Shatter Proof

I have been divorced for ten years.  It has been one entire decade since I walked away from an emotionally and physically abusive relationship.  And yet, as my current husband recently pulled down the Rubbermaid storage boxes from their garage shelves, many of the holiday decorations contained within are still those purchased while in that first marriage.   I unpacked snowman decorations that had been given as gifts by my former spouse, and opened a container that held the blue and silver glass bulbs that we hung on our Christmas tree.

I can’t precisely tell you why I never replaced them.  I suppose I just considered these decorations as mere objects, and never really thought of them as symbols of a failed relationship.  Did looking at a snowman candle holder from Kohl’s bring tears to my eyes as I painfully recalled the night my former husband attempted to choke me?  No, it did not; I just thought it looked appropriately festive sitting on the fireplace mantle.  Replacing the decorations and the ornaments would be expensive, and I deemed this act unnecessary.
 

This year, however, a different feeling generated in me when I looked at those blue and silver bulbs.  I simply could not bear to hang them upon my tree for one more Christmas. I wasn’t disturbed by memories; I didn’t regret my divorce.  I simply did not wish to hang those ornaments up one more year as I had grown tired of them.  Beyond that, I now have a toddler who has the natural curiosity of a kitten, getting into things she doesn’t belong in. I could imagine her pawing and batting at them with her hands like the furry, little paws of the cats of my childhood, breaking bulbs and making my mom furious every single holiday season. 

Those silver and blue bulbs of a marriage past were as fragile as our relationship – easily broken.  I did not want my daughter to injure herself on the sharp, fragmented bits of glass in the same manner I had been emotionally injured when my reality was shattered through the revelation of my spouse’s unceasing dishonesty.  I thought then of the false mystique of splintered glass along the edges of roadways.  When those bits of broken glass are illuminated by a vehicle’s headlights, they sparkle and shine like diamonds and gold.  It’s all an illusion, though, just as my happy, blissful marriage was. 

For the safety of my children, who might naively be fascinated with the shine of those silver, fragile bulbs, I could not in good conscience place them upon the bows of the already erect tree.  The lights had been strung, and my daughter awed at the sight.  However, we would not finish decorating the tree that night.  I took that plastic container full of easily broken ornaments and put it back out in the garage, stashed away behind other storage containers and a large cooler. 

The very next evening I went to the store and bought new ornaments – shatter proof ornaments.  On the most basic level, these ornaments are a wise decision of a protective mother who rightly predicted that her daughter would knock ornaments off the tree.  When my daughter did this, though, after all the new bulbs hung beautifully from the limbs of the pine, the bulb remained unbroken.  It held together, just as I know and believe that this family will hold together through all difficult times.  This marriage – this beautiful, blessed family – is shatter-proof too.

                     ---------------------

I hooked up with the wonderful writers over at Yeah Write.  Once again, I am telling you the posts on the challenge grid are well worth reading.  Happy Holidays!

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/87-open/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/challenge861.png"></a>

 

 

I Want Ryan Gosling

Unlike the vast majority of American women, I hate the book and movie The Notebook.  Truth be told, I hate Nicholas Sparks – period.  All of his novels seem to follow the same plot structure: young couple falls in love, couple is torn apart under unfortunate circumstances, couple is reunited and love springs eternal forever and always.  Puke.  Seriously.   I am not the stereotype of a woman who reads romantic novels and weeps while watching P.S. – I Love You.  Like all Nicholas Sparks, that shit is just too sappy for me and romances like that rarely exist in real life.  If they do, the couple is never as attractive as Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams.

Despite my distaste of most romances, I still sometimes want my own Ryan Gosling.  I want Ryan Gosling to nod and tilt his pretty little head at me and ask, “Hey girl, what can I make you for breakfast?”  Then he would let me sleep in a little later while he prepared our morning meal, we would eat french toast, and then we would crawl back in bed and fuck some more.  If you’re a friend or follower, I know the first question you’re asking is, “Wait? Aren’t you married bitch?” Yes, yes I am.  Relax. Having put that question aside, the next logical inquiry for followers is, “Well, then why doesn’t Ryan Gosling make your short list?”

