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Do you hear that?
What?
That’s the sound of a burnt out blogger.
My day started like any ordinary day. A shower, breakfast, kiss goodbye, but it ended with a TV appearance, road rage, and not to mention a family member almost spending the night in jail. Today cute hubby was in front of a judge with a grudge, deciding his fate. He pushed a little too hard so the hearing would determine if he was to be held in contempt of court. I anticipated the call and was relieved to hear official groveling in a new suit did the trick. Telling a judge that they are superior to you always does the trick, so I’m told. To celebrate, I was informed not to come home without something fried, preferably mushrooms. Off to the TV studio I went. I was dreading it all day but thankful for the chance. Every Sunday, they feature a local business. This Sunday will be our chance, which we taped tonight. When I first saw the chair she expected me to sit in, I cringed. A short woman like myself never looks good in a tall round chair so I suggested that I sit on the floor to interact with the child who was supposed to be showing off his sign language. My partner, sat stiffly in the chair, sweat rings exposed, cat got her tongue. The child was brilliant, we answered every question, and my lipstick was the perfect shade. The only problem was that I didn’t realize we would be taping for an entire half hour so when they gave the “wrap ‘em up” wave, I ran to the nearest door with a skirt wearing stick figure, apologizing to my bladder. Off I went to pick up the fried food, eager to get home when I looked in the rear view mirror, confused by the geriatric honking at me. He wanted me to turn on red but I wasn’t ready so I let him get the full use of his horn while I planned my attack. Now, normally, I wouldn’t have the guts to stand up for myself in a moving vehicle but I figured the worst he could do was throw his walker at me so I gave it a chance. I turned, and he followed. I slowed, and he passed. I got behind him and let my horn do the talking. It felt good. It felt too good so I just stuck with it. Just then I could sense him getting nervous. He turned on his left blinker, slowed, and tried to fool me by turning right instead, obviously trying to lose me. Unfortunately for him, his turn occurred at about 10mph so I caught up with him at the turn of the wheel. He honked. I honked. I grabbed a fried mushroom and threw it out the sunroof hitting his shiny red Audi. While eating the food I didn’t throw out the window, we agreed it was a good day.
Today, I made him a sweater and sang "Amazing Grace" until he fell asleep. 
Yesterday I told a lie to one person. When I saw her friend, I knew they would talk so I had to tell her the lie too. Today, her friend came over and saw it wasn’t true so I had to tell another lie to cover up the first lie. After she left, I called the first person and had to tell her the lie too, just in case they compared stories. Now I’m confused, guilt ridden, and fearful I’ll be found out.
Yesterday, I thought I was going crazy. Let me tell you why. There’s a constant statement in our house, usually by me, “Don’t over water the plants.” Ok, so it’s not a statement but a demand made in fear of killing my plants. Anyway, yesterday as I sat on the couch minding my own business, I could have sworn two teeny tiny gnats flew past my face. Swatting them away didn’t help, as they appeared to be buzzing in my ear. This caused me to get off my ass and head into the kitchen to tackle some dishes but I was “attacked” there as well. Now it was starting to get on my nerves so I was mad. Mad because you can barely see them, leading to tricks on the brain. I called cute hubby and asked if he had encountered any killer gnats and he denied it. Hum, I’ll just try to ignore it then. Well, it was then that my scalp started to itch like crazy. Slowly, I started feeling them crawl all over my body and invade every orifice. I was itching everywhere. Then I wondered if I had some itching disease because I was itching everywhere. Maybe my multivitamin was causing some weird side effect, leading to raw nerve syndrome. I don’t think this is a real syndrome but if it was, I had it. When cute hubby got home, I informed him we were under attack but he ignored my cries for help. Because he wasn’t experiencing the same pain, I was sure it was in my head. I couldn’t stand it so I suggested we get in our bed, read and then he could kiss me goodnight. I thought sleeping it off would be the cure to my raw nerve syndrome. I woke up only to see him working on the computer next to a lamp, the only light source, swarming with gnats. This is when the apology took place and he swore not to over water the plants again.
