Things have got to change. I’ve gained enough weight as to make it a chore to get dressed in the morning. I don’t mean like, I can’t bend over to put my socks on, or I can’t tell if I’ve remembered to put my underwear on because I can’t see it for the rolls. I don’t mean that getting dressed leaves me winded. It’s just that those pants are too snug, those ones only went with that shirt and that shirt is too short now, and this one doesn’t fit at all, in fact I’m giving that to my daughter. What was I thinking?! Everything is too tight, too short, and I’d like to continue blaming the dryer and my laundering skills but we both know it’s not that.

It’s depressing that my “fat jeans”, the ones I wore when I was bloaty with PMS or thanksgiving dinner are now the ones I wear to work because I can sit at my desk without the circulation to my legs being cut off. If there are any perks to weight gain besides better looking facial skin and a nicer set of tits I’d be curious to hear them.

Everything is falling apart. My carefully constructed shell is being whittled away at. I’m dangerously close to believing the girly-myths I’m surrounded by. That I’m nothing without a man, that I must pair off. That I need to spend 2 hours getting pretty in the morning and go on whatever diet is THE one. Every woman around me is on a diet or working hard to get on some sort of plan. Every woman around me is primping and preening and flouncing in some weird mating dance and it’s become apparent that I need to A) join ‘em B) beat ‘em or C) quit hanging out with girls and go back to being antisocial.

Men were easy. Women, man, they are some vicious! Not always to each other but to themselves. It’s like a sickness and I think I’m coming down with it. I never worried about my weight to this degree. Never gave how cute I could look much thought. I’ve been careful to never talk about weight or physical appearances in a derogatory way in front of my daughter, she’s never seen me spend more than 15 minutes on makeup and hair. Until now. Suddenly I’m throwing clothes around my room, changing 15 times before going out, being late for work before I’ll leave without makeup on. I’m a disgrace.

I almost miss my artificially induced haze of summer, red wine, vodka, junk food and sex. Liver damage and three day binges do wonders for the bulgy bits. Now the Sailor Jerry belt I bought at the beginning of summer fits my 11 year old (and no, she will not being wearing it, thank you very much.) Honestly, I’m not missing sex for the sex, I’m missing it for the work out. And the adoration was cool too.

I’ve spent the winter eating too much and drinking too much. I’ve taken the eat, drink and be merry-ness of the holiday season to extremes and now, I’m paying for it in April. Wish someone would have told me that all that cheese over the holidays was going to pool on my ass and thighs. Next year I’ll be the one they ask to play Santa at the community Christmas party. Lecherous, boozehound Santa. “Come here, sonny, climb up on Santa’s knee and tell me what I can get y’ fer Christmas. Y’know, Santa loves you. Y’know that right? Tell me the truth, sonny, do these boots make me look sexy? Does this fuzzy red suit make my ass look fat?”

I’m not fat. I know this. It’s not about fat and thin. It’s about feeling untogether. Loose and gelatinous. Not quite solid and tight enough. It’s like my body is betraying to the world just how untied the rest of my life is and that won’t do! If I could walk in the world wearing armour you know I would and I’d eat cheese and sensible underdrawers. But I can’t because that armour is a bitch to maintain.

There’s an recumbant exercise bike over there with an inch of dust on it.   Perhaps I should see if it still works. I know that by the end of the summer my clothes and I will have made peace with each other. I’m fully aware that come June, the bulgy bits will no longer have to be tucked in when I sit.   I’ll be able to go back to wearing the cute underwear and not the sensible ones. Maybe I’ll even find some obliging, and unclinging male to show them off to. I’ll eat less cheese and more salad, more vodka and less rum.   I’ll quit my whining and buck up.

soon

That pile of broken bones over there

Sometimes I find myself involved in conversations in which it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing at the image in my head of me running into a wall with such ferocity and strength and perserverence that I smash myself into a pulpy mess and lie crumpled at their feet while they continue whatever banal topic we’re discussing.

I like my ex-husbands girlfriend.  Like is a strong word.  I like her like I like those big eyed kids on the WorldVision posters.  I feel sorry for her, I think she’s sweet, she’s amusing in a cute, fuzzy kind of stray dog kind a way.  A stray toy poodle, cute, but I wouldn’t want to own one, or pet one, or let it in my house and I’m sure it bites when provoked.