The response to this very vital query lies in a man’s confidence.  If I were to view a picture of Gosling in a magazine, the image of him alone would not be enough to spawn dirty thoughts in my mind.  The reason Gosling has become the admiration of so many women lies in the way he carries himself.  Speaking personally, I am not attracted to Gosling of The Notebook, but my panties would get a little wet if I encountered Gosling’s character in Crazy Stupid Love. I want a man who is cool and in charge, who makes me feel like the sexiest girl in the room. 

I want my man, my spouse, who I adore beyond belief, to gain the ability to carry himself with more confidence.  As my spouse and I were out at a martini bar this past Saturday, I leaned back in the comfortable leather chair I was sitting in and observed the man across from me.  He was still wearing the pink top and tie he had donned for our daughter’s “tutu and ties” birthday party, and I admired him for seemingly disregarding other’s perceptions of his apparel.  But, he didn’t quite pull off this look with the confidence of Gosling’s character.  He still seemed a bit awkward and shy. 

I smiled at him, and he smiled back.  I felt comfortable and cool sitting in the bar’s back alcove with our friends.  I continued to contemplate my husband, wishing he would give me a tiny Gosling glance and make me believe I was as sexy and desirable as Emma Stone.  He didn’t, and I averted my eyes to the floor in a small moment of disappointment I wished to be visible to no one.  As I looked down, I noticed my husband’s pair of New Balance shoes and realized what I then spoke aloud to our friends: “Shit. Sam is just like Steve Carell before Ryan Gosling’s help!” I know that was a bitchy remark to make, but a) I’m a bitch and b) I was also a slightly intoxicated bitch, which makes me even bolder.

My husband is never going to look like Ryan Gosling.   I am never going to look like Emma Stone.  I don’t give a shit about that.  It’s that take charge confidence that I’m missing.  I wish this not just for myself, but for both of us.  Sometimes I still believe that I’m hilarious and sexy and crazy cool, even if others don’t find this to be true.  Their opinions don’t matter because I love those moments when such a high level of self-confidence is my truth.  I just want my husband to know that kind of truth for himself too.  I want him to recognize that he is hysterical, hip, and handsome.  I really just want to make love to my own spouse (who does make me french toast most Saturday mornings), but while he believes he’s just as attractive to me as Ryan Gosling is to the common woman.   

Love really is crazy, and stupid, and complicated.  But if all I really want is a more confident husband, instead of actually wishing for an extramarital affair with an actor, I think my adoring spouse and I will be just fine.  I can keep on bringing the crazy to our love.  Nicholas Sparks might be lacking for material in our marriage, but I wouldn’t actually choose any other protagonist of this plot – not even Ryan Gosling.  This is real life, where New Balance shoes are an affordable and practical purchase.

 

 

 

 

I decided to link this post up with Yeah Write.  I'm quite certain all the folks on the grid want to read about my sexual fantasies ... quite certain indeed. Smiley face. 

 

 

 

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/85-open/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/85open.png"></a>





Tammy Wynette Was Wrong

I didn’t forget about Blogger Idol this week.  I’m still happily playing along with the home link-ups.  This week, Blogger Idol presented us with the following challenge: “Every decision we make changes the outcome of our life. This week's assignment theme is ‘There once was a chance I didn't take.’ You have to write about a chance that you regret not taking, or a chance that you had, that you didn't take, that may have turned your life in a totally different direction.”

------------------------------

“You need to leave him,” my mother matter-of-factly stated on the other end of the telephone line.

“But mom, he needs me,” I replied.  I believed this with every inch of my being.  He needed me at his side.  I couldn’t leave him alone in such a state – so physically and mentally weak and exhausted. 

