with the positive:

I got home from packing my folks last night. My knees and ankles were swollen, I couldn’t turn my neck, and I was feeling pretty lousy—except that I knew I had a snow day today and I could sleep-in before I went up to continue packing. Snuffed into my door was a PetSmart card for $40—enough to get food for the puppies. I’m not sure who it was from, the one guess I had said it wasn’t from him, so I don’t know. However, I’m sure whoever you are, you read my blog. First off, thank you so much. Your kindness made a very nice spot in the day. And it helps my two fat little boys stay fat without their daddy having cut as many corners. That being said, please realize this: Please don’t feel you have to fix any situation I talk about on my blog. Just being able to vent and put it out in the universe is gift enough—my free therapy. It’s okay to read the blog and go, ‘wow, that sucks’ and move on with your day. It is also okay to say, ‘quit bitching and deal, ya big fag.’ Above all, amid all the whimpering and complaining I do, I hope you are able to at least smirk and laugh at times by some of the stories on here. Regardless, thank you so, so very much.

Now, the unpositive:

I was feeling quite a bit better today as I drove to my folks’ house around eleven in the morning. I had gotten to sleep in. My right knee didn’t hurt, I could turn my neck, and while both of my hands were still tingling and numb at times, I was still able to move them. I really was feeling okay. I was a few blocks away from their house when I realized I’d missed a call, so I checked my voicemail. It was from the manager of an apartment complex asking about a former renter: “Someone I used to rent to.” I thought it was a friend that rented from me several years ago. However, it turned out to be Chad. Someone I used to rent to. Someone I used to rent to. Someone I used to rent to. It was one of those moments that everything froze in time. I placed the phone on my lap, and my heart sank. Someone I used to rent to. I almost didn’t call him back, but knew I’d drive myself crazy if I didn’t. He answered and proceeded to ask me questions: How long had I rented a room to Chad? (One year, three months) Did I have any noise complaints about him? (No) Did he pay me on time? (Always) Did he give me timely notice of leave? (Yes [technically the day before, but he told me he could stay until I was okay with him leaving—as I knew that would never be the case, I chose one last night with him only]) Would I rent to him again? (Absolutely [with all of my heart])

Who knew a tenant check could leave you in tears?

The day only continued. The phone call my family and I had been dreading, but once again, trying to ‘keep faith’ that it wouldn’t come, came. (Preceded by two phone calls that made us go, how could it get any worse? We found out.)

You think when you get your throat cut, it happens all at once. And it feels like it. You don’t see how it can get cut anymore, how you have anything left to hurt or to cause to bleed. You’re wrong. Your throat continues to get cut and cut and cut. Never severed. Your heart never truly brunt all the way to ash.

I am beyond thankful for the lives and health of my family. For my phenomenal friends who are rushing to our side. For my puppies. For having two jobs.

Again, I say, though you slay me, I will trust you. And if its not good enough for you that the only reason that I trust you is because I have no other choice, then I’m sorry. It’s all I have left.

