I apologize

I remember how I eased the pain of your scraped knee or hand? I remember blowing on the wound and caressing my little girl’s wound…. “There it will go away now” . I would put on a band-aid to patch the pain. What happens when this little girl is now an adult, nursing a broken heart? A band-aid cannot patch the gaping hole in her heart.

I’ve stared at you, my lovely daughter your sad eyes upon me or listen with just as much pain in my heart as the pain in your voice. Oh no was all I could say. I couldn’t believe it. And I am helpless — helpless to help her overcome her grief.

I know I am the cause of your attitude about men and relationships. I know there is no such thing as a perfect parent, but I could have been much better than what I was. I could go on and on about my parental mistakes, and how I damaged you. for my behavior during your growing up years, but I love you too much not to apologize for the pain I have caused you.

You are looking for the happily ever after — sometimes it shows up quickly, but we don’t believe we are worthy of such a good thing and we mess it up — and watch happiness walk away. Then we search again — and again — and again until we realize that we have to know ourselves before we can give ourselves to another.

Your pain is my pain. Your hurt is my hurt. Your tears are my tears. You are my daughter — I would give up my life for you. I could not live my life without you.

I can’t say don’t be sad — because that’s a really silly statement. What I will say is hang on and reflect, because life is fickled, but it straightens out and you will find joy and happiness.

Love ya bunches,

Mom

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Published in: on 06/14/2011 at 20:48  Leave a Comment  

Annual VD

I am so bored of people using love as an excuse. And even more so of a manufactured holiday reminding the world over and over again of it.  Nothing has changed, I still liken Valentine’s Day to VD because Venereal Diseases hurt, can cause awful sores in your skin, ache thru muscle and bone and can cause death. And so can Love.

I love you, I love you, I love you; Blah! I love you is eight letters long just like the word, ‘bullshit’.

And while we’re at it-stop tossing around soul mate. Soul mates, if there are such things, must be worked for, and most poor slobs backstory of how they met isn’t all that laborious. In fact, they mostly involve a bar. The mate  that completes your soul isn’t in your postcode or shopping at the local grocery store. Soul mates are rare like unicorns or a gay car mechanic.

Still have a relentless clutch to thinking Love is attainable? No worries, you’re not alone. I blame Disney for this thought process. But then again I blame Disney for a lot of things. They own the station that puts out The Bachelor and have quoted gems that include, “Like the voice of a heavenly choir, love’s sweet music flows on” and that was said by an orphaned deer.

Too harsh? OK, maybe, just maybe, Love something you grow into, like say olives and hummus or tomato juice without vodka. I guess time will tell. But between you and me, I doubt it.

Published in: on 02/14/2010 at 18:50  Comments (6)  
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Valentine’s Day Is About As Fun As A Case Of VD (2009)

For a whole  24 hours those in love, lust, denial, acceptance and forgiveness celebrated Valentine’s Day. And there isn’t a place you can go to escape it. Every which way I turned I saw hearts, flowers and goofy-grinned couples.

Pairs were everywhere and in everything: A tow-truck pulling a car, men and women, men and men, women and women, candy and flowers, a construction worker hammering a nail (that may have been a three-some, but you get the point). Hell, even the bums in the neighborhood were in pairs.

Oh, how I do detest VD day, and yes I know that’s redundant.  This horrible man-made holiday that forces its love on people can only be compared to an unwanted venereal disease. Thanks Hallmark!

Apparently, I am the only one in a 25-mile radius that is alone and that’s fine by me! But with all the added pressure of the day, I need a drink in a dive bar.

I ordered a foamy beer beside my turkey burger and fries and just as I begin to drink, the bar wench returns with another beer.

“I have one already,” I let her know while taking a sip.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “But I almost forgot. It’s two for one all day. Enjoy!” she says wearing a big cheesy I-just-got-the-most-thoughtful-card-from-my-boyfriend grin.

Great, even at lunch I’m a fifth wheel. I can’t wait to leave this bar and head to the bookstore.

As you may have guessed, I’m single. Actually, I’m sensationally single and damnit and I don’t have to justify that to anyone.

Nor do I have to be made to feel inferior by those smug couples. You know the couples that, suddenly, are so much in love today.

SHE seems to have forgotten when he blew off meeting her mom because of something called, “Fantasy Football”, while HE has forgotten the fact she calls him 37 times a day to talk about nothing.

Together they seemed to forget how his ex still calls him, but he swears she’s just a “psycho-bitch ex- girlfriend” (funny, how men coined any ex as a psycho-bitch), but since he brought a card at Walgreens, all is well.