She asks me to honestly tell her whether or not I’m sad or frustrated by not “liking” anyone here (yes, a woman in her early 30s still using the expression “like”, like, in like, THAT way…. sometimes I roll my eyes so hard my head hurts).  I tell her, that yeah, sometimes it’s frustrating but not sad.  I tell her I’m in a good space right now.   I find relationships more frustrating and I enjoy being alone.  I am a fully self sufficient unit.  The only thing I can’t do is make ice.  Again with the vacant look.

Remember I live on an island.  It’s primitive culture requires that I must be a) married and miserable b) dating whoever is available c) a miserable spinster.   These are the only options no matter how many supposedly enlightened people claim otherwise.  Proof is in the puddin’.  Oh…, I could be gay too.  They like the “pet gays” here.  Makes ‘em feel all mainland-ish and educated.

She says, “That’s weird for me.”  Twirling her blond locks and grinning at me with cupie doll logic.  “I always have to have someone to like.”

“Uh huh,” my inner voice says, “Which explains how you stumbled upon the ex.”  Which is how all the women who have ever stumbled over him did so.  Desperation sniffing out the fresh meat.

Like zombies in Night of the Living Dead, these women stumble around, arms outstretched, jerkily moving towards anything living.  Warm Body Wanted is the only criteria.  She laughs and says, “Self esteem issues, TotallY!”

No kidding?

Don’t get me wrong.  I fully acknowledged that my distance and detachment are just as much a self-esteem issue as hers.  I’m not saying my dysfunction is less than hers.  I’m just tired of being surrounded with the stink of hormone addled women denying they need a man whilst desperately clambering for them.  It’s my blog and I’ll rant if I want to.

Pick a side of the fence bitches and mark it, none of this sitting on it bullshit.  And yes, REALLY, when I say I’m good, I’m fuckin good.   So analyze someone else, put more effort into matching your shoes with that bag and picking your next hair style, I’m eating cake while you diet and I’m fucking whoever I please, whenever it pleases me.   And for now…. I’m good.  Really.  And when I’m not, I’ll deal with it.  Like I always do.  Without this public, degrading, mating dance.

Yet still, they persist.  Girls, man, I remembered why I dislike girls.  The fertile chant has begun in these parts.  It’s April, spring has sprung as they say and the loins of all things living are quickening.  I’m not above it, it’s just instinct in me to rein it in, lock ‘er down.  Self esteem issues.  ToTally!

In places like this fresh men arrive in the summer.  Suddenly I find myself on the receiving end of well meaning but intensely irritating and disgusting comments like, “just wait, it’s summer soon, lot’s of new ones then.”  Images of a cattle sale barn.  We’ll sit on benches around a paddock stocked with ear marked men.  Sold to the highest bidder.  Like I told someone the other day….  I have never pandered for a man, begged for a man, cheaply flirted or competed with other women for a man.  Men are easy.  The downside of 30 is not going to change that.

Mabye I’m not being fair.  I have done alot and I’ve been loved hard.  I’ve been married to mediochre, and had more mess and grief than I care to think about.  I’ve been madly in love and mad as hell, broken hearted and flat broke and I’m good with it all as is.  So maybe I should just shut up.  Nod my head, all sage like, smile and be motherly and mop up the messes when they crumble,  advise and council and let them waddle along in their own messes.  Learn hard bitches and get harder.

Shine it so it sparkles

In an attempt to rescue some part of the day and get something done on this holiday, I started to tidy up my room and vacuum at around 11 last night. After vacuuming up the hair and lego, and getting an elastic caught in the nozzle of the vacuum I opened a closet and found the video camera. Oh video camera. If only you could talk.

There’s the countless hour upon hour of footage from the time my daughter was 6 weeks old until recently. We took a lot more before the age of 5 than we have taken since and thank god too. Even footage of one’s own adorable spawn, gurgling and smearing food all over their highchair tray, is only cute for a fraction of the time it took to video tape it.

There’s my strained, too loud voice, and awkward, Good-Mom banter. The need to be Perfect Mom is almost tangible. There’s my weirdly sallow and haggard face. One would assume that 6 years and 10 hours of nerve damaging brain surgery would have made my face worse instead of better but Perfect Mom sure looks old, Perfect Mom looks like she needs a nap in a most desperate way. A nap, and sex, and than another nap.