My mom recently mailed me a package of toys that I once played with, in hopes that my offspring would get a chance to enjoy them as well. Not in an attempt to be selfish but more of an attempt to hold on to the past, I've hid three of my favorites:
You'll notice, Obe One is not happy with E.T. I'm assuming it is because he is bigger and he feels intimidated. It seems an uneven match due to one having a light saber and the other with only a Speek and Spell to defend himself. Yoda, being the wise one, has protected himself but will have nothing to do with the fight.
I, somewhat like MarieMarionette, have a stalker. (Marie, I would link you but you’re hotter than me so I hate you; in a nice way of course.) Having a stalker may seem scary to some but I know this one so it’s not that bad. The problem I’m having is that he sneaks up on me, thus leading to swearing, which I frown upon, unless I’m getting laid. Anyway, let me lay out the scenario. Cute hubby leaves to go to yoga, so I decide to dwindle every productive minute doing things that are unproductive like getting on the computer. When he returns, he’s eager to share with me his new moves. “Watch what I did tonight.” He said. I try to ignore him because seeing a man doing poses on my floor just isn’t as hot as it used to be. It creeps me out a bit, plus I have to get back to being unproductive. He starts talking, so I turn my chair around to act like I was paying attention. It was then that I was struck with a sight that I actually think burned my eyes, like lemon juice. There he was, on his head, naked, asking me to count. “Count what?” I counted two, two things in my face that I wanted to hit. Now, normally these two things I enjoy in my face but not when it’s unexpected and sweaty. I started to run like a child away from the upside down monster but then I ran back to push him. Most yoga people who get pushed out of their pretzel like positions get mad so I don’t recommend doing this. “Put some clothes on!” I said. Normally I don’t encourage this, but believe me, it was unnatural. He then informed me that it was too hard to do with clothes on. “I sure hope you don’t get naked in yoga class.” I said. After splashing myself with cold water and regaining my composure, I turned around and there he was again, naked, on his head. Yes, he’s proud of his headstand but I’ll have no part of that in my house. Naked sports are forbidden from now on because seeing a penis like that might just turn me off for good and we don’t want anything like that to happen. I thought things were settled, but this morning, there he was again. Like any good stalker, I didn’t even hear him approaching. Luckily, my self-defense kicked in, as I ran shouting “NO!” My nerves are shot. I need therapy now which is way more expensive I’m sure than yoga so tonight we’ll have to have a talk about who’s mental well being is more important.
I was never supposed to see you again. Once you walk out, you have no right to come back. You chose to leave, leaving me behind. Now, I will do the same. How on earth did we run into each other? I moved to another state, running from you. It was like you died but worse. You chose to live without me. I didn’t get a choice. I just had to live with your decision. Living without you became a daily struggle. How can one live without a heart? My other organs must have worked overtime, filling in the gaps. Packing up my bags, driving, leaving the past through tears, felt good. In the new world I created, you never existed. Today I find out you’re just around the corner. When you left, I never thought I could love again, let alone breathe. Just seeing you brings pain and pleasure, neither of which I have time for, from you. You looked good, which was the killer. You liked the looks of me too, which made me mad because when you left, you hated looking at me. I lied to myself and said I hated looking at you too. The truth is, I hated looking at myself through you. Here you are, before my eyes, wiser, more beautiful than ever but I will not let you in. There is no room for you here. You’re too late. How dare you do this to me, confusing my world just by being in it. The metallic taste is in my mouth again; hopefully it will wash away after one hard swallow.