“You need to make yourself the priority,” she returned.  “He took advantage of you.”

“I know he did.  I know,” while I acknowledged this truth, I continued on, “but he’s clearly ill.  I don’t think he meant to hurt me.  I think he must be sorry for what he did, or he wouldn’t have gone to such extremes.  I married him.  Marriage means something to me.  It’s a commitment, and I can’t just walk away.”

“You can walk away,” she countered, “and you need to.  You can’t justify staying based on the sanctity of marriage.  Your marriage is a lie, Angela.”

Damn. There it was.  She didn’t dance around it; she pummeled me in the face with this brutal reality like she was throwing an upper right cut.

It was a lie.  I didn’t know the man I married.  I don’t think anyone really knew him, his own self included.  He was confused and mentally ill and his life was so out of control that while I had this discussion with my mother, he was lying on a hospital bed in the intensive care unit after a serious suicide attempt.

It was only a few months into my marriage when I discovered much of what had been hidden from me.  The lying, cheating, and stealing were all spelled out in what he had intended to be his final farewell, a letter that was handed to me by one of the emergency responders on the scene. 

The man I married didn’t exist.  He was a kind, considerate, honest man.  The man who I was committed to now was deceitful and selfish. I could have chosen an annulment, and I should have chosen an annulment.  I had been wronged, but I did what I believed to be right at the time. 

I didn’t listen to my mother.  Rather, I took the advice of country crooner Tammy Wynette and I stood by my man.  I gave him my all, through more lies, fights, personal struggles with depression, and his abuse.  In giving him my all, I lost myself.  I’m sorry I lost myself.

If I had listened to my mother, I could have truly lived.  I could have enjoyed my friends and my family, instead he did his damndest to isolate and alienate me from the folks I loved, leaving me feeling alone and dependent upon him.  I could have enjoyed ages twenty-two and twenty-three, living young, wild and free.  I could have known my worth and continued to love myself.

If I had walked away sooner, I wouldn’t have had to fight so damn hard to regain my identity and accept myself again.  I could have avoided the battle to rebuild a strong self-concept.  But, I punched, I kicked, I built mental muscle until I got her back – I got me back.  I am stronger now. I am better.  I am resilient. 

Regardless, these were gifts I gave to myself – they didn’t simply come from the struggle of an abusive marriage.  When I look in the rearview mirror, those years were just a detour and I’m still right where I belong now. 

I could say I should have listened to my mother.  I could say Tammy Wynette was wrong, and I wish I had never heard that song.  However, it’s my own voice I needed to hear.  I will never let anyone hush her ever again. 

Five Minutes

The following post is my first entry into the yeah write challenge.   Faithful followers and new fans, please link back to the preceding post for an explanation of the below narrative. If you are interested in learning more about yeah write, check it out here: http://yeahwrite.me/okaformee/.  There are no holds barred below, and it gets really real just as promised because this is indeed a true story. Thanks for reading and bigger thanks for following this blog!

 

(Introduction not to be included in word count.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Five Minutes

 

Five minutes could change an individual’s life forever.

Five minutes early could mean that you find your spouse naked in your bed entangled in the limbs and grip of another woman.  Five minutes late could mean your boss spews curses and terminates you, salty tears now sliding down into your coffee.  Five more minutes could give you just enough time for the man of your dreams to stride coolly into the room and seat himself next to you.  For me, five minutes was all that was needed to save a life.  Sometimes I secretly possess the detestable wish that I had been held up at work, for I cannot be entirely certain that his was a life worth saving.

“Five more minutes, ma’am,” the EMT spoke to me,” Five more minutes and there wouldn’t have been much we could do here.  He would have been dead.” 