Oh, look there’s also footage of Spawn #2 and more pablum smeared cheeks and spit up. Priceless.

The funny thing is that before watching these tapes the mom I remembered myself being was a terror! Yes, Perfect Mom is haggard, and yes she does speak sharply a few times, but the shrieking harpy of my memory is nowhere to be found. This mom sits on the couch reading to the little girl while the Ex films her rubbing her eyes and falling asleep. There she is splashing in the tub with both the little Spawnlets. This mom looks and sounds happy enough if not a wee bit dry and brittle.

There’s the sluglike exhusband, yes, he is as I remember him. Younger looking but basically as ineffectual as ever; kind, but clueless; looking truly baffled to be here in this house, carrying this baby around while another giggly little Spawn pours him tea in plastic tea cups. Standing by silent while I give directions.

I see as the baby grows older, and the Ex and I grow more and more distant from each other, my voice is maybe a smidge higher, a tad bit more desperate and tight, but this is the only difference I can see between me and that Mom. That, and the weird shapeless clothes I covered myself up in. The amorphous blobs I was shrouded in. That matronly hair and obvious lack of effort. Who put most of her energy into making sure her daughter was as cute as a button, clean as a whistle? I’m sheepishly raising my hand. That would be me. And who seemed to spend a lot of time worrying about the things her mother would have worried about; the stain on the carpet, bedtimes, propriety, balanced meals, clean finger nails. She seemed nice enough but who the hell was that woman!

So, this stroll through my immediate past has not been particularly productive. It’s certainly put a damper on my spring cleaning and I’ve done nothing creative all week. But that could have been more due to the pot smoking and rum drinking. It was a holiday after all. There’s always tomorrow. The last day before the kids and I return to school and I’m back to what I do best, juggling a million things, getting stuff done in the wee hours of the night and just before it’s due. People like me don’t do well with free time. We’re better at craving it and than wasting it when it comes and complaining when it’s gone and somehow making it look like we’ve taken care of everything.

An ounce of courage and a pinch of ass whupping

I’m glum. I can’t help it. Again.

I said, out loud, that I don’t care, that it doesn’t matter that The Ex is avoiding my request to discuss a proper child support arrangement, that it doesn’t matter that I went away and his girlfriend went away so he should have had plenty of time to give it some thought, that it doesn’t matter that I already compromised myself by letting him call the shots, letting him come up with a figure, letting him toy with me. I SAID, “IT DOESN’T MATTER. I CAN TAKE CARE OF THINGS WITHOUT HIM. IT’S ONLY MONEY.” But somehow, I’m not listening because I can’t get it out of my head.

I’ve picked up the phone 3 times to call and rant at him in person. Yet another thing that he’ll add to his little book of Meredith Infractions, something he hates and that only makes things worse. I hung up the phone without dialing.

I’ve sent him an email saying to, “Forget about it. I can’t stand the interaction. Just continue to hand me money when I come begging.” He likes compliance. Weak women work for him and cause much less fuss. But this sticks in my craw and I can’t let it go. I don’t do compliance well. I don’t roll over and play dead.

My kids have friends over to play. I can’t work over the noise of giggles and loud renditions of Indiana Jones or Star Wars theme music. The smell of 8 year old boy fart contests.

Instead of being out in the living area and being crotchety and grumpy I’m hiding in my room full of self loathing, feeling fat and weak and ineffectual. The fat isn’t helping the self esteem. I’m tempted to call the Man just to get some of that back. Getting something of myself back would be nice besides these weird bits of bloaty flesh that seem to have erupted on my hips and thighs in the last few months.

The daughter of my arch nemesis is playing in the other room. Everytime my daughter and hers come in the room I have to quickly pull it together so I sparkle; so Good Mom comes out and Spawn of Arch Nemesis can take home memories of her friend’s Good Mom, instead of the Harpy who hides in the bedroom in stretchy pants and slippers to avoid eating the Tim Tams in the pantry. Something else ego related that doesn’t matter, DOESN’T MATTER, but does, somehow.

I’m trying not to martyr myself on the cross of motherhood. It’s an ugly trait I see in mother’s all around me and yet I find it so easy to slip into. My, “It doesn’t matter, I’ll manage without his money”, sounds tough and together and matter of fact in my head. But comes out whiny and with a sigh at the end. Causes my shoulders to slump and my skin and hair to turn gray. IT DOESN’T MATTER. IT’S ONLY MONEY. I’M A MUCH BETTER MOM WHEN I DON’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH HIM. REALLY.