My ceiling fan used to make this annoying sound when it was turned on high. It annoyed me but not to the extent of turning it down. I got used to the sound. One day, yesterday, the sound was no longer there. I stared up at the ceiling fan, wondering where the sound went. The clicking now sounds like a beautiful ocean lapping the sand. Last night, I kept getting up to pee. Is it possible that my brain still hears the fake ocean when I’m asleep, therefore causing a full bladder? Maybe my mind is telling me to stay in the desert and not live near the ocean. I want the annoying sound back
My blood felt thicker as I entered the used bookstore. Overwhelmed with options, where to start. The people were fascinating; tattooed, purple haired, lovers of life. I felt welcomed into their creative, sensual book world. The antique table was filled with books perched on plastic risers, some higher than others. I pick up “Written on the Body.” Like most books, I must be drawn to the cover before reading the inside flap or synapses on back. This one showed that vulnerable spot on a woman’s neck, hair pulled back, wisps trickling down, not quite touching the ears. Her earlobe curled back, ready to be nibbled, bare shoulder, fading into the title. Sticking up from the book, a blue bookmark entitled, “Employee Recommends”. “Recommended By: Erin, who is a sucker for romance when it is authentic.” I assumed Erin did not write out her bookmark but another, more masculine employee, due to the sloppy handwriting. “This book speaks of love in its raw form-no pretense-no clichés. Rich in metaphor.” I knew I would enjoy Erin’s recommendation. I wondered who she was, not the girl on the cover, not the author, but Erin. Employees declared who they were by oversized lanyards. As each lanyard passed, I nonchalantly glanced at its owner. Arms, full of life changing literature, I called my search to an end. Strolling to the counter, I spotted her. She leaned in to tell the man in front of me, that his break would be next. There she was, in a black tank top, matching hair and eyes. I assumed she was the Erin; the one who is a sucker for authentic, cliché-free romance. I liked her tiny nose ring, the one I’m smart enough not to get but admire those who aren’t. Erin seemed to be in charge of others and they let her. I watched for a bit, enough to retain her image. Her book, now mine, speaks of bruise colored plums and garish sheets. While reading, I can’t help but picture Erin’s face belonging to the vulnerable neck and earlobe that attracted me to it.
Yesterday I taught a child how to make oatmeal cookies and how much fun it can be to eat the cookie dough. I taught him how cruel life is by not letting him eat twenty cookies for lunch. I taught him to be nice to his neighbors by giving the cookies away. I taught him how to sneak around the house and check for monsters, using a spray bottle to kill them when they appeared. After the monster melt down, I taught him how to use a Light Brite. Next, I taught him how to do the Hokey Pokey, which was his favorite. I realized later that he teaching me too.
Dear cute guy at the gym,
I know you must be used to women checking you out because you’re cute and sweaty but I wasn’t looking at you while you were riding the bike. Even though you thought I was, I was looking at the TV just above your head. Get over yourself and stop turning around to look at me because you feel my eyes upon your neck. Please just tilt your head to the right a bit so I can get a better view of the TV tomorrow.
Dear bald man,
I stood there waiting very patiently for you to get off of the Stairmaster so I could have a turn so the least you could do is wipe down that stinky sweat that falls from your shiny bald head. Why the hell do you think they have the signs everywhere that state; “Please wipe down the machine when you are finished.” You ruined my workout because I was too occupied with trying not to touch my eyes or nose with your coodies.
Dear fat woman,
Why do you always walk around in your wet bathing suit? For the record, we all look at you because you’re gross and even grosser in that swimsuit. Hop on over to Kmart and buy yourself a cover-up to stop our retinas from burning.
Dear hottie at the desk,
I love the way you greet me when I walk in the door. If I weren’t married, I would love you in my bed working out those muscles of yours.
Dear step aerobics instructor,
I think I could teach the class better than you. In fact, I resent how you walk around the room pretending to check on everyone. I know the truth, you’re out of breath like the rest of us so you just walk around in an attempt to act like you’re not slacking off but I’m here to tell you that you don’t fool me.
Last but not least….
Dear Cute Hubby,
I’m never playing racquetball with you again. That welt on my leg caused by the ball you swung at that pelted my leg, it still stings. Next time, aim for the wall, not my calves. Maybe I will play with you again… payback time baby.