And let’s not forget the candy and/or something equally as lame as the crap you got in high school, like a stuffed teddy bear or a giant heart balloon. And that somehow makes it acceptable, because its Valentines Day. Listen up people, Giant heart balloons, like Crocs, are never acceptable, even in the privacy of your own home.

Story about me being single. I remember when some friends and I gathered to make me feel better after the man I was dating felt the pressure of the five-month-old relationship and disappeared. Obviously with same cloak of invisibility my last boyfriend used.

He’s such an asshole,” Stacy said while looking at his picture on my cell phone.

“Lemme see this ass-wipe,” Becky said while grabbing the cell phone. Totally unaware she just cancelled out Stacey’s remark.

I point this out, the coalition looks at me and calls me all sorts of nerd, and dork and I believe I heard writer-geek.

“Let’s just agree he’s an ass,” Stacey concludes.

“Kind of cute though,” Becky quips.

The collective stare of single women burns holes in Becky.

“But, he’s still a dick,” she answers, blowing the whole asshole/asswipe thing again. This time I keep it to myself.

It’s fine. He’s off doing whatever asshole/asswipe/dicks do, when not in relationships. I of course have eaten 2 pints of ice cream (Buy one get one free special), joined Women’s Boxing, cleaned out my closet and rearranged my bedroom incidentally finding a five-year-old gift certificate to a bookstore. Which brings me to why I couldn’t get to the bookstore on Valentine’s Day.

See, I’d like to go see if my gift cert is still valid, but I may run into some cutesy couple at the store reading a book together.

“Are you ready to turn the page, sweetie?” he’ll ask.

“Yes, dear,” she’ll reply.

“Can I turn it then, sweetie?” he’ll continue.

“Yes, dear,” she’ll smile.

“Good, because I couldn’t bear if you got a paper cut.” he’ll say with as much concern as to sound genuine and not like some guy that figures he should at least get a blowjob today.

And they’ll smile.

Nope. No bookstore for me!

I’ll just stay indoors, because I’d have to kill said couple, get sent to prison and be paired up with my new cellmate, Big Bertha, who undoubtedly make me her bitch and I will have to smuggle in heart-shaped candies (Ouch) this time next year because she’ll like Valentines Day, as she has been programmed to do.

Personally, I blame Disney and Hallmark.

“Eff you Disney and Hallmark!” I say aloud to no one in particular, which reminds me I need to stop talking to myself, because my cat obviously doesn’t care.

So this Valentine’s Day I poured some Pinot, ate some Popcorn (and while the ‘P’s don’t make it right, it makes me happy) and I settled in to watch some DVR’d episodes of CSI.

It’s the one where the CSI gang finds the old lady three days dead in her kitchen being eaten by her cats. I shut off the TV.

It’s official. I know when I’m beat. The universe is against me. Time to put an end to this day, I shake out two sleeping pills, “Oh, no I’m not gonna be a third wheel in my own bed.” I think to myself, because the cat still couldn’t care less, plus now I know he’ll eat me if it comes down to it.

I put one pill back in the bottle to truly make it a pair: Just my sleeping pill and me. Because  pharmaceutical drugs are the only way to ward off VDs.

Big Time Gap

Here’s the deal fuck-o.

You made a big boy decision when you decided after three months of dating to abruptly stop- that I figured out after about three weeks of you not calling or returning calls for that matter. Yeah, that shit hurt and came further from the left then a radical. According to you, I did everything “right” yet still got screwed and not laid. But that was months ago.

So popping up on my IM 90 days later and wanting to meet up, wasn’t to help me, but to aid you in the stupid choice you made. A choice made…months ago.

You say you wanted to get back in touch to be my friend because we always had “great convos” and I’m an “awesome person” and “Uh…by-the-way, I’m free on Saturday nights”. Seriously? You daft bastard.

Playa please! I’d say thank you for the niceties but 1, you’re picking at a healing wound you caused and 2, in thanks to the unprompted full disclosure you tell me the new woman in your life that you have this “amazing unprecedented connection” with lives in Dallas. That’s some convenient shit for keeping in touch, asshole.

Not to mention you sign off saying you’re going to have your standing dinner date with someone on Skype. You can’t even call her your ‘Girlfriend’! Real nice, dick. I’m sure you’re doing her real proud!

F.Y.I.: this mindfuck isn’t sexy and neither is an open relationship.

Hey Jerkwad, if I’m so fan-fuckin-tastic what do you need her for? And for that matter if she’s so great what do you need from me?! I need a real man that understands I’m a real woman that knows just who I am. I’m impressively magnificent and I am not to be toyed with.

