Name: michelle
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visited *loading* times
My dad in Texas: “Where’s your mom?”
Me in Arizona: “I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her all day.”
My dad, still in Texas: “I just called her on her cell phone but she didn't answer.”
Me, still in Arizona: “Well, if she calls, I tell her you’re looking for her.”
My sister in Texas: “Hey, do you know if dad is coming over after work?”
Me in Arizona: “You know, it’s amazing, I live in an entirely different state but you guys seem to think I live next door.”
I just realized I’m a manipulator. I manipulate most situations to benefit me. A friend asked me to join a book club recently but to tell you the truth; I hate reading what others suggest. It puts pressure on me to enjoy the book like they did or to read it quickly so I can return it to them at a reasonable time. Anyway, I wanted to be a part because it’s a night out that will involve alcohol and chocolate so what the hell. This is where the manipulation comes in. I keep suggesting books I’ve already read. They’ve fallen for it f three times already. To be fair, they’ve enjoyed them but it comes across like I’ve never read them.
I also manipulate sexual positions depending on shaven legs or unshaven armpits. If I haven’t shaven, I make it seem like my sexual desires have taken over and I want it from behind. From behind, he’s checking out the caboose and not feeling the hairy legs wrapped around him. If I’m freshly shaven, I may go for the legs over the shoulders. If my armpits need primping, I never reach behind for the headboard. I may look sexy to him but it’s due to some premeditation.
I’m known in my mom circle as the one who always has an organized house. I admit, I love organizing and the feeling it gives me but if they stop by and my house is messy, I hunker down and make all those around me silent while I pretend to not be home. If the house is in pristine condition, I immediately call someone to come over for an impromptu play date. “Sure, stop by anytime today.” They walk in, and my reputation is still in tact.
Today, in the shower, I pulled the ol’ take-out-the-trash-stunt. I know the garbage man comes at 6am so I make sure I’m the first one in the shower. When I hear the garbage truck rounding the corner onto our street, I start yelling, “Honey, can you take the trash out?” He has no choice but to hop out of bed and do it because I’m in the shower plus, he has to hurry because the garbage man is already on our street. I know it’s wrong but hey, you do what you gotta do. Maybe I’m actually helping others. I know cute hubby must feel helpful when he’s shuffling around outside at 6am. Plus, I’m setting a good example to other mothers that they too can have an organized house and family, right? When it comes to the sex part, um, that’s just selfish.
Every Sunday, I pick my Saturday clothes up off the floor, put them back on to get the newspaper, run back inside and slip back into my jimmies, but this morning, there was no newspaper. It’s usually right there, on the driveway, next to my truck, but this morning, nothing. I looked around the truck, around our two-inch bush, and even into our neighbors yard. Without the paper, I was lost. It’s like when your alarm clock doesn’t go off and it screws up your entire day. That tiny moment shifts everything. “Oh my gosh, the paper didn’t come,” I said. “Honey, call them.” Inside, I was panicking because I doubted it would get here in time to start my morning right. The coffee was already brewing. Cute hubby gets the phone book but is distracted by the weird chiropractor add in the front. His lack of concentration on this urgent matter baffled me. He looks up the number, shuts the book, and starts chanting, 544-3719, 544-3719, 544-3719. While the number chant was going on, he was searching for the phone. 544-3719. “Where’s the phone?” 544-3719, 544-3719. “Where’s the phone?” he asks again, knowing I’m ignoring his phone hunt. I don’t play that game. “Ah ha, found it!” he says and then turns to me and asks, “Remember that number?” Finally, the number is retrieved from my memory bank and he places the call to the fake person. “Honey, what’s our zip code?” he said. After all these years of marriage, which aren’t too many, but more than some, he still has this quirk, asking me questions to things he knows the answers too but prefers me telling him. Now, I know he knows his zip code but I want my damn paper so I tell him. “Nope, that’s not right” Apparently, the fake person didn’t like our zip code so cute hubby was telling me I was wrong. “I give up, I ‘m going to the store for a paper,” I said. At last, there she was, waiting for me to pick her up, right by my front door. It was a close call. Finally, I could start my Sunday. Coffee, paper and pancakes.
Below is an actual conversation that took place in our kitchen this morning;
Mrs. Cute Hubby: “Wow, honey come look. They have a Viagra patch for women now.”
Cute Hubby: “I think they should sell them in blow darts so when your wife’s doing the dishes, you could just shoot her.” (At this time, he pretended he was shooting a blow dart at me, sound effects included.)