Here is a short list of people I’m strangely attracted to in no particular order:
I walked in late so they glared at me. They’re always early so one minute late to them seems like an entire hour. Why are they always early? Because retired people just do that. At least I made it. I’m not going to let these women, and one hairy Jewish guy in a Speedo, bully me anymore. They’ve always hated me but I try to ignore their smell. They smell like sports cream and sweat. Why do they hate me, maybe because they’re about thirty years older than me and I still look good in a swimsuit? Hey, I’m just trying to exercise like the rest of you broads; I just tend to go a lot faster. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t take a moving chair to haul me out of the pool. I don’t think they’re comfortable with a young chick invading their water aerobics class but I’m enjoying it so when I walk in the steamy pool, I feel like screaming, “get over it!” I’m here to stay. Although, I must admit that I have a hard time concentrating because I’m wondering what type of disgusting bacteria is not being killed by chlorine. I just keep my mouth shut.
We left early for the concert because we knew it was a standing room only type of production. If you know me, you understand why I’d be concerned with that type of event. Me, in a crowd, always involves a bit of fear and a pair of high heels. Another thing that helped was the man willing to protect me and push people out of my way who stood right in front, blocking my view. After surveying the area, we found a comfortable spot on the side, right in front but there was this gap that worried me. It was used for the wait staff to deliver non-alcoholic drinks to the performers. The bouncer quickly bounced on anyone thinking of standing there, but it never occurred to me that the performers wouldn’t need drinks while performing so the gap would grow smaller shortly. It started getting more and more crowded which increased my anxiety. I attempted to mark my territory with an out stretched pointed toe, my man doing the same with and extended elbow. A too tall hippie chick stopped in front but it wasn’t long before cute hubby encouraged her to move on. I began seeing him in a new light. Not the goofy smart lawyer with great abs who makes me laugh, but as a tall muscular guy who would do anything to make sure his girl would enjoy the evening, and that was sexy. As it got busier I just got closer to him, hand under his untucked shirt feeling his clammy back, occasionally putting my hand between his skin and red plaid boxers. My feet were killing me, so I turned to his sweaty face, kissed it and told him I wanted to go home. Without another word, he took my hand and fought to get us out just as quickly as we had come. Turning around, I noticed the four feet of space that used to occupy us was no longer there.
I don’t remember the middle but I remember about two seconds before it all started. I also remember the horrid ending. For you here, I will share the dreaded tale. Shortly after going through the line with trays as if we were in prison, we piled on carb-free rabbit food. Within one bite of our dinner, we heard a young child tell us how excited he would be if we allowed him to feast on ice cream, vanilla. We informed him that ice cream with sprinkles would have to come at a price. A price worth pennies to us, his parents, but to him, a price apparently too high. Without knowing what we were about to get ourselves into, cute hubby held up a beautiful bright green spinach leaf. Like a king raising his goblet, he informed spirited toddler he must eat the one simple leaf before dining on his preferred food. The task seemed simple enough, so with an upturned nose, he began chewing. Two eager parents, with a little gleam of excitement in our eyes, seeing as how we were witnessing a real live toddler eat a vegetable, looked on in amazement. Spirited toddlers eyes glassed over with tears as his gag reflex was triggered. I raised my glass and offered much needed water, but he refused. Cute hubby and I looked at each other wondering what would happen because we knew after multiple gagging sounds, what would come next was never good. Cute hubby picked the young man up and patted his back. That’s seems to be all I can remember before I blinked. You see, in a blink of an eye, we had a manly man and a squirmy kid covered in vomit. I looked around to see who had dumped the gallon of spoiled milk all over them because it happened so fast. The people around us did nothing except what was expected, stared. I’ve never seen fear like that in cute hubby. He was filled with fear and humiliation. Next, we had to plan our escape route. The door seemed so far away, running was out of the question. I quickly ran for help but the zitty teenager only gave me napkins. I informed him we would need a bucket of sanitized rags. Apparently he had not seen our table of once delicious food now covered in. …I’ll spare you the dirty parts. The boys ran towards the exit as I was left to tend to the table. After I met them in the parking lot, there they stood, one wondering why he didn't get any ice cream, seeing as how he stuck to his end of the deal, and the other reaching for some form of dignity. I informed them they had no choice but to get naked. One by one, I stripped them of their soiled linens and strapped them in the car, without a single word. We were instantly a white trash family with my shirtless men in the car, windows rolled down for ventilation, but I could see past that. What was a good parent to do? Stop at the nearest gas station for ice cream, and that I did.