So here’s for the cheap seats: Piss off, fuck off you fucking fuck, go-to-hell wearing gasoline boxers, which is something I should have told you months ago.

Published in: on 12/10/2009 at 15:35  Leave a Comment  
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Even City Girls Cry

There’s only so many times one can play “I Will Survive,” isn’t there?  I mean, statistically, it must be in heavy rotation given the amount of Karaoke bars and breakups in a 25-mile radius.

Hearing it is as horrible as singing it, sorry Gloria Gaynor but it’s true. It’s akin to what college kids have done to every song by Bob Marley.

But here I sit, after yet another breakup, playing the obligatory song while wearing the uniform of the depressed; sweats. Pretty, it ain’t. Maybe it’s time to fully embrace my spinsterhood? Go out a buy some odd number of cats and begin yelling at neighborhood kids while owning a stunning collection of mumus.

I think the transition of city gal, living on a diet of olives, martinis, parties and men, to a full-blown spinster would most effect my fantastic collection of shoes. I don’t know many spinsters with hot pink chromed heel Steve Madden’s. And seriously, I can’t donate stilettos.  It’s like petting a cat backwards against its fur, a crime against nature.

For those of you missing the point, I’m not bitter, I’m just alone. So how do I get out of this rut? I figured I’d try to dive into something, like taking up running. But I’m sure Jimmy Choo doesn’t make a rumming shoe. Maybe I could becoming a health nut or join a book club or start knitting? But nope, nada, niet. The desire just isn’t there.

While at times I’m content being the third or fifth wheel. The extra ticket friend. But, whether its pity or friendship, it does bite even if its just a little.

Now I think about it, the only stable and consistent relationship I’m having is with the video store guy. He saves the new releases and suggests movies. He’s very thoughtful, very cute and very young. I give him my mood and he has the answer. Oddly so does the guy that owns the local liquor store.

But it’s cool. Don’t worry about me. Because you’d think  “I’d crumble, you think I’d lay down and die? Oh no, not I-I will survive.”

Hey, what can I say; it’s clichéd for a reason.

Wrong Squared

The old adage of ‘One Good Turn Deserves Another’ pretty much means: someone does you a favor, you should do a favor for that person in return and also holds true in the world of dating.

How? Well, let me explain.

I met a young boy a few months ago. After the first quick meeting at a fast food spot and after a few tacky text messages, I thought it best to nip this it in the bud. Cute can only get you so far. It was going nowhere, and that’s OK. We had no dates and no real conversations so nothing to lose but his poorly worded sexually suggestive text messages and plentiful exclamation marks.  (u fo’sho sexy, yo!!!)

After weeks of no contact I forgot about Sir Wordsmith and figure it was over. Whew, that was painless, I thought. Well, at least I thought.

A few days ago I get a picture on my phone. It’s of a penis. And what I could only assume was his penis. And his attempt of an erect penis at that. I let this go for a day or so, when another text arrives, “yo whut u doin? git my pic?”

I say, “Um, yeah. Not my thing. I’m on a lunch date and I think its best we stop talking and texting, sorry.” And yes I write full sentences on texts, stop hatin’.

And for my pleasantries, what do I get?

“If you’re still dating at your age, maybe you should get a dog. Sorry.”

Was I mad, no. I was so proud! A text, full of commas and periods; it was an actual sentence. At least he learned something from the GED, he no doubt used to get that part-time job, which has rewarded him in some way!

But I have to admit, I was stunned and not by the lack of the respect and penis size. Is there a zoom on this camera-phone? But since when did a woman of, er, um…30-something mean spinster and warranted a dog? He couldn’t even get the cliched old lady with cats thing correct.

But I now understood why he was so immature; “he has yet to learn respect and has a small penis. Double whammy.” Which was the last text I sent.

Two wrongs may not make it right, but it makes it even.

Published in: on 11/06/2009 at 01:34  Comments (9)  
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Kissed by Karma

I’ve been bad. Well, not so much bad as not very nice. I’ve been bashing a guy behind his back. I’ve tried and tried to dig this man because on paper he’s perfect! He’s very tall, very handsome, never been married, no kids and holding a Doctorate while making 6 figures. And a smile that would melt hard candy. Oh, the kicker: he’s about as much fun as watching paint dry. He’s Dr. McBoring. All my friends agreed he’s socially retarded. And I thought I would be my job to try and bring the fun forth!

“Well, I’m fun. I do plenty of fun activities.” He would proclaim.  Which would be great if he was and he did but he isn’t and he doesn’t.