DEAD.  This was the last word of his suicide letter.  “You’re better off with me dead,” it read.  Maybe he’s right.  Just maybe he’s right this time.  This was my fucking awful thought as I sat alone in the emergency waiting room while my spouse was having his stomach pumped.  Between this terrible thought, the trembling, and the tears, I sat like stone and relived those few crucial minutes in my mind as though the memory had been burned onto a repeating cinema reel.   The pills.  The locked bathroom door.  The photographs all facing down.  His trembling body.  The 911 call.  The pills.  The note.  The bright lights and men arriving.  His eyes rolling slowly back in his head.  Sit up. Sit up.  Please sit up! The pills.

“The pills, ma’am,” the man questioned,” Do you know how many pills he took?  What kind?”

Three bottles. Antidepressants.  Maybe not the whole three bottles; some tablets were in the sink.  I don’t know.

“Ma’am?”  I had offered him no response.

“Three bottles of antidepressants.  Lexapro. Depakote.  Effexor.”

“His or yours?” he asked.  They belonged to each of us; we were a toxic match with our mental illnesses – each only compelling the other to further suffering rather than offering the expectant empathy that was so desperately needed.

But this shit; I couldn’t sympathize with this shit.  I didn’t even know the man who lay on that bed shaking and sobbing while complete strangers checked his vital signs.  That man on the bed was a fucking liar, a cheater, a thief; he was not the man I believed I had married.  I thought I was in love.  I fell too quickly.  I was young and my eyes weren’t wide open.  I could have blamed it on a million different little things – anything to avoid the straight truth that I was wrong.

“I don’t know if you really want this, but here,” said the EMT as he handed me a piece of paper that I quickly assumed was the suicide note.  I just wanted the man who had written this note to live then; I loved him so much.  I didn’t care what had been scribbled on that stupid fucking piece of paper.  I quickly shoved it deep into the pocket of my denim jeans.  I then removed my hand from my clothing and wrapped my fingers tightly around those of my love.

And then the lies came to light on the lines of what was intended to be his final goodbye.  Sitting in that waiting room, I had pulled the note from my pocket and read the contents in insane disbelief.  The truth had been revealed, and the truth was one ugly little fucker. 

He wasn’t really attending university.  His transcripts and admissions documents had all been completely fabricated.  He lost his job months and months ago.  His income was achieved through thievery by pawning off stolen goods.  He possessed a criminal record, outstanding financial debt, and an enormous desire to die. 

My life was a lie, and I had no damn idea until I read the hastily scribbled contents on a piece of college ruled notebook paper.  That same paper was now soaked with tears, and black mascara covered my soft cheeks that he had gently kissed so many times.  How had I not known?  Naïve little girl so desperate to be loved.  I initially blamed myself as much as I blamed him. 

What could I do?  Should I have run away from the hospital and left him alone to be transported to the ICU?  Should I have sought an annulment and played Pontius Pilate to the whole damn thing?  I stayed.  I stood by his side.  I thought I had forgiven him, and told him we could have a fresh start.  But he had fooled me once, and soon proved he could do it again.  And I stayed; I cried and cried endless nights.  I lay awake in bed with my deceitful spouse beside me and held a razor blade to my wrist just praying for the fucking courage to go through with what he had failed to successfully do.

I couldn’t be wrong; I wouldn’t be wrong.  I said “I do,” and I did; I did everything to make it work although an equal effort was never returned.  We yelled and we screamed, and the same shit I was screaming about just kept on happening.  He threatened suicide when I threatened to leave.  Then came the night he laid his hands upon me in violence.  He clenched his wretched fingers around my neck.  The next morning I left and never looked back. 

It didn’t take five minutes that time; I only needed a few seconds to put the keys in the ignition and leave that life of lies behind.  But I have wondered – would I have been better off with him dead? How would my life be different now?  What impact would that five minutes have made?  I will never know these answers, but I did learn that it’s more of a mistake to stay miserable than to admit you’re wrong and move on.  

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/76-open"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/familyfree76.pn
 

Suck it Sam!