vacation in magic blubber

I love my parents. Love them more every day.
The parents of my children (and there are a couple wonderful, wonderful exceptions) tend to make me irate. I lay three cases before the feet of the jury:
Case One:
I have had this fifth grade girl since the day after Chad left me last year. So, I will have had her for a year in a couple weeks. She has been a huge, huge challenge. She lives with her grandparents, due to her mother kidnapping her a few years ago and keeping her for a couple years, during which, she turned her daughter over to someone else for a few months. During that time, all sorts of unspeakable thing occurred. Long story short, this girl is legitimately a handle full. For me and her grandparents. However, her grandparents have the backbone of a sea cucumber. Their wishy-washy and pathetically weak behavior towards their granddaughter not only enable her to lash out but prompt it. After several warnings and promises that they would not send their granddaughter to visit her evil mother, they did so over a week ago (keep in mind that Spring Break is still a week away), because they needed a break. The call I received yesterday, during which the grandmother’s attempt at concern in her voice was nearly laughable., I was informed that they can no longer get a hold of their granddaughter and have no idea where she is and are not sure if she will ever be returning to school.
Case Two:
I have a fourth grade boy who has been a terror for most of his school years. He is legitimately pretty stout and husky, but I wouldn’t qualify him as overly fat—at least compared to my own childhood pictures. However, his mother is a rather large hunk of flesh. Instead of really worrying about his behavior or trying to get him help, most of the calls I receive from her are concerning his diet. He is forced to get salads at school at least four out of the five days a week, and she tells me to only allow him to have toast at breakfast. (Good thing I got used to breaking rules a long time ago.) He is sick to death of salads and won’t eat them and throws them away. He has no friends, the kids don’t like him, but even they make comments about how sorry they feel for him with what he is forced to eat. After a couple rough days with this boy, I receive a call yesterday from his mother, again. Not about his behavior or what might helpfull, but demanding to know why her son is gaining weight. Well, my theory? Being around such a fat parent is probably contagious.
Case Three:
My newest girl (fifth grader) has lived a life most only read about. Her mother, so it seems, prostituted her daughter out to pay for drugs. The daughter has done multiple drugs herself, is a cutter, and has been very sexually active on her own, and this is the short list. She just moved in with her religious aunt a few weeks ago and will soon be moving to another foster family because ‘things just aren’t working out.’ However, yesterday, they were doing battle over a book. She has been very concerned that the only book my student will read is “The Diary of a Wimpy Kid.” Which to me is thrilling. More than anything educational, she’s a very smart girl, she and I have been working on what it means to be a fifth grader and experiencing childhood moments. When she came to me, she wouldn’t play at recess, wouldn’t laugh, nothing that would seem childish or young. You should see her now. It’s amazing how much she laughs and jokes. So, yesterday, I was informed that I was supposed to confiscate the book ‘Matilda’ by Roald Dahl (the same guy who wrote ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ and ‘The Twits’). Matilda is appropriate for second graders and is full of childhood innocence. The reason for the battle of this book? She THINKS it might have magic in it. When I called to suggest to the aunt that I have found it best to pick our battles with these type of kids, I was informed how vital it is to guard what we put in our minds—and then added to the list should be anything Harry Potter or Twilight related. (In case you didn’t know, there’s not really many other books that elementary aged children talk about or read.) As long as she lives under her aunt’s roof, she can not have such things—end quote. First off, I wanted to challenge her high-flouting Christianity in her face—cause I could take her in Bible and religious knowledge any fucking day of the week. Then, point out the oh-so-minor fact that the raping, prostituting, drug use, and cutting might, just maybe, have already put certain things in her mind. But silly, liberal me. I should have realized that Hagrid, Matilda, and Bella are much more harmful to her immortal soul.
And that was just yesterday.

hackneyed angst

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Brandon. He had just gotten over being afraid for the first twenty-six years of his life—fear of Hell, fear of everyone rejecting him, fear of never being who God wanted, blah, blah, blah. For about four years, he was genuinely happy. Sure there were moments, but overall, happy. For a couple years there, happy doesn’t even begin to cover it. This same man is now older, once again fatter, and angry all the time. About everything. Angry that his country continues to have an endless line of fucking stupid idiots as presidents who consistently make choices that fuck up our country for the endless seemingly unending future. Angry that his parents, who have worked so hard, and done so much for other people and their sons have had life do nothing but shit on them with increasing voracity for the past two years. Angry that students’ parents still believe (after years with me) their chronically lying child when they come home and say they did absolutely nothing and but Mr. Witt gave them a consequence anyway. Angry that there is three days worth of dog food left and there is a week until payday. Angry that I found the man I never dreamed I’d find only to have my guts ripped out and shredded on a daily basis. Angry that I am fool enough to still feel. Angry that every damn Norah Jones’ song sounds exactly the same as the last one, only more watered-down and blasé. Angry that I’m angry and have lost my old Christian skill of stuffing it all down and appearing perfect. Angry that when I finally get to sit down and write some amusing things that were in my head, this is what spews forth from me.

Always questions. Never answers.

As gay as it is, hear it in your mind sung with Judy Garland’s voice:

“What’ll I do, when you are far away and I’m so blue? What’ll I do?

What’ll I do, when I am wondering who is kissing you? What’ll I do?

What’ll I do, with just a photograph to tell my troubles to? What’ll I do?

What’ll I do, when I’m alone with only dreams of you, that won’t come true? What’ll I do” …Irvin Berlin

This is the song that has filled me all day, the song that I sang to Gavin as I rocked him, the song that seems to sum up what is left.

warp

I am definitely operating in a state of Zombieland. While I shockingly loved this movie (and want to own it one day), I don’t refer to the desire to eat other people. They’re not greasy or cheesy enough. However, I am in a perpetual zombie-like state/existence. It is getting harder and harder to wake up in the morning. It was bad enough when I was doing so many massages at night after work, however, going directly to my folks and staying there loading/packing/moving until I drive home and go to bed could easily do me in. I think I feel my brain turning to ash. Which, honestly, could be an improvement—we’ll just have to see. Saturday is the day we are all taking for ourselves, so I am hopeful that my body will let me sleep in.
If it were just the sleep issue, I think I’d be able to function better, but the zombieness is transferring to my emotional state at well. Part of this is an improvement. Not having time to write, think, or talk to anyone about issues other than students or our financial wasteland, is limiting the time that his absence and choices are able to cause me pain. This seems like a good thing. However, I guess it all comes out one way or another. Every single fucking night, I dream about him. Sometimes, we are still together, sometimes he’s telling how much he doesn’t love me, sometimes it’s just him living happily without me, sometimes (and these are the worst) it is just glimpses of our lives together—we’re on vacation, we’re making dinner at home, we’re having sex, he’s kissing me. Psyche, could you please just pick one area of my life to torment me with at a time please.
As always, however, the bright spot is both my family and friends (I’d say the dogs too, but we don’t even have time to be together right now). My family will get through this and we will be stronger, things may always be difficult or a struggle to make ends meet from now on, but we know who we are and what we are to each other. And my friends have made it apparent that they will gather around me (and my family) if and when the time comes. Priceless.
All that said, here’s the fantasy for today: I want to sell everything single thing I own (except for my pictures, camera, computer, TV/Movies, and cooking equipment) and buy a tiny (while beautiful) place on one of the islands of Hawaii. He will remember he loves me and move with me, my closest friends and family will move as well, and the puppies and I will sit on the beach all day, writing novels, before I come home and make his and my dinner and enjoy simply breathing and watching the sunset.