Mrs. Cute Hubby: “You know what would be better? A blow dart that makes the men do dishes. Then they’d get laid for sure!” (cute hubby glances down at the sink pondering the possibility)
I’ve composed a list of products or circumstances I’ve used in the past week as a numbing agent:
For the past two months, I’ve been sick. I’m not ready to tell my family yet, which makes for a lonely two months. I’m trying to understand it and figure the beast out but I’m scared to death. Last night we debated telling people I love but I’m just not sure yet. Ironically, I had this dream last night: My entire family was nicely dressed, outside waiting for a party to start when all of a sudden a huge dog with pointed teeth, dripping with rabies filled saliva jumped at my throat. It was like out of the whole crowd, he picked me out. The weird part was that everyone around me was still laughing and talking while I was repeatedly throwing the dog off of me fighting for breath. I'd throw him off like a rag doll but it would just make him furious jumping right back on top of me. I was screaming for help but no one noticed. Ok, I’m not into dream interpreting, but that can’t be good.
The man two doors down isn’t around anymore. When we first moved in, I found out they weren’t married but as far as I’m concerned, they didn’t have to be. He treated the boy like his own. We’d be outside exploring and they’d be riding bikes or going on walks. I only saw his mother when she’d back out of the driveway, heading to work. I’ve never talked to her but I think her black and whites mean she’s a waitress. She’d back out of the driveway and head to work without a wave or a smile. He would smile, wave, and claim to be happy. The boy looked happy when he was with him. He had a man to look up to and rough house with when his mom was at work, but he’s not there anymore. I never heard a fight or a door slamming. He’s just disappeared. The boy hasn’t come out of the house. Maybe because there’s no one to hold the back of his bike or tighten his helmet. I’m assuming she’s moved on but the boy hasn’t. She has someone else living there, in his place, someone who drives a nicer car and doesn’t wave. He doesn’t play with the boy outside. To be fair, no one gets out in the heat here but today it’s raining. We got dressed and ran around the block splashing puddles, balancing umbrellas. As we ran past their house laughing, I wondered where the boy was. I wondered how it felt to have people passing through your life; confusion, sadness perhaps. I wanted to take the boy home, where no one that loves you leaves. We play outside; in the heat, in the rain, it doesn’t matter.
I’d like to discuss the recent trend I’ve noticed, and that is having a “life coach.” What’s up with that? A life coach? I understand that saying you see a psychiatrist may sound like you’re losing it but lets be honest here. If you need someone to tell you how to run your life and coach you through it, than you need more than a life coach, you need a life. What happened to the good old “shrink?” Maybe a life coach sounds more positive or proactive. Either way, it’s annoying me. I don’t see a shrink, or a life coach, or a psychiatrist, I just hide my feelings until I explode, like a normal person.
For some unknown reason, our electricity went out today, which is a death sentence when you rely on the air conditioner to fool you. It fools me into thinking that I’m not living in hell but a tropical paradise. I started to panic so spirited toddler and I headed to the ice cream store. The one where you pick everything you want added into your already sinful creation even better. You don’t want to know what was in mine because I’m not willing to be honest when it comes to the amounts of chocolate I consume so let’s just say I’ll be up awhile tonight. The tattooed scooper behind the glass was surprisingly enjoying his job so I tipped him. At that point, he said, “Do you want me to sing and dance?” Confused by this, I said, “Excuse me?” He said, “For the tip, do you want me to sing?” I said, “That would be fun but won’t you get embarrassed? Maybe you can ring a bell.” Now, I suggested the bell because I hated to see the guy make a fool of himself for a lousy buck but it backfired. He headed into the back before appearing with a cowbell. Spirited toddler and I sat there enjoying our ice cream when the scooper rang his bell while shouting, “I love ice cream!” Ok, he didn’t just ring the bell but rang it with such gusto; I thought there was a fire or something to be alarmed about. Spirited toddler started laughing and shouted back, “I love ice cream!” Well, this got everyone going, shouting for joy, the pure joy you have when eating coffee ice cream. Not everyone was eating coffee ice cream but I was which made me shout, “I love ice cream!” Man, it makes you feel good so when we got home, we just kept shouting. “I love TV!” “I love my lavender soap!” “I love my Ikea coffee table!” “I love vacation sex!” Typically, I try to steer our family away from shouting but when you’re shouting positive things, it’s fun. Try it; you’ll like it.
Next week I start my new one-day job as a seamstress but I’m already getting nervous. I’ve created my very own in home sweatshop complete with one worker, me. Today at my moms group, I mentioned to my friend that this weekend I made spirited toddler a bunch of bean bags to throw all over the house and how much fun he’s had. I suggested next week she come over and we make some for her daughter. Well, just as I was putting the invite out there, another mother stepped over so I had to invite her too. Well, another mother overheard the excitement over my over rated idea so she wanted to be a part. Before I knew it, my house was the next scheduled activity. Now I have fifteen mothers and their little rascals coming over to make beanbags. They’ll cut out the material, fill them with beans and hand them off to me, the busy bee. I’ll be leaned over with a hunch back sewing all the little boogers ammunition. I’ve already started hiding valuables, which could serve as targets but let’s face it I’m in for it.