………………..but why should he be absolved of the same level of responsibility as I have for his kids? …………………….. who else but me is going to make him see that? ……………………….it may be only money but how else do you plan on paying these bills?…………………….how many more jobs can you take on? ………………..what is the absolute negative amount of social life you can tolerate before you’ll go insane? …………….Can you remember the last time you got laid? ……………….. can skin really be that flaccid and drab? …………………………………………..who’s shrieking harpy voice is that anyway?

Oh please, we all know I’ll keep on, I’ll get over it. Over and beyond. I always do. One foot, firmly in front of the other. Steady as she goes. But for now, yet again, I’m wallowing in it for a while.

Today is my son’s birthday party. I’ve baked his cake and am about to ice it with chocolatey good icing. The sun is shining, even though it’s bitterly cold, and the wind has managed to dry up all the puddles and mud that was everywhere. I’m planning my day. Revelling in a quiet house, a lovely lie in, a hot cup of coffee.

I’m not invited to my son’s party. Neither is his sister. At first I was crushed and his sister was offended (mostly by her desire for chocolate cake being thwarted). When I looked at his sweet little, earnest face, I got over it.

“No girls [his sister] or women [me]. Just boys, mama.”

And he didn’t mean it maliciously. He’s 8, the party is at his Dad’s house, it’s a sleep over with 4 boys. Hockey on the tennis courts, ["Bring goggles and hockey sticks"], plastic dart gun war in the forest [dart guns provided for the guests to keep, in lieu of loot bags.] Dill pickle popcorn, burgers, chocolate cake and a late night screening of 4 Japanese Godzilla movies. Oh yeah, this is a boys only party and secretly I’m somewhat relieved I’m not required to be there. I’ve never been good at birthday parties as it is, but hockey and dart guns are just NOT my cup of tea.

I shall be spending my evening listening to the sounds of two 11 year old girls giggling and watching Mr. Magoriums Wonder Emporium, while they stuff their faces with pizza and brownies. I’m hoping this will drown out the sounds of the St. Paddy’s day dance down the road where my friends will be drinking toxic green beverages and listening to copious amounts of classic rock interspersed with drunken leprauchan music. Maybe I’ll hole up in my room and practice my fiddle in preparation for the contest I’m going to have one day with the Devil. Right now I think breakfast is in order. Real breakfast, with bacon and eggs and toast and another cup of coffee. Then it’s wrapping the Raiders of the Lost Ark Lego and icing that cake. I have a feeling it’s going to be a stretchy pants kinda day.

In my kitchen there are beans and grains in glass jars that have been there since I moved to this god forsaken place 7 years ago. Lined up so orderly and hopeful and right looking, they have no business in my kitchen. I should throw them out. Not because they’re bad or anything. The aduki beans are beautiful and deserve to be cooked and eaten and the millet would make lovely muffins, the black beans are begging to be made into dip. But I just can’t bring myself to take down the jars. Things flood back into my head that should just stay out. Memories of a life I led that is so far removed from the one that came after that I feel like I’m prowling in someone else’s pantry, snooping in someone else’s jars.I know, they’re just beans for Christ’s sake!

A food source, a handy medium for making collages with the kids, the core of a Magic Bag, the tiny pods that hold the beginnings of plants, but to me they are fraught with memories of that weird time in my life where everything seemed strained and tight and my skin just didn’t fit and I wandered around in the guise of somebody else.

When I came here, with my grand notions about living self sufficiently, easing my way off the grid, making and baking EVERYTHING, washing my diapers, learning to use a gun, buying chickens, hunting and fishing, I became involved in a co-op through which we bought big bags of whole grain flours, beans, organic sugar, unhydrogenated shortening, we took turns measuring and pouring and dividing things up for each of us to take home. We swapped recipes and borrowed cups of soy flour and passed along our children’s outgrown cloth diapers to one another. We made our own granola and ground spelt for flour.

I tried so hard to be perfect mom and perfect housewife. I kept my blinders on and ignored the absolute imperfectness of my life. In my zeal to be perfect mom I missed a lot of perfect moments of just being with my kids that I can’t get back no matter how many perfect moments we’ve discovered since and will continue to have. Perfect mom was rigid and hard. Perfect mom made perfectly healthy dinners and her kids never ate Froot Loops or Oreos.