Dreams

How stealthfully you betray

Under cover of rest you thrust your blade

Bend to kiss lips

Then slip away

can't dig any deeper

While not excited about it, I have been rather curious to get the Census in the mail. I don’t recall ever doing one before. Since I like to talk about myself so much, I thought it might be kinda fun. Was it going to ask my favorite color, sexual position, Cold Stone mix ins? I thought it would be fun, even though I figured it would take about half an hour to fill out.

It was in the mail when I got home tonight. I pulled it out and immediately wanted to stuff it in the garbage disposal. In big (blue, I think) letters on the front, it said I was required to fill it out by law. I don’t like people telling me what to do. I don’t like police telling me what to do. I don’t like my friends telling me what to do, and I for damn sure don’t like an envelope or my government telling me what to do. I know that I have issues. Not new news there. However, curiosity won out and I opened it up. It took three seconds. All it wanted to know was my name, age, and if I owned my house. It also had fifteen thousand options to tell it I was some form of Hispanic. Which also irritated me. It didn’t have options for all the mutt blood I am made up of. Why are the people of Hispanic origin so much more special? Then I thought how I’d feel if I were Hispanic. I think it would make me paranoid. Why was the government asking me so many Hispanic questions, was it preparing some type of concentration camp? Just because my race would be different wouldn’t mean that my paranoia and distrust of our government would alter in any form. I really don’t get why that is so important for them to know the race anyway. Regardless, it was a much more boring experience than I had hoped for—even though there were spots for up to eleven other people to live with me.

I can’t even get one person to want to continue to live with me, let alone eleven. Shesh! Thanks for rubbin’ it in though, Uncle Sam.

I was excited to get back to work today now that CSAPs are over. Each year I give those, I hate them more, and see (more and more) how they do not provide any relevant or accurate information. I thought it would be so wonderful to be back on the normal schedule. Not so much.

One of my little forth graders, who has literally been perfect all year, flipped his switch today. Literally. There was no trigger, nothing. One minute he was my adorable sweet little man, the next, he was out of his mind and literally not with us. About thirty minutes later, after the paramedics, police, and mom had come and gone, I was finally able to doctor the multiple cuts and scratches his he left on both my forearms (I have perfect fingernail gouges through my skin), and check to see if there was a knot on my skull from where he head butted me. And to think that I wasn’t sure if I should wear my thermal under my shirt today or not (it looked really cute, but I was afraid I might get too hot). Yeah, bad choice on the thermal…

The rest I really want to talk about and have for quite awhile, and it’s not really my story to tell, even though I really need to write about it and hash out some of the crap in my head. Here’s what I will say, my family has had to take issue with the bank and as a result, has to move, and be out by the 30^th. I guess that I have been in some type of denial, and I didn’t truly catch on till tonight what they actually meant. I didn’t realize whatever wasn’t packed and gone would no longer be ours. Needless to say. I canceled every massage appointment for the rest of the month that I had scheduled, and I will be spending every waking moment (until the 30^th) that I’m not at work at my folk’s house. Except for next Saturday’s date. I am going to take that day for myself. The rest are gone. It’s all a very surreal experience. (For those precious few of you who read this in Missouri, I would request that you not repeat this to anyone [including your folks]. It’s no one’s business and I know it would really hurt my family for that to become a topic of discussion or prayer requests in church. Feel free to make it an issue of prayer of YOUR OWN if you so desire. Thanks so much! J )