On our wedding day, my husband Sam had the grand idea to smoke a cigar with his father directly before our first dance.  I had to endure that awful stench for an entire three minutes and forty two seconds.  As our song was coming to a close, I softly and sweetly whispered to him, “Baby, you better find a tic-tac and some fucking Febreze if you think you’re dancing with me again tonight.”

He found some gum and sprayed on some of my sister’s Victoria’s Secret body splash.  I guess he made an effort, so I danced with him again anyhow.  He has done better since that moment, though.  To make up for his poorly timed male bonding that night, he now wakes me up every morning on our anniversary and we dance together to our song.  Long say it out loud Aaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

My husband makes me smile and laugh, and has hung in there with me through thick and thin.  If you’ve been following this blog, or know me in real life, you can imagine what he’s endured.  Only my best friend Angie (again – not me in third person) knows what he has actually endured, and she has a lot of shit she’s taking to the grave with her.

Sam and I were friends for long years before I realized he was the right one for me.  I was a silly, stupid girl (see my dating advice for my daughter).  I stumbled upon this actualization that he was meant for me about a week before he was scheduled to go on vacation with another one of his close female friends.  (He had lots of girl friends, but very few girlfriends.)  They traveled down to Mexico together and I wrote a truly terrible poem about my concerns.  I remember there being a line like “Don’t fall in love under the summer sun – you’ll get tanned, and I’ll get burned.”  Awful; just fucking awful.

Sam had never been big on poetry anyway.  I’m not entirely sure he understands the majority of my writing.  He knows it makes me happy though, so he tries to be supportive.  I say TRY because I think this takes a real concerted effort on his part.  I can imagine that he keeps repeating the word “fiction” in his head.  “Fiction! Fiction! Whey can’t she write fucking fiction?”  Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of, “Oh shit.  Please don’t write about this in your blog.”    

My husband teaches in a juvenile correctional facility, so he has a lot of patience.  The students here refer to him as a “Ned Flanders looking mother fucker.”  He shrugs it off, and keeps on trying.  As if his occupation were not challenging enough, then he has to come home to me.  Poor suffering bastard.  And now, because he was a wee bit pissy with me tonight when I told him I was writing despite his needing help with our children, I have made it my goal to prove him wrong.  All successful marriages are built on one spouse constantly needing to be right. 

For me to be right in this particular instance I need to increase my readership to over 100 likes in one week.  I need your help to make that happen, so start following Not Appropriate Angela on facebook.  I’ll be holding you all in my heart when I scream: “SUCK IT!”

Does Everyone Remember When I Shit my Pants?

My husband’s fifteen year high school reunion is coming up this next weekend.  I am still undecided as to whether or not I wish to accompany him.  I skipped my own fifteenth, despite the fact I had volunteered to help plan this event (I was drunk when I did that).  I did still offer to make buttons.  No one wanted buttons, so I stayed at home with my weird collection of craft supplies like the noted button maker and my bedazzler.

A little bedazzling, some glitter, or even some balloons might each have made my ten-year reunion better.  That event was just awful (Sorry, Tim).  There was no music, the meal was sub-par, and worst of all … we fucking ran out of beer.  I suppose our class president could claim that he attempted to entertain us.  He did put together a photo slideshow.  However, the large majority of the highlighted photos were not even of our graduating class.  There were photos from his sister’s wedding, his boastful hunting moments, and even his surgery.  I am completely serious.  This is why I later offered to create the slide show for a future reunion, sharing with our class president “… and it will feature lots of pictures of my vagina.”  Yeah, I always keep it classy folks.

Whenever a reunion or homecoming of any sort becomes the subject of conversation, I return to the question of how I may be remembered.  A former student once told me, after his mother met me at parent teacher conferences and realized we had gone to school together, “My mom said you use to do a lot of drugs – like you were a total burn-out.  I didn’t want to tell you that right away though because I really wanted to be selected for debate team captain.”