Perfect housewife was a sham. She didn’t particularly love her husband. She didn’t love him as her husband anyhow, she loved him because he was a good guy and fun to hang out with and his knuckles didn’t drag on the ground when he walked and he’d been raised by conservative, priveliged people who never yelled or swore. Perfect housewife felt unworthy of his family and simultaneously disgusted that Husband was stupid enough to love her. Perfect housewife was convinced that any of the people who professed to like her must be losers themselves, or just plain stupid. When I was Perfect life was a gray drudge of endless afternoons cooking and baking and keeping things in order. Keeping up the facade and not letting anything slide. Listening to CBC radio as a lifeline to other possibilities.

When I was perfect and new here I was convinced that it mattered what people thought about me, sure that in a small town if I just kept everything together no one would ever see the fractured chaos magnet I was. I bought beans and self righteously labelled jars, ‘Organic Mexican Black Beans’, ‘Organic Aduki beans”. I bought chickens and pretended I was Mrs. Ingalls and ignored the fact that Mr. Ingalls wasn’t nearly as handy with tools as I thought he would be. I planted vegetables and went on studious nature walks with the daughter. Missing the ‘nature’ in my zeal to show her things, teach her things. Make things perfect. I’d try simultaneously to be off this place and not of it; somehow better and working too hard to make it apparent. Thinking anybody gave a damn.

Never thought I’d be grateful for the gift of a brain tumour to shake the shit out of me. Prioritize for me because I was too daft to do it for myself. Put things into perspective. Stop wasting time.

I’ve decided that tomorrow I’m taking down the jars and washing off the grease and dust that has accumulated on them. I’m cooking the lot of them in a big pot. It’s a waste to throw them away, throwing them away smacks of some sort of regret or shame or relinquishment of the past. I relinquish nothing, regret nothing. Perfect Mom/housewife was a mere cosmic stepping stone towards the gloriously flawed creature I am at this moment. I’m good with that, I like her. She’s going to mix the aduki, the black and the garbanzo beans all together, boiling them in water and adding salt and seasonings near the end so the skins don’t toughen. She’s going to load the kids into the car with a jar of cooked beans and the fixings for chili, a bag of Oreos and some Jiffy Pop and head to a cabin by the beach to play Monopoly and endless rounds of Go Fish and collect sugar agates until our pockets tear. On the way home I’ll stop and pick up new beans and things to refill the jars with, jelly beans, rice cracker mix, smoked almonds and cat treats, and save one jar for agates from the beach.

Greasing those palm springs

If I listen to this Santana record loud enough and practice those crazy bellydancing moves I can almost ignore the storm outside. I can pretend the ferry traffic, sound of tires through water, is warm wind through palm trees; the surf is blue and there are girls in bikinis and bronze gods wandering along the beach. If I avoid peeking through the slats of my blinds I can avoid seeing the men in plaid jackets driving white pick up trucks back and forth, carrying their own fuel in tanks on the bed, wearing ballcaps or bandanas. If I never see another white crummy as long as I live it won’t be long enough. If I turn the heat up high enough and ignore the smell of diesel wafting in on a backdraft I can don flipflops and a sundress and pretend it’s a warm summer’s evening, anywhere but here. I could be Esther Williams in Palm Springs if you squint a bit and I could swim. The thud, drone, of my furnace coming to life and blasting heat through the floor vents is actually a faulty air conditioner in a Havana hotel, or a loud ceiling fan, blowing through the leaves of my tropical plants.

Right now, as I contemplate the muscles in my ass that apparently laid dormant until I watched a bellydancing video, I’m wishing I was anywhere but on the Island of Misfit toys listening to the wind chimes crash crazily against the eavestrough and the rain pummeling my window.

I’m supposed to be cleaning the bathrooms and vacuuming, taking the laundry in and folding it but I had a thought while scrubbing the grout around the toilet.

When answering the questions on eHarmony or similar questionnaires about one’s self, what’s the definitive, authentic answer? Does one give the answer they believe is true? If so only those lucky few who really know themselves will get accurate results. Wouldn’t the answer that your friends might give be more accurate? I was pondering this and more while scrubbing the henna stains off my cupboard doors.