time travel for an hour

Although it was so hard to wake up this morning (I never understood how Chad could lay in bed an sleep through our alarm—it’s like a fog horn on crack—I understand now), and although my allergies seem to think that something evil bloomed in the night last night, I was so happy to drive in the dark again this morning. It is so much more relaxing. Listening to Margaret Cho (she’s really dirty) (the vampire romance novels are still not in from the library—I got books 17 and 18, very helpful when you’re needing 15 and 16), drinking my coffee, heater blowing on my face. I love it. And I love even more that it will be daylight well into the evening now. In and of itself, that will help my depression, at least a touch. And CSAPs are over and I can actually pretend to be a teacher again!!! See, look how positive I am!
My date last night was bittersweet. We hadn’t seen each other for two weeks, so it was nice to see him again. However, he had gone to see his ex and I am getting ready to see mine (still so strange to call him ‘my ex’. . .) so both of us were a little tender. He also let me know that is now up to a 90% chance that he will be moving at the end of summer. Perfect. Maybe, this time, knowing in advance that I’m going to get left, instead of swearing that he’d never leave, will make it more manageable. Part of me wants to say, “Well, see ya.” But, regardless if this ‘relationship’ is designed to help me move on from Chad, get me ready for him to return (yeah, right, I know), help me heal, lead me to where I’m supposed to be, or lead to something lasting (somehow) with this man, I’m not sure—but it feels like there is a purpose and this it is good. Maybe this is just one of the lies we tell ourselves (or that I tell myself—I guess you’re all not dating him). Either way, telling him I don’t want to see him anymore because he’s leaving doesn’t feel right. And, either way, I’m in no space to really trust my emotions or decisions right now, so might as well choose the one that involves kissing and spending time with a really sweet guy.


On a positive note, I couldn’t even button my skinny jeans this weekend.

Oh, shit. Being fat was attractive in the olden days, not so much now. I keep forgetting that.

green

For being a rather emotional person, there is one feeling that I’m not overly familiar with. Jealousy. It’s really never been a part of me, and it’s something I’ve never really understood when other people express. I’ve been envious before, sure. Seeing hot guys who are so pretty that it literally hurts to look at them. Everyone with a Mini Cooper. People over Five Five. People who can pay all their bills, still buy great clothes and go on vacations. But, it is only a, “Huh, that must be nice. I’d like to experience that someday.” No sooner has it entered my mind than it is gone. I don’t dwell on it. I don’t feel any resentment or animosity, nothing. I would never wish I could have what they had if it meant that they could not. Until now…

At first it was Chad’s friends getting married. I don’t wish them any ill, and I hope they have a wonderful wedding and that their marriage is magical. However, I am so jealous. I want what they have so badly, and I can’t help but feel resentful. And angry. Not at them, but at him. At me. At life.

Then, today, via damned FaceBook, I discovered that one of my acquaintance friends just got signed on with a publisher and has a release date for his gay trilogy books. Granted, if I could go back and have the life I had with him and have him choose to stay with me and spend our lives together, I would give up the writing fantasy in a heartbeat. However, if I can’t have one, I should at least get the other. Yes, we can say entitled. I know it. So, for the second time in two days, I am jealous. I really don’t ever recall feeling feelings like these before. I don’t like them.

I often feel stupid for dreaming big. Thinking that he’d continue to love me. Thinking that I’ll be a published author. But, obviously, other people dream big and it works. So, when does it become stupid?

empty finger, haunted life

If someone told me that I’d happily wake up at seven on a Saturday and get out of my bed that I never get to actually sleep in after six AM, I’d have laughed at them. Well, happily is probably the wrong word, but out of bed nonetheless. Feeling rather raw and tender (not in a good way) this morning, I decided to spend a couple hours before my next massage client at the coffee shop instead of working out as planned. I will work out later.

I got invited to an engagement party last night. For a gay couple that are friends with Chad. I truly was happy for them. Although their engagement party is ending at Tracks (the may local gay dance club), and I couldn’t help thinking, “Really? Of course…” It’s nice to see a couple that want to be together. Where one isn’t running away or realizing he doesn’t love the other. Of course, I’ve learned that is always an option, apparently, but still. There was a picture of one of them down on one knee (looked like they were on vacation in Mexico or something). I want to be the one getting proposed to. I know that’s the girl’s role, but sill. I’m tired of being the one doing the chasing.

While I truly was happy for them, it was a slice to the heart. I know it’s pure jealousy, I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that it is wrong and selfish—but nothing new there, right? And I know this sounds like a spoiled little boy, but, why do they get that and not me? Why did one of them love the other enough to propose when mine only loved me enough to leave calmly?

I want to move. I want to get out of this town. I love Denver. Truly. The more I’m here, the more I fall in love with it, but it simply hurts too much to be here. Half the places here I don’t go out of fear I’ll see him, and nearly every place I go has his ghost there, staring at me, enigmatically replaying our life spent together.

There’s not much keeping me here. I have so many friends that between them all and the second job, I never really get to see any of them regularly (also, gotta say, I’m getting sick of the guilt trips from some friends about this issue, doesn’t really help). The bff and his bf are probably going to move sooner or later, and everything in this cow town screams his name. A constant torment.

