fit to be tied...over the hill & tying the knot

where to begin?


i'm going to tell the story of a little girl who never played house and then married a man she couldn't resist who broke her heart and her faith and her hope...and left her ready for a future filled with alone. she didn't go softly into that alone night, oh no, she raged against the dying of the love light - she raged on every online dating site and at speed dating events and as a regular at her favorite bar. she raged until she constructed an entire future built on alone - a future she became not just resigned to, but excited about.

and then some guy came along and her whole single future plan was shot to hell.

and now i'll stop talking in the third person because, seriously, that's pretty creepy. so here i am. in the least likely place i ever expected to be - 41 years old and engaged.

Blast from the Past

Today I got the wild impulse to organize the cupboard under the stairs. I found some boxes of photos and other memorabilia that I haven't looked at for who knows how many years. I decided to drag them out and take a peek.

I found a box that held (among other items) late 80's and early 90's pics (see photo, right), prom pictures, summer camp pictures, letters from camp friends, letters from my brother (who used "Skater Bro" as his return address), and one essay from an AP English class. Reading this essay, I was struck by the familiar voice--making me fear that, perhaps, I have not grown or evolved that much in the past 18-ish years. However, I thought that it was worth sharing as a glimpse of the writer in a (hopefully) more raw form:

CAUSE AND EFFECT ESSAY

by Becky Jenkins

I always know when THAT TIME is approaching. I can see it coming a mile away. THAT TIME always fills me with a sense of impending doom. There is just no way to get out of THAT TIME. (At least not until you reach that special age.) THAT TIME is the most bothersome time in my life; it's dirty, inconvenient, and unavoidable. Right now I am in the middle of THAT TIME--yes, that's right--it's my week for dishes.

I know I am not the only one who hates doing dishes. Nearly every person in America is terrified of it.

Why? you may ask, is this everyday necessity so terrifying?

Why do people go to such extremes to avoid it? For example, the other night I had to get my dishes done before I could go over to my friend, Michelle's house to work on a dance we are going to be performing. Needless to say, I was not pleased. In fact, I was just a little bit on the furious side. In my fit of anger, I offered my little brother money, favors, my favorite tape, a movie, and even my love if only he would do the dishes for me.

Looking back, I question my reasoning for going so totally out of control. I believe the fear of doing the dishes is a much more serious problem than most people realize.

The fear of doing the dishes is one of the main reasons for the decline of the nuclear family, and the trend toward divorce.

There can be no harmony in a home where everyone is fighting about who will do the dishes next. But, where did this fear come from in the first place? That question must be answered before anything can be done to alleviate the fear and restore the stability of the American family.

In exploring American history for the answer to this question, one discovers that since the birth of our country, people have feared the dishes. In the Old South every home, no matter how financially unsuccessful, had a slave for the primary purpose of doing the family dishes. Since that time families have always had housekeepers and maids, or more commonly, children, to do the dreaded task.

The fear began with the discovery of bacteria and germs. When sweet southern women discovered that they could contaminate their delicate hands or any other body part, for that matter, they immediately dismissed the practice of washing the dishes themselves.

In more recent years, the fear has been exemplified by the women's movement. Women refuse to do the dishes for fear that they may not be considered modern and liberated if they did do them, and men shudder at the prospect of doing the job because they are afraid of being accused of being a chauvinist if they admit that the "job just isn't in my blood," or the fear of being a chauvinist if they do the job and end up getting accused of trying to show up a woman.

These fears are embedded in the minds of America's youth at a very young age and it is passed on from generation to generation as children are always made to stoop and do the humiliating task.

The main problem with this comes in with newlyweds, when there are no children in the home yet. This means that either the wife or the husband must do the job, and neither wants to. This often leads to the first spat, and later to the divorce. It's no wonder that fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce when one hundred percent of all married people hate to do the dishes.

As long as there are still dishes to be done, there will be divorce and domestic unease in America.

THE END

(I added "THE END" so you would know the ancient essay was over and it was the present me now talking.)

My teacher loved the opening paragraph, writing "clever!" in the margin. He also liked the comparison of children to slaves and the part about feminism. However, I only received a B+. The thing that scares me most about that grade (which is a surprise as English was my top subject and I did earn A's come report card time) is the similarity to my current narrative voice and style, and the fear that in the end, I still have a glaring B+ staring me in the face.