“Are you generally an anxious person?” Yes. I laugh. Of course I’m an anxious person. But am I? Am I not simply labelling myself anxious because it’s habit to believe I am? Have I not done tons of work to stop being so anxious? Am I not actually quite level headed and calm in the face of crisis?

But….

Am I delusional? Oh my god, is that another question? Am I delusional? Does my optimism that I am GOING to be better some day, count for anything? Do I get points for effort?

What about all those traits that my friends unanimously claim I possess but that I steadfastly believe are not true. What do they know? Maybe I’m just very clever and they’ve been cleverly duped. But, if the world sees me one way isn’t that more real than how I see myself? Doesn’t it stand to reason that some potential eHarmony prospect is going to see me like that? I find it hard to believe I’d be remotely attracted to anyone who saw me the way I see myself!

Maybe I’ll get paisleyjane to fill out the questionnaire for me and when the godlike genius, master of sensuality, hunk o’ man meat shows up on my doorstep I’ll ask him if he has a brother.

During a windy walk with a dear friend she divulged that she’s been perusing the wares on the dating site EHarmony. I was intrigued. This is the third of my beautiful, vibrant, thoroughly attractive friends who are resorting to online dating. Yes, I said ‘resorting to’. Get the end of the line if you have a complaint. Call me old fashioned but I still see dating services as the last bastion of hope for the desperate.

These friends of mine aren’t desperate women sitting at home behind their computer monitors eating bags of potato chips in their housecoats and licking photos of Antonio Banderas.

They aren’t plain or homely women who can’t/don’t get dates on their own. These women are hot. They have their pick of whatever men cross their paths. They’ve had many men and are well loved, and yet they search for men online.

Me being me, with a penchant for trying anything once, and a competitive streak which occasionally manifests itself in weird and wonderful ways, I needed to investigate.

I needed to sign up. It was apparent that something might be going on without me being involved and that just won’t do.

I’m disdainful of dating services.

Not for the connotation of desperation in their clients. We’ve all felt desperate about one thing or another and desperation is not a bad thing.

My disdain is for the necessity of reducing relationships to quantifiable variables in order to find the “Perfect Match”.

Relationships can’t be hemmed in with numbers. I don’t care what eHarmony says, they need to take into consideration the planetary alignment, the dinner I had last night, the butterfly fluttering it’s wings in the rainforest, the barometric pressure. The little adjustments that take place in the atmosphere when anything occurs. The sparks that fly. The smells and the sounds and the air around him.

All that being said, the well is dry these days and the drama is dwindling. I’m not looking for another husband, or a sperm donor, or even anything remotely relationship like. I’m not even looking for a date. Dates are easy. I’m in “meet new people” mode and I’ll play whatever game is out there. I’m saved by geography anyway, can’t have a date when there’s black ocean and miles of highway between us. No strings. Just for a lark. Where do I sign? Let’s see who eHarmony thinks is the right man for me.

After our walk I curled up on my friend’s couch with my laptop, and filled out page after page of eHarmony’s compatability test. I filled out, as honestly as I could, questions regarding my preference in “a mate”, brutally honest assessments about my own personality, and an entire page of questions about race and religion, in which I had to admit to myself with some surprise and embarrassment that no, I would not be attracted to Asian men. Japanese, Chinese, Korean and Vietnamese men on eHarmony are safe from being ravished by the red head. That’s all there is to it.

I digress….

2 hours and 3 glasses of wine later, test done, the moment of truth according to eHarmony. I press that little box with bated breathe….

And eHarmony presents me with not with a list of my “perfect matches”, but a lecture about being separated or divorced and therefore not acceptable to eHarmony.

They delivered this slap to the ego with a kindly offer to help me patch up my marriage which was kind of them but hardly noticed through the red I was seeing and the spluttering of wine that took place. eHarmony would like to help me fix up my marriage. Like this separation thing is merely a slight set back, and I’m stumbling around on a dating site looking for direction. Like I might just need some fatherly advice. Get those heels on, keep those buttocks up, bitch, and get back into the kitchen. Thanks eHarmony, but no thanks.

Ahem. I’ll talk it over with my ex. After 5 years, who knows, maybe he’ll want another go at the loveless, sexless, sham that we called wedded bliss. Maybe his newest girlfriend can take my spot on eHarmony. Oh, no, that wouldn’t work either. She too has been sullied, divorced, you see. She’d fail the test too. Maybe she would like to consider eHarmony’s marriage counselling. I’m sure the bastard she was married to would love to have her back, although I’m not so sure she’d be into it.