If you have been following me, however, you know this is not true.  I never touched a drug in my adolescence.  Most of my classmates, and probably my teachers, just assumed I was smoking or snorting something because I dressed like a damn weirdo, and I also once brought some imposter pot to school.  (You’ll have to check out the back catalogue of blog posts for more on that.) I used to wear dark sunglasses and lots of hats with big, bright flowers on them; I must have wanted to be like Blossom Russo (random Mayim Bialik reference). 

These days, whenever a friend begins a story like, “Do you remember Jakob from Algebra? Well, I ran into him at Wal-Mart and …,” I find myself replying with the general response of, “Oh yeah.  Isn’t that the kid who …?” and I am usually able to recall only one random and bizarre memory of that individual. You guessed it – here come a few of those random recollections.

There was a kid named Brandon in my graduating class.  As rumor would have it, one afternoon he crapped himself on the indoor track because he was afraid to ask his coach for a bathroom break.  This must have been the crowning achievement of his adolescence for once, in the middle of our psychology class without having been prompted in any way whatsoever, he announced, “Does everyone remember when I shit my pants on the track?”

In that same class, on a different day, a student named Bill erupted into maniacal laughter and became completely flushed and red-faced during a lecture that briefly mentioned cock fighting.  Our teacher calmly and simply said, “Well … I see someone just woke up and heard the word cock.” My dear friend Melissa, always so kind and considerate, patted Bill on the back and said, “Settle down there, buddy, settle down.”

I once overheard a kid named Joe (I think – maybe Kevin) bragging to his friends by the water fountain.  What was he bragging about? – you ask.  Fucking his horse.  He was honestly boasting about a claim that he fucked his horse.  So, here’s how a conversation about Joe would go:  

Melissa: Did you know Joe (or Kevin – whatever) is living in the twin cities now?

Me: Joe who?

Melissa: We graduated with him.  He was in our geography class.

Me: I think I might remember him …. (brain silently scurrying)

Melissa: Well, he has three beautiful children now and he ….

Me: Gross! I remember! That kid fucked his horse!

With individuals I don’t know as well, I frequently have to refrain from sharing my one strange memory aloud.  For example, one of my former co-workers was once talking to me about a teacher recently hired in a neighboring school district.  She said, “Actually, I think you might know him.  He probably graduated a few years after you.”  When she told me his name, I bit my tongue to avoid replying, “Oh yeah, that’s Backdoor Brian.”  Rumor with this one was that he frequently convinced his girlfriends to have anal sex.

Then, of course, one must not forget the girl who stuck a hot dog in her “biscuit”  (actual meat product, slang vagina – thank you Honey Boo Boo) and had to get it removed by a doctor after it broke in half.  For the life of me, I cannot remember that girl’s name, despite the fact that I also worked with her during high school and she once told me she wished her boyfriend cleaned his ass better because he always left shit streaks on the sheets when she was on the top during intercourse.   I promptly placed that bit of information in my shit I didn’t really need to know file.

Given such awful associations, I often wonder – what is that one random thing I am remembered for?  So, if you’re a former classmate that I probably spoke all of thirty words to in real life and am now virtual friends with, please leave your comments! You can also let us know if you recall any of these same special individuals mentioned here.  It might be best if no one lets Brandon know, all these years later, that he is still the kid who shit his pants.  Oh yes, we remember Brandon; we remember.

 

 

Liked this story? Became a fan now! Start following Not Appropriate Angela on facebook!

 

(Above image circa 1994.  It's no surprise everyone thought I was high.)

You Make My London Bridge Go Down

My husband is wholly wonderful.  I am very lucky to be married to such a generous and kind man.  On most Saturday mornings, like today, he allows me to sleep late and then makes me a breakfast of choice upon my eventual waking.  Today, it was scrambled eggs and bacon.  Yum. Bacon.  (See? I promised you more posts about bacon.)