Poetry Stop

here are a few poems...nothing really new, but some favorites

Bedtime

toothfairies
and
pixie dust
sweet voices
and
prayers
smiles that dance in the moonlight

baseballs and guitars
violas and perfume
bright eyes that watch every move

lips ask for more kisses
arms tease for more hugs
and a giggle is almost hypnotic




She lives her life
day in day out
solitary and abundant
joyful and despairing
And the struggle of her spirit
is this woman’s life

In one arm she embraces love
and with the other she pushes it away
knocking it down
before it can knock her down
And protecting her from hurt and happiness
is this woman’s life

She lies awake at night
staring at the shadows flickering on the walls
imagining tomorrow
replaying today
avoiding right this moment
And exhaustion
is this woman’s life




My heart explodes
with joy—
lying in this tangle
of arms and legs
and soft, downy skin.
I tremble at the love in
“mommy”
and the trust in four blue eyes.

And I ache with the brevity
of this moment
and the promise of life, and
love, and
tears, and
pain—
and the inevitability
of empty arms
and tear-stained
photographs
freezing the miracle
of today
forever.




I am sorry that you miss me
but I’ve missed you for years.
And I don’t want you to ache
or weep or burn
because it makes my freedom
so much harder.
And because I wish you only peace.
Something I could never give you
and you could not receive.
So where are we now?
As distant as ever—
with you swimming in sorrow—
after I’ve already toweled off,
and I find myself
with
no more desire for that water.




Once upon a Time
I pledged myself to you
and I created a future
that never came to be

And then I had to change the channel
when the program got too graphic
and now I speak Italian
and I hear you speaking Spanish
and it’s like we never
knew each other
as something
other than painful





“I’m sick of the emotion”
well so am I
Except you’re only sick
of emotions
that you don’t control
And I’m sick
of being wrong
because you got up
on the wrong side of the bed
and don’t want
to hear the truth
today.
And the only reason
my voice sounds alone
is because
no one else
is brave enough
to speak their
mind
and
frustrations.
So go ahead,
make it all about me
and
all my fault
if that helps
you believe
your dick
is
bigger.

Queer Eye for My Guy

I was at my boyfriend's house helping him hang curtains in his daughter's bedroom. The curtains were going up in place of the lovely bedsheets that had been hanging in the windows. I was happy to see the change; however, I was unaware of something hanging in his house that was even worse than bedsheets on the windows. In the master bathroom--HIS bathroom--there was a filmy, pastel, floral shower curtain. I turned to K and said, "I LOVE your shower curtain." Without even blinking he answered, "Yeah? Me too." RIGHT!

This shower curtain was the last in a long line of neglected remants that had survived his divorce. In the living room there were empty picture hangers left on the wall above the fireplace; the labels his wife had needed to know which switch did what were all over the house, the turquoise blue she had painted the entire house still glared from the walls. I was overcome with a compulsion to exorcise the ghost of marriage past. I was not threatened by or jealous of these remnants, I just didn't understand why a single, attractive, seemingly well-adjusted man would choose to shower each day behind rows of bright flowers when no woman was requiring him to do so.

"You have to get a new shower curtain," I said. "I will not come into this bathroom until there is a different shower curtain."

I didn't mean for it to be an ultimatum, but in retrospect, I think it was. I proceeded to continue my tirade; citing the picture hangers, labels, and blue walls--not to mention the wonderful fireplace that he has NEVER ONCE USED in the six years he has lived in the house (the majority of those without the wife). I had to wonder what his previous girlfriends had thought. Did they say something about it? Did they just ignore it? Why was there still a flowered shower curtain hanging in this man's bathroom?

I was obsessed. Over the next few days I checked out shower curtains wherever I could: Target, Smith's Marketplace, Ikea. I asked my daughters and friends for their input on the manliness quotient of each one. I debated actually buying a few and taking them over--letting him pick the one he liked best, but a part of me thought that might come off as creepy. As my obsession continued I began to wonder if I was the one with the problem. Maybe it didn't matter if he liked to shower behind a girly swath of fabric. Maybe I really did feel threatened and/or jealous. Perhaps I should take back my comments and just let it go. Then, like Spiderman swinging in on his web, K saved me from having to admit anything: he bought a new shower curtain. It was a map of the world, and it was the most beautiful, manly thing I had ever seen in a bathroom. Granted, it wasn't even close to any of the shower curtains I would have chosen, but I think that is, after all, the whole point.