As for my foray into the world of online dating, when I’m done licking my wounds and patching up my ego I might check out some other site. I wasn’t feeling like a desperate loser when I started this adventure but now that the dating site has rejected me I’m looking forward to the steady stream of men that are sure to start. I’m sure rejection breeds more rejection.

Just as soon as I’m done eating this tub of Hagen Daas and plowing through this tube of Pringles I’ll google another dating site. “I just want to be loved”, I’ll whine to the cats and I won’t wash my hair ever, because, sigh, what’s the point…..

Or maybe not.

Perhaps I’ll stick with my initial premise which is that the sort of men I appreciate are the ones who aren’t taking the time to fill out questionnaires about their romantic proclivities.

They’re busy living them.

The sort of men I appreciate aren’t looking for me on a dating site because everybody knows that that’s not the way this ship sails.

If, as they say, there is someone out there for each of us, knowing me I’ve likely met him already and missed it. Knowing me I’ve likely given him the brush off and he’s stumbling around, working his way back to me for another go.

Knowing me I’ve tripped over his feet in a movie theatre or sat beside him on a train and avoided eye contact, or nabbed that cab from him and given him the “Tough luck”, shrug.

That’s okay, I’m not worried.

The next flutter that takes place will be mine and the way will be clear and concise and we’ll both see it. I’m sure of this. I think. Mostly.

In case he needs a nudge, I’ll be sitting in the corner of a certain little bar on a rock in the Pacific, reading a book, and sipping a frothy pint of Guinness and I’ll be waiting.

Crank.

Cranky girl.

Cranky girl with 5 less chickens in the yard. I had plans to get rid of them today.

I had plans to be rid of 5 chickens and a mother fucking rooster who is making me a nervous wreck and leading once docile, sweet, chickens into rebellion; shitting on my back deck, clawing up the whole yard, sticking their heads in the cat door.

I have had it with this chicken crap. I’ve had it with my Little House on the Prairie inspired nonsensical dreams. I hate these chickens and they must go. I never married Mr. Ingalls and I lack the patience of Caroline.

But that’s not why I’m cranky. I’m cranky because I wake up every morning with the intention to do writing practice and it’s not getting done. I wake up 30 minutes early to do the cleansing morning writing Julia Cameron promotes as a way to get out all the grotty business so that I’ll be clean and refreshed and ready to do something creative. I mean well but I fall back to sleep or the laundry needs doing because there are no pants to wear, or the youngest wakes up and wants to tell me about his latest Star Wars dream.

I mean well but it doesn’t happen.

It could have happened at 4:30 this morning when I woke up after a dream that didn’t have the decency to stay in my head long enough to even think about, let alone write. It could have happened at 4:45 when, after attempting to get back to sleep, I realized that that niggling feeling in my bladder was the need to pee and not caused by me thinking I might need to pee and the cold toilet seat shocked me into Awake until 5:00.

But it didn’t happen. I woke up to the alarm at 6:30, wondering if I could get away with calling in sick, even as I crawled out from under the duvet and put on my slippers.

I am so cranky.

I’m cranky because I couldn’t catch the rooster and I’ll have to listen to him for another day.

I’m cranky because I have to make dinner and no one is going to do it for me.

I’m cranky because I am so far in debt it’s obscene and there’s no end in sight.

I’m cranky because I’ve had to become constantly on the lookout for ways to make money, new jobs (3 and counting) and I’m not doing enough good, creative things to balance it out.

I’m cranky because the ex apparently doesn’t have this problem.

I’m cranky because I think it’s a personal flaw that I wish something bad would befall him even though I really don’t because I’m tired of life being rosy for him and something less for me.

I’m cranky because I don’t really believe that.

I’m cranky because the gin is almost gone and when it is I’ll have to think of arguments to justify buying more of it.

I’m cranky.

And the door slamming continuously (it’s Spring it seems, and the kids are raring to go),

and the rooster,

and dinner and

the two years of taxes to do,

and the dust bunnies, and laundry,

and the help with homework, and bedtime stories, and dinner cleanup, and the bathroom needs cleaning,

and today’s eggs need washing, and those pants need knee patches….

all take more time and/or patience than I apparently have today.