The only thing keeping me here is my family. And they are keeping me here. The only thing the MIGHT make me leave is if he came back and needed to move for some reason and wanted me with him. Wahahhahhahahahaha. At least I’m safe from that happening. I’m not leaving. I won’t leave my family. My folks need me. Period. I need them. My brother (crazy as he is at times) is a best friend to me, I love him desperately. And now there is Gavin. I won’t leave him. I am going to give him the best uncle I possibly can. So, moving, more than ever, is not an option. But I want to, more than ever. I almost moved to San Diego six or seven years ago, even was taking trips out there to look at condos and houses and such, then my land sale fell through and I couldn’t afford it. I want to move more now than I even did then.

once upon a time

I don’t know how he always knows, but he always seems does.

For the first time in nearly a month, I just glanced back at my email history this morning. I was just curious the last time he wrote me. It would be a month in just a couple days. I checked because I am sure at some point, he will stop contacting me. I don’t understand why he does. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t miss me.

Within five hours, I had an email from him. Just saying and seeing if we can have lunch over my Spring Break. For those first few moments, as ever, my mind goes delusional. Maybe this will be the time he says he made a mistake. This will be the time he’ll remember that he loves me. This will be the time when he wants me back. Then, I wake up. If that were case, we wouldn’t be making a lunch plans three weeks from now. It wouldn’t be over email. It wouldn’t be my life.

I’m already nervous and dreading it. I’m already nervous and so happy that I get to see him again. Pathetic.

Honestly, I am glad he still, for some bizarre reason, wants me in his life—even though I don’t want to see him in a mixed company. However, he has become a fairytale to me. A life I dreamed I lived once. A happiness I made up. A love that was only in my mind. It makes it easier. If it was a fairytale, all a lie, it makes sense. I didn’t loose anything real. I never really was loved. It was all in my head. That illusion comes crashing down when the fairytale reaches out and sends an email or wants to eat with me. That shattering of perception is why I can’t handle ever seeing him in public. I was loved for a bit. I was happy, truly. I had everything I never dreamed I could have. It wasn’t just a fairytale, and I did loose. It was my loss. Not matter what stupid cliché shit saying people wanna spout.

A dear friend of mine, who went through a similar break up two years ago, and who has remained crushed for those two years, has only recently began to experience freedom and the ability to live again. It has been in the past two weeks that his ex is now letting him know how sorry he is and how much misses him. My friend is a mess. Both hurting and wishing it would go away. He had shut him out of his life and heart and now doesn’t want him, doesn’t think he can ever trust anyone with his heart again—let alone his ex. As much as he is hurting (and I admitted this to him), I am beyond jealous. What I would give to hear him say he misses me, to send out feelers to find out if I would take him back. But, that’s not how my life works. That would be the fairytale.

girls, girls, girls

America’s Next Top Model started again last night, which I didn’t even know was happening. I literally screamed out in joy when I realized what my DVR was recording. Then, of course, the pain of loss came, realizing what this night normally meant.
I shoved it aside, and forced myself to focus on the good. MAKEOVERS!!!
There were two (actually tons, but I’m being selective) moments I had to share that had me gasping for breath as I fell over laughing. Both from the same girl (who, of course, I hate). This girl, in the audition interview, was asked about her thoughts on interracial dating (she is African-American). She said that she doesn’t have a problem with it, except she can’t bring herself to date a white guy for one reason. She wasn’t trying to be funny, she paused awkwardly before continuing. Finally, she just blurted it out. She can’t date a white guy because the idea of a pink penis freaks her out. It looks too much like raw meat! Raw Meat!!! That amount of laughter had to add three years back to my life. No wonder I have just lately discovered of love of Johnsonville Brats.
Later when she was the last to discover that she had made it to the final twelve (later upped to thirteen—ohh, the twists and turns of Tyra), she screamed and screamed and ended up covering her face with her hand. When Tyra walked towards her to congratulate her, the girl waved her away, and muffled beneath her hand, said that she was having a snot problem at the moment!!! (No wonder my throat is sore this morning.) Granted, if Tyra just told me she picked me to be a potential model, I’d be shootin’ snot out my nose too.

Adonis

Here are (apparently) my rules to becoming as gorgeous as you possibly can be:

1. Start driving to the gym

2. Realize that you have your iPod, but not your earphones

3. Stop at Target, buy cheap earphones

4. Resume drive to the gym

5. Enter gym, with gym bag, iPod, and earphones, getting the membership card out and putting it in pocket

6. Walk to the check-in turn stile

7. Forget which pocket holds the membership card

8. Find card in last pocket searched

9. Go to locker room

10. Find locker

11. Get naked

12. Put on gym clothes

13. Discover you one have one tennis shoe

14. Consider wearing your dress shoes

15. Fuck it

16. Throw it all in the locker

17. Go sit in the hot tub

18. Go home

19. Eat a quesadilla

20. Eat a cupcake

21. Sit on couch, watch Glee and Chopped

fickle

I’m not a big one to boycott things. Most of the time I think it is rather stupid and pointless, unless you manage to get the whole world to boycott with you. Plus it simply reminds me of all the things the Baptists were boycotting when I was in high school. It seemed like every other day they were calling on all Baptists to boycott things like Disney, jeans, and oxygen. I was so glad I wasn’t a Baptist! How could I ever boycott something that gave me The Little Mermaid? There are things I boycott in my life: AT&T and Best Buy. But those are simply because of how royally they have intentionally screwed me over and I told both of them I would never support them again, and I won’t. I don’t expect my boycott to do them any harm, but it would be like returning to an abusive lover if I continued to do business with them.
Yesterday, I got an email asking me to join the boycott against Amazon. Most of the time, I wouldn’t even look at it, but my longest relationship (other than Sonic) has been with Amazon. I love Amazon.
It seems that Amazon has pulled its online ads from all the blogger sites and such from Colorado, due to Colorado asking Amazon to pay the state tax that every other online business does. From what I understand, Amazon’s reaction to this didn’t hurt Colorado at all, just the higher profile bloggers who depend on their link to create revenue. (Luckily, I am not a high profile blogger who depends on ad revenue [insert bitter voice].)
I was actually torn about this issue. I am rather mad at Colorado myself at the moment for its stupid handling of the Frontier Airlines and demanding stupid taxes from them that caused them to pull their head quarters from our state, costing us lots of jobs. (Good move, Colorado jackasses!) However, this tax appears to be fair and warranted, and Amazon is playing its God card at the expense of people that didn’t cause this to happen.
Here’s where the dilemma comes in. I almost signed the petition to let Amazon know I would not do business with them until they pull their heads out of their ass. Then I realized what that meant. I could no longer shop from Amazon when I actually have the money to shop from Amazon. I could not longer write reviews.
I’m not sure I can do that.
Even at the cost of other innocent people’s welfare.
It’s sick.
It’s wrong.
I know.
I love Amazon. It’s brought me much happiness and escape from the horrible moments in my life. I feel like I’m in bed with Hitler and keep going back for more cause he’s well endowed, despite the bad skin and horrible mustache—and the whole killing people issue.
I just hope Amazon can remedy their situation before am guilted into siding against them or before I slip into bed with the enemy and betray my other statesmen.
Such drama in my little world. (Who says we can’t use tiny, petty things to distract from what really hurts in life.)

tuesday's edition of the gayzette

In an effort to make myself be in a better mood than I have been the past several days (both in regards to him and to how work has been) I decided to not take my anti-depression pill today. Actually, I didn’t realize it until it was much too late. I guess that means lots of grease and chocolate to compensate.
The real effort to combat my emotions was listening to Kathy Griffin’s CD in the car this morning. (I am between vampire romance novels—I’m picking up the next few at the library this afternoon, if I can get there before they close.) I kinda wish I could have seen myself from other people’s cars. I’m just sitting there behind the wheel, drinking my coffee (homemade today—look at me saving money!), then a sudden outburst into hysterical laughter. Followed by a downward grimace as I spill said coffee onto my slacks. Hearing her talk about Oprah. OMG. Best stuff ever. Speaking of, watching the Oscars on Sunday with MD (Love her) (also loved Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin as hosts), I enjoyed hearing what Oprah had to say about the Precious girl. As a writer, one of my dearest dreams is to just have Oprah breath my name on her show (even under her breath), your career is set after that. Plus, I love fat, black lesbians. No, really I do.
Speaking of lesbians, I saw on my gay headlines this morning that Sean Hayes came out of the closet. If you don’t know who Sean Hayes is, turn in your gay card—even if you’re straight. He played Jack on Will & Grace. I have actually argued with friends who swore he was straight (complete with a wife and kids, uh huh…). The boy was always gayer than, well, me. Not that I’ve really ever met anyone actually gayer than me, but still. I laughed that this was news. It was about as much news as Clay Akin being gay (which I’m still upset about—I really didn’t want him on my team), and Neil Patrick Harris being gay (love that he’s on my team). The conversation around this news online was so funny. So many were so glad he finally came out, how his character was such a great role model on W&G. What the fuck? Really? The reason he and Karen were so great and the reason we all loved them so much was that they were such horrible and outrageous role models. Jack never could get a real job, pay for anything, or decide what he wanted to do with life, all the while spending his friends’ money on labels, drugs, boys, and alcohol, choosing to end up single and alone with Karen. Oh, wait. . . I guess he is actually was a role model for most gay men. My bad.
Speaking of faggots. I have also been following the case of the Catholic preschool in Boulder that is rejecting one of their students from attending Kindergarten with them next year when the found out the child’s parents were lesbians. I have greatly enjoyed the vast commentary and public opinions around this, which have been surprisingly vast. Here is my disclaimer. I am all for any business that isn’t government funding having any code they want. Even if it is racist or sexist or whatever. If some restaurant that is privately owned doesn’t want me to eat in their establishment because I’m gay, white, red-haired (sorta), whatever, awesome. I am a firm believer in that aspect of America. As long as it isn’t hostile or shoving their beliefs on others, I love that private institutions can run their business however they want (even thought that is no longer true). If I open a business, I want the final say. The beauty of that is, then the public can decide if they want to support said business. The flip side of that is that I think the government should be run the opposite. Everyone is equal, period. If you don’t want me in your business because I’m a fag, great, I’ll shop somewhere else. If you don’t want to give the right to marry the man I love who doesn’t love me, fuck you, and quit asking me to pay taxes. All that to say: I think the school has every right to turn the couple away. However, I do love how it points out their bigotry (which I didn’t even notice until one of the conservation radio hosts pointed it out). I bet there are a lot of divorced, unwed, (you-name-it that is against the church’s/Bible’s teachings) parents there that are straight who still get to send their child to the school. On the parent’s side (as I still have the delusional hope to be a parent one day), there is no way in hell I would send my child to a school that would teach them that their daddies are sick, wrong, and gonna burn in hell. Probably not the best idea for a kid. And if their idea is to make a political point against the school? Get a grip, it’s a private institution (tax-exempt notwithstanding), they can do whatever they want. And, your job is to be a parent, not to use your child for political advancement of the ‘gay cause’ or for five minutes of fame.