And speaking of speaking: “Well, maybe I should visit more eclectic establishments.” I swear he talked just like that! Then I realized that anyone that answers the question, “Whatcha up to?” and says, “I’m at the department store trying to find the customer service representative in order to exchange an item I purchased last week.” Just isn’t the guy for me. It was a matter of time before words like per se and prudent would escape the overly verbose Dr. McBoring since he once told me: “You’re logic is flawed”. It may have been but who talks like that?!

As the months and dates progressed I began to worry that he was a male succubus sent to suck the fun from me. I was worried for my fun-soul. In the efforts of self-preservation I began to pull back, literally.

He was interested in kissing after dates. I would do the turn the cheek move but you can only do that twice. Then I moved to the pre-emptive kiss, whereas I would give him a kiss on the cheek goodnight, but once again only a few times can you pull this move. So I began to get creative. Sore throats, horrid sounding coughs and the like.
On the last date he tried once again to give me a kiss. The only thing I could think of was, “Sorry, I have a cold sore.” Yep. I would rather he think I had an active case of the herpes simplex virus than to kiss him.

Here where I’ve learned a thing or two about Karma. A few weeks later, after using my cousin’s lipstick, I got the biggest cold sore on my bottom lip. It was hideously enormous. I had to hide out for a week!

Karma kissed me on my lips for being mean.

Published in: on 11/04/2009 at 18:04  Comments (3)  
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Quickie-Mart

There are many many things I am thankful for:
Breathable Air, Cell Phones with Bluetooth, Steve Madden boots, and PassionFruit flavored Vodka. But it wasn’t until I went with my friend to the local drug store because she needed a pregnancy test, that I knew I had to expand my list.

And also it started me thinking that when folks say they need to make “a quick stop” to pay attention to my Spidey-Senses.

Walking behind someone heading down the never-ending highly brighten aisle of “all-that-is-baby” was surreal. She walked as if on a catwalk with a straight back and head held high as she passed the baby bibs, baby bottles, baby toys and baby blankets. She even passed a baby in the shopping basket.

We finally approached the early pregnancy tests, which is oddly next to the condoms, gels and lubricants. All I gotta say is, “You never know which end of the aisle you’ll end up walking down.”

Depending on how you entered the aisle you’re faced with either all the fun before your luck runs out and the baby arrives or all the baby stuff ending with the stuff that got you the baby in the first place.

I thought it strange she priced checked and went with the mid-priced kit. At least she didn’t get it from the $1 store. I grabbed a diet soda and held her hand.

We had to leave, we didn’t pay the meter, because, well…we were just making a quick stop.

Published in: on 10/29/2009 at 15:22  Leave a Comment  
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Sensationally Single Shower

I propose a sensationally single shower for me.

All my newly married and/or ‘in-the-family-way’ friends can give me stuff for remaining single and not knocked-up.

I will be registered at DSW, Whisky Bar and Tiffany’s.

Date to be announced.

Published in: on 10/28/2009 at 17:39  Comments (2)  
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Exs Wanting To Be Facebook Friends

Well, Damn!

How dare you send me a freakin passive aggressive “friend request” on fuckin’ Facebook. You wanna be my friend? Really?! You weaselly asshole!

You didn’t seem to give a good Goddamn or a single solitary fuck about what happen to me after you unceremoniously dumped me after months of a relationship and after you watched me cook your ass dinner. Your actions were unwarranted, unfair, unkind, thoughtless and terrible. Those are some great friend qualities, prick.

Sure, a few months ago, I was pleasant when you popped up on my Yahoo IM, with a ‘hey! how ya been’ nearly a year after the fact. And yes, I wanted to know What-the-Fuck and grill your ass like a summer BBQ but I didn’t. By the way, thanks for that mindfuck in the middle of my day. Given your past scumbag actions it wasn’t the biggest surprise that you dis-fuckin-appeared after said chat. Douche!

As a grown ass woman I understand the answer doesn’t change the fact we are not together. And I can move forward, happy in the knowledge I’ve haven’t seen your damn lame ass since and probably wouldn’t, until now.

A Facebook request? This, you fuckwit, is too much.

Guess what? Mr. **** *** ******, mutha fucka. I’ll click ‘accept’ rather than ‘ignore’ for your sorry ass “friend” request if only to write this on your glorious Wall:

Fuck Right The Hell Off You Godamn Soulless Triffilin’-ass Bastard.

Then delete you.

(Exs Wanting to be Facebook Friends)

Published in: on 10/28/2009 at 17:00  Comments (2)  
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