However, he is terrific in so many more ways than this.  He is an amazing father; my daughter is totally a daddy’s girl. Sometimes she starts crying just because he has left one room of our house for the bathroom.  When this happens, instead of comforting her, I state: “For Christ’s sake, Emily.  Your dad is just taking a piss.”   I’m fully banking on the idea that she won’t remember most of what I say to her while she’s this young. But she just beams whenever she’s snuggled up in his arms.  It melts my heart (I do have one; it’s not cold and black like one might assume). 

My husband also makes me laugh on a daily basis.  This is incredibly important.  More importantly, however, he finds me funny too.  He even laughs at the really stupid shit I do – like making up songs all the time for the most random of occasions.  His favorite is probably “Puppy Time,” for when we visit my parent’s house to play outside with their three dogs, bringing along our daschund for a puppy play date.  He also enjoyed “Pantsless Spaghetti,” a little ditty whose lyrics I invented after I woke up from a nap and decided I didn’t feel like putting my pants back on to sit and eat supper.

He also does favors for me that no one else in the world would do.  For example, he paints my toe nails upon request, and scratches my head when I get a really itchy scalp.  He also helped me shave my upper legs during my pregnancy when I couldn’t fully see my own inner thighs.   

He will even listen to me describe my dreams, although there’s a ten minute rule.  If my description goes beyond this time, I must accept that he has already zoned out on my bizarro review of my sleepy time cinema.  He recently had to listen to this one: Last night, Sam, I had a dream where Angie (my best friend – we have the same name – not me in third person) took me out to eat because she wanted to have an important discussion with me.  This dinner conversation was prompted by some concerns you had reached out to her about.  You didn’t know how to help me, so you asked for her assistance.  She let me know that you were really worried about me because I had been downloading and viewing Fergie music videos all day, every day.  Apparently, I also would not stop singing “London Bridge.”  You were getting really worried.

I tried to look up what this all meant in my dream dictionary, but surprisingly there was no entry for “fergilicious.”  That dream was also a bit of a time warp.  How relevant is Fergie right now?  The students I work with probably wouldn’t even know who that is! But I do know that my husband makes my londy, londy, londy go down (whatever that means, Fergie Ferg).

The Incredible Diaper Shredding Dog

Last night, I was watching America’s Got Talent and the Olate Dogs performed.  This was an incredible act.  Those pooches were doing back flips, twists, somersaults, and dancing on command.  That same evening, my dog, a miniature daschund, snuck into my newborn son’s bedroom and shredded up some shit diapers she had pulled out of the garbage.  Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to be a million dollar headlining act in Las Vegas. 

I also highly doubt that we will ever be celebrated for any of her other many talents, including pissing on the floor whenever she meets a new person, barking uncontrollably when the wind blows, stashing my underwear under the bed, and digging large holes in various areas of our yard.  Despite all this, I love my dog to death.  She is, however, often told, “You’re damn lucky you’re cute, Darcy.” 

With both pets and people, that’s the definition of true love: cherishing an individual with all of their flaws.  True love cannot exist, either, without forgiveness.  When Darcy piddles on the floor, I wipe it up with a paper towel and then get over it.  Of course she gets reprimanded, but I don’t hold a grudge against my dog.  When my husband leaves dishes on the counter, he likewise hears about it, but I rinse them off, put them in the dishwasher, and get over it.  If individuals were not capable of such acts, divorce would run even more rampant.  No marriage would last longer than a year, and all parents would disown their children for forgetting to put the toys away. 

My dog may never be a million dollar act, and she probably will never even ever be completely potty-trained, but Darcy still melts my heart.  So, okay, I once saw her eat some cat turds she had dug up in my mother’s flower bed, and I’ve also caught her with her head stuck in a pizza box.  I know I’ll never have her jumping through hoops or giving high-fives. But I also know that she will always be my special star: Darcy -- the incredible diaper shredding dog!