broken jaw and twisted soul

It was one of those days at work where I don’t know how I will ever get the strength to come back. I felt it the minute I walked in the door. Typically, as I unlock my classroom and turn on my paper star lamps and sit in the dark, preparing lessons or writing IEPs, I feel at peace and rather glad to start another day with my kids. Today, I wanted to turn around and run away. It thought it was because I had a rather emotionally rough weekend (just when I think I’m really done shedding tears, more appear), but it seems I somehow knew it was gonna be a day.

I’ve rather prided myself in how hard hearted with kids I have become, while still being able to love them. If you don’t, you won’t be able to help them very long. You have to find the ability to distance yourself from their situations and even find the humor in their truly fucked up lives. Hell, when I saw Precious, I didn’t shed a tear. Everyone around me was sobbing, and, to me, it was just a shrug of, ‘yep, that’s life.’

Maybe due to the weekend, I just didn’t have that strength in me today, and ended up interrupting a 5^th-6^th grade planning session with my principal, tears beginning to build in my eyes. My class has grown to fourteen, which is huge for type of kids, and I have three girls, now (which is also rare). While SIED girls are rarely diagnosed, one of them is typically the amount of work of five SIED boys. Really. My newest girl that I got a couple weeks ago, is a cutter. If you’ve ever work with cutters, you know that it tends to be contagious. This case has been no different. One of my other fifth grade girls (that came to me the Monday after Chad left) has taken me a year to begin to make progress. She is this tiny, rather gorgeous Hispanic girl. Today, I discovered, due to this other new girl’s example, this girl has now started cutting on herself as well. The tops of her arms were sliced up (most superficial cuts) from the metal of a pencil (where it hold the eraser) that she had in her bedroom last night. I sat there, with this girl who I have thought I would strangle so many times before, tears in both our eyes, and let myself wrap my arms around her and give her a hug (a very dangerous/stupid/yet needed thing to do with SIED girls). And this was only one of the experiences today. With all the new kids and new drama (with the exception of CSAP), I have not got to actually teach anything in over a week and a half. It is all caught up in constant insanity.

Days like these take a lot out of me. Actually, most of the time, they don’t—they’ve become old hat and I am pretty good at what I do—it’s just another day. Except for when I am already weak, then it feels like one swift punch, stab, kick in the gut after another. Then to leave, and not be able to call and plan what he wants me to have ready for dinner and know we won’t fall asleep together on the couch. . .

Seriously, no wonder I only watch Disney movies and read vampire novels. Why would I want stay in reality any longer than need be?

ache

the absence of my best friend is a nearly crippling hole today

picture perfect

For those of you who know me personally, you know that (tied with my dogs) my photos are the most important thing in my home. More than ever, the older I become, the more I love them. In many ways, they are the only proof I have that something truly happened. My memories and perceptions of things have proven faulty. Photos aren’t. Of course, it is way to easy to look at photo and remember what you thought was going on and realize what was happening in someone’s head was completely different. All the photo books of Chad and I have been packed away for months for just such a reason, however, I love that they are there, proving that I’m not as crazy as I sometimes feel and that I actually did live that life for awhile, as impossible as it seems now.