I feel good today. I feel good because last night I kicked cute hubby’s bootie in a game. I know it sounds completely nerdy but for some reason, on Friday night, I was itching to institute game night. Since we’re willing to accommodate each other’s quirks, he agreed. Not just any game, I was in search of the perfect game, which takes time. You know, not one where you ask the other movie quotes but one that required skill and strategy. Finding the perfect game required going to three different stores, dragging the family along on my adventure. By the time we got home, I was too tired so all Saturday, it sat on the kitchen table teasing me. I felt shameful at my delighted thoughts of beating him at a game. You see, he’s the smart one and I’m the cleaver one. I set the stage for success, giving him cokes and chocolate. My plan was to make him a bit wired so he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Sadly, my plan failed miserably. Quickly, I said, “Best two out of three?” They always fall for that. Well, he won that too. I laid in bed going over the brutal teasing in my head preparing a new strategy. On Sunday, as we sat in church, I wondered if praying to God about beating cute hubby would be wrong. I didn’t care; my reputation was on the line. I filled the offering tray with money and a wink at God hoping he would live up to the bargain. It worked, last night I beat him three times in a row so today I’m feeling victorious. Maybe now I’ll tackle the laundry.
My lover is to my left writing. He’s writing poems these days. His sketchpads float throughout the house waiting to be read but I dare not read his thoughts without permission. Tonight he’s sharing, well worth the wait. He’s captured moments in time with few words. Some moments we’ve shared and some not. I can picture both. His poems allow me to feel his soul, hear his love, and capture his enthusiasm. As I listen, I plan my attack. Tonight I will make love to him like usual. We never ask each other. Why ask when you know the answer. I can’t stand just listening to him. Seductive thoughts take over. I look lovingly but I know my love will quickly turn into fucking. That’s ok; we’re good at fucking. I act like I’m listening but I can taste him already. The wedding ring turns me on. He’s taken. By me. I stare, planning my move. I think I’ll get on my knees between his legs and look up at him. He’ll lean down, kiss me and put the pen down.
Today I saw two pirates, two in one day. The first one was at the grocery store shopping for ground beef. The eye patch caught me off guard but his lack of teeth made me gawk. I quickly rushed spirited toddler by in hopes he wouldn’t speak the words I was thinking. Toddlers can be brutally honest like when he said, “your feet stink!” to an innocent neighbor. I think if I had an eye patch, I’d decorate it with flowers and sequins. Maybe I’d even paint an eyeball on it to fake people out. Why are eye patches always black, because black goes with everything? I think I’d rather have a glass eye than an eye patch. That way I could annoy people by looking at them without really looking at them. You know, like when someone has a googlie eye and you can’t figure out if they’re looking at you or the person to your left. Ya, a glass eye sounds fun. I’d freak people out and put a cat’s eye marble in. Anyway, the second pirate I saw today was at Barnes and Nobles. I did a double take after seeing a brightly colored hat on this hippy chick. When I took a second look, I realized her hat was a parrot. It was one of those bright green and red kinds that look like it could peck your eye out. Hey, maybe that’s why pirates have eye patches. Didn’t see anyone with a hook for a hand though. That would have completed my pirate adventure. The hook for a hand sounds great because when you’re cooking you could just stab your steaks and flip them over in an instant. The hook would never work when using the bathroom though. I guess you’d have to just drip dry.
Well, if the gay men from your town were missing this week, it’s because they were with me in New Orleans. Let me tell you, a gay guys convention, with a few southern Baptists thrown in there, makes an interesting Bourbon Street. The week was full of protestors and overly shaven chests. I don’t know why but every gay guy felt the need to take off his shirt. Normally this isn’t a problem but not every gay guy is hot so every once in awhile, one appeared that made me gag. Either way, fat men need to keep their clothes on please. The weird thing was that every protesting Baptist was either singing or playing an instrument. I guess when you accept the Lord they give you an instrument. Quite a show it was. Instead of flashing your tits for beads, which I was more than willing to do after a few drinks, the damn gay guys stole my thunder by flashing their cocks. I could have flashed my beautiful tits and no one would have cared, except for cute hubby of course but getting beads from your husband just isn’t the same from some drunken college kid. I’m just not used to flashing my tits and getting no response so I was rather confused. Maybe it was the beer. Anyway, men flashing me their junk, great food and great vacation sex was just what I needed.
Today we leave for New Orleans but when I return.......a posting I will do!
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