When I was young, I determined a few relationships by the way we chose our side of the bed. If he chose the side next to the door, I was curious whether or not he wanted quick get away. If he slept near the bathroom, he was usually a primper, looking at himself too many times before collapsing in bed. Overall, if the same side of the bed was chosen consistently, it somehow meant I was in a relationship. Simple things, your side of the bed, your seat at the table, your toothbrush, it all signified a progressing relationship. Choosing our spot somehow comforted me. Today, we switch sides constantly. Sometimes I’m near the bathroom and sometimes we share the middle. Once I read in a parenting magazine, which I do not recommend, that most mothers sleep near the door leading to her being the first one up to tend to the child. Therefore, I chose the farther side on most tiring days. Don’t tell him but it works every time. We play musical chairs at the dinner table too. As a kid, I liked sitting on the phonebook in my designated spot, between my parents. Now, I take comfort in not getting comfortable. We do have our coffee mugs though which I adore. Mine is tall, black and skinny where his is round and colorful. These we never stray from. I’ve tried it; coffee tastes different in his mug.
I prepared for the marathon years before by reading books, mental exercises, studying others, and buying the right equipment. When the gun went off, I was slow at starting but eventually caught up with the pack. All of a sudden, I fell and broke my ankle but no one noticed. Everyone kept running while I was screaming in pain on the road. Other runners jumped over me towards the finish line. I couldn’t understand why no one was helping me but smiling as they ran past. Was I not screaming loud enough? Maybe because there was no blood, people didn’t take me seriously. After lying there I stood back up and tried to run again, ignoring the bone and swelling. I didn’t want to get trampled so I ran to the side instead of the center. Just then, someone much sturdier elbowed me, throwing me off balance and onto the grass. See, now there’s blood, maybe someone will stop. I lay there again while others ran past not even glancing down as I cry out. Help. Help. Why doesn’t anyone help me? I guess the finish line is so close for them that that’s all they see. If I don’t get up, no one will notice me here. I crawl back on the road but the race has ended, crowd surrounding the winner. Since no one ever noticed, did I even run the race? I know I tried.
After making love, we climb back into bed and read. We don’t sit up and read separate books without touching though. He reads out loud while I lay on his chest trying to keep my eyes open. We’ve been reading John Irving’s, A Widow For One Year, which I find disturbingly sad but leaves us plenty to discuss. In the beginning, his fast reading frustrated me while I concentrated on following along by looking at the words. I’ve learned now, it’s better to relax and focus on the reader than the words on the page. I lay on his chest, usually covered by an old t-shirt, because he gets cold in the summer. My eyes gaze towards his mouth. Not his entire mouth mind you, but the bottom lip. It sticks out farther than the top in a semi-pouting stance. I want to lean in and suck on it for a bit but don’t knowing the words would stop. His deep voice soothes me into a sleepy state of contentment. To his dislike, I’ll pick at his ears or run my fingers over the tiny mole on his neck. His eyes move quickly over each page while I try to maintain my thoughts towards the story and not the storyteller. He hates it when I say, “I’m sorry, could you read that part again.” But he does. It’s a long book but I don’t care, each night exploring another part of my lover’s upper half while the bottom half is tangled in sheets with the smell of sex and love and us.
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