I used to scrap book all the time, and got pretty fantastic at it. However the amount of money and time (and the durability) was ridiculous. Then I switched to Mac. I have finally learned how to make rather fantastic hardbound photo books that are rather outstanding. I have decided that I am not only going to do one album a year documenting my life, but one documenting Gavin’s life as well. To be presented to him on his birthday each year. I’m sure it won’t be a gift he loves for a long time, but I think at some point, he will really like having them. Instead of photo books that age and brown and are scattered everywhere, he will have these sleekly beautiful books that show glimpses of his life and the love that surrounds him.

About a year ago, I started using Aperture, a photo editing software. It’s not able to create completely different things than what you photographed (at least I have discovered how) like some programs, but it allows you to edit, enhance, and perfect what you do photograph. In my latest version, it now allows you to fix skin blemishes perfectly. I just went through and adjusted all the skin that belongs to myself and my brother for Gavin’s book.

I have found the one draw back to Gavin’s annual present. When he reaches the teen years, he is going to feel very insecure when he looks back at his uncle and father’s perfect skin.

It’s so hard being pretty.

dreaming of peeping toms

I’m familiar with the theory of a couple steps forward and one step back. However, life, lately, seems consistently one step forward and ten steps back. It continues to be humbling and rather disappointing to come to terms with how truly weak I am emotionally.
—Unrelated—
One of the features I love about my home is the front door. It is this thick, large, massive wooden slab. If any door could be masculine, this is the door. Who knew talking about a door could get me turned on… My bff gave me a pine cone door knocker a few years ago. It sounds silly, but it matches it perfectly, very rustic and mountain-manish. It’s so heavy that when used, it causes vibrations through the first few rooms of the house. Even when I know someone is coming over, it causes me to jump and my heart to race when it is used. Not helped by the fact that is sends Dolan into barking hysterics. I somehow managed to whap my head on it one day (I don’t remember how I pulled that off, but you know me…). I hurt for hours. The only draw back of this sexy door is that there is no peephole, which I find tacky anyway. I have since decided, tacky or not, the front door my next place will have a peephole. I struggle with telling people no, and the lack of the peephole has lead to countless purchases of cookies, rape-line donations (how do you tell a woman soliciting monies for rape prevention no?—“I’m sorry, I’m all for rape, no money for you. And by the way, you’re out here at nearly ten at night going to door to door to strangers’ houses by yourself, if you don’t wise up, you might have to call that number as well”), newspapers (I don’t read newspapers), and purely handing money over for completely unknown reasons. Due to my lack of a spine, I have quit answering the door unless I know someone is coming over. Which has lead to a some hurt feelings when uninvited friends stay on the porch and I refuse to answer. Well, three nights ago, there was a knock at the door, Dolan was already locked in the garage, but he still managed to go into hysterics. I was happy that my massage client was few minutes early—especially considering I had just spent nearly ten minutes on the phone will some kid from my grad school trying to convince me to donate $150 to help out the school. I managed to say no, but couldn’t manage to simply hang up on him. I don’t understand giving money to colleges. I paid you a fortune three years ago and will be making student loan payments for the rest of my life. Not to mention I hate going to school. I sure as hell am not going to pay you twice! I literally had just hung up the phone from the rather disgruntled solicitor when the pinecone announced my client. I open the door, with a greeting to my client. However, it wasn’t my client. It was a pimply faced fifteen year old boy (who was bigger and taller than me—strike one). My heart sank. Damn absent peephole! With great gusto, the boy launched into his spiel, very ‘you’re saving the world by your donation, you’re saving me.’ For ten bucks I could change his life. Maybe it was just getting off the phone, maybe it was opening the door expecting someone else, maybe it was knowing that this would equate to two Starbucks runs, maybe… Whatever the cause, I managed to tell him no three times before he finally left, casting a accusatory glance inside my pretty home and thanking me in his best friendly ‘fuck you’ voice. I closed the door feeling strong and proud of myself at my determination, guilt over rejecting a young boy, and hostile feelings towards my sexy door. I hadn’t made it through the living room before the pine cone spoke again, Dolan rising to the occasion in the garage. Massage time. Perfect.

Because everything in the world is all about me

I was watching the bachelor finale with my folks. A rather shocking ending. What is even more shocking, is that I am actually okay with it (originally, I said if that he picked the one he picked, I would quit watching the show).

As he stood there, telling the ‘good girl’ goodbye, going on and on about how perfect she is, how she’s everything he ever wanted, how they fit so perfect together, but then telling her that something was missing and that he didn’t feel like he could be himself, I truly began to feel nauseous. It was painful listening to him, even more painful realizing some of the truth he had said.

I’ve heard those words, heard them through the tears he cried as he said them. I will/may never understand them, or at least agree with them, but I don’t want him to feel trapped. If being with me makes him feel trapped and smothered, it is good he is free to breathe without me—regardless that it makes it harder for me to breathe.

I really wish they had a gay bachelor show and that I could be the bachelor. Boy, I’d really have to get in shape for that one. Too bad that dad made my favorite fried chicken tonight…