Mum’s The Word

I won’t be posting here about my separation any more. That Canadian Boy I Married has been reading here and I’m not comfortable with that.

Expect content to be thin or nonexistent for the next little while because if I can’t talk about the most important thing that’s going on in my life right now, I’m not going to be able to talk about much of anything.

Whatever You Do, Don’t Call It Ginger

I have an unhealthy obsession with all things Buffy.

I also have a major thing for Willow. I lovee her nerdy sexiness (or is it sexy nerdiness?). I love her loyalty. But most of all, I love her hair. (Note: If you are a redhead, I will most likely be a little in love with you. I may also secretly want to cut off all your hair and make myself a wig.)

Whenever my life turns itself upside down, I do something drastic to my hair. Last time, I cut it all off. I looked godawful so I’m not going to do it again. I would, however, like to have red hair. Willow-red hair. I do not have the money to go to a salon, though, so I need advice: What is the best way to get my hair red like that? My regular hair colour is brown with natural dark red highlights (and a bit of grey, if I’m being completely honest).

Do I need to go down to Sally’s Beauty Supply or is there a colour I can buy at the drugstore? I have tried all the L’Oreal Feria red shades and I’ve tried henna. Henna, for the record, is nasty. It also did nothing for my colour.

I need your help, internets. Please don’t let me down.

And Just Like That…

When you’re married to someone who is all business, no emotion and you both start to talk about separating, perhaps divorcing, what you get in your email two hours later is a listing of sources for food stamps, Section 8 housing and welfare. You also get information on filing for divorce, a child support worksheet and are told that he’s already spoken to his friend about renting a room from him.

Helpful. Cold as all fuck, but helpful.

I said what you wanted to hear
And what I wanted to say
So I will take it back
Are all the dishes intact?
Let them be broken, broken

It’s easy to be
Easy and free
When it doesn’t mean anything
You remain selfless, cold and
composed

You’ve done me no favor
To call and be nice
Telling me I
Can take anything I like
You don’t owe me to be so
polite
You’ve done no wrong
You’ve done no wrong
Get out of my sight

Come on baby now throw me
A right to the chin
Don’t just stare like
You never cared
I know you did
But you just smile
Like a bank teller
Blankly telling me
Have a nice life
Come on baby now
Throw me a right
To the chin
Just one sign that could
Show me that you give a shit
But you just smile politely
And I grow weaker and I
Said what you wanted to hear
And what I wanted to say
So I will take it back

It’s easy to be
Easy and free
When it doesn’t mean anything
You remain selfless, cold and
composed

A Quaker Couch

I was raised a Quaker, which meant Sundays were long, what with Meeting at 11 a.m. and a pot luck lunch following on from that. If it were monthly Meeting, when they met after lunch to do the financial thing, we would often be at church until 3 or 4 in the afternoon.

My church met in an old Victorian home on the West side of Worcester, MA. I usually would go to Sunday school rather than Meeting, but often there was no one there to teach us (apparently, Quakers can be a bit lax about arranging things like that. Either that or our Sunday school teacher was a flake.) so we’d be left to our own devices. Five or six kids allowed to roam a massive Victorian – what could possibly go wrong?

Actually, nothing ever did. Sometimes we’d help Stella in the kitchen, getting the table ready for lunch and doing minor chores for her. Sometimes we’d run down to the carriage house and play there. And then one day, we discovered the library on the second floor.

Oh how I loved that library. It wasn’t very big, but it had glass-fronted bookcases that were stuffed full of old books. On the days when I was the only kid there, I’d happily dash up there, take out a book and curl up on the couch in the room.

The couch was an old Victorian monstrosity, carved walnut and gold brocade and horsehair stuffing. It sat under the window, where the sun streamed in, making it a perfect reading spot. It was a bit poky, being somewhat sprung, but there was a green velvety throw that was always slung over the back and that could be used to alleviate some of the pokiness of the seat. When it was cold, I’d wrap the throw around me and pretend to be Beth, from Little Women, languishing on her sickbed.

Sometimes I’d bring my doll and kneel on the faded Turkish carpet in front of the couch, acting out little domestic dramas by myself. Other times, I’d lie on it, watching the sun coming thru the leaves of the trees outside. On rainy days, I’d sometimes nap there. But mostly, I read. Alice In Wonderland, The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, Rebecca’s War, Island of the Blue Dolphins. I’d always come back