 

You can watch the true talent here.  See the Olate Dogs perform: http://www.nbc.com/americas-got-talent/video/olate-dogs-quarterfinals/1410999

No Sex, No City

“So what? You think you’re like Carrie Bradshaw now?”

Okay. This isn’t actually what my brother asked me yesterday when discussing my blog; he didn’t know the character’s name and I say kudos for him.  So, he really said, “You think you’re like that chick from Sex and the City now?”  C’mon, she was a writer, yes;  beyond that, our characters share very little in common.  When Bradshaw was obsessing over Manolo Blahniks (I absolutely had to Google that spelling), I was still holding onto my Converse one stars from 1998. 

Bradshaw also wrote about sex.  I have two children under the age of two.  My daughter doesn’t fall asleep well unless she is able to snuggle her dad, and my son is less than six weeks old, sleeping in the bassinet next to the bed and waking us up every two hours.  There is no sex happening in my home.  Right now, having to sleep in the wet spot means you’re stuck where my daughter spilled her milk.

Bradshaw lived in the city; I live in Northern Wisconsin.  While she was hoping for a proposal from Mr. Big, I was just seeking a man who did have all of his own teeth and who did not have a serious alcohol problem. 

I live in a township where apparently people purchase property just to house an abundance of cats.  I also live next to a home that none of the owners can afford to actually maintain.  In the three years we have lived at our current residence, we have had five different direct neighbors just in one house.  I swear to God that they’re not moving all the time either because of me! 

The house has always been sold on land contract.  Part of me believes the man who actually owns it wants to find people that can’t really afford the property, so they pay the mortgage for a couple of months before leaving and he still gets to keep a down payment.  It’s quite the racket, and it’s led to an interesting assortment of characters.  So, on that “send me money bitches” request, fences are damn expensive – and I could really use a fence.

The first neighbor was on disability after a series of strokes and other serious health problems, so he spent a lot of time in his garage wrenching on things.  He tried to sell us several old lawnmowers he had worked on.  His son –in-law was only eighteen, and lived with them after knocking up the daughter, forcing a shot-gun wedding.  He didn’t have a job as no one wanted to employ him while he was on probation for drug related and other criminal charges.  So, the son-in-law’s hobby was fireworks.  He sat on the porch on a regular basis and shot off bottle rockets.  This was usually around one to three in the afternoon.  Lots and lots of bottle rockets all afternoon every day.

When they couldn’t afford a new roof, they just walked away from the property.  Then came the hoarders.  Seriously, like they could have been on an episode on TLC. By the way, doesn’t TLC stand for The Learning Channel?  Can anyone tell me what educational value there is in “Toddlers and Tiaras,” and its even greater spin-off “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo”?  Anyway, their shit was everywhere.  Dressers, tables, chairs, and doors lined the back yard.  After an unsuccessful auction attempting to sell some of these treasures and make a little money, they could no longer afford the property either.

Then came a single mother and her son.  There was nothing unusual that appeared to be happening.  They were pretty quiet, so we were happy.  Then the actual property owner knocked on our door one afternoon.  He gave us his phone number and asked us to call if there was any odd activity next door.  He said the police had tried serving his newest leaser an eviction notice for failing to ever make a payment, although she was there less than four months.  The police had been there for several hours and were yet unsuccessful in their attempt.  He hoped we would see a U-HAUL before seeing the officers over there again, but also thought that was an unlikelihood.  He then warned us, “Don't go over there.  She keeps an automatic rifle right by the door.  I just thought you should know.” 

I’ll refrain from making any comments on the new residents just in case I should decide to be friendly someday.  If you really know me, however, that’s highly unlikely to happen.  So, while Bradshaw lives her fabulous fictional life, I will stay holed up at home because the neighbors usually scare the shit out of me, but I will never be moving to the city either as I like trees more than I like most people.  I just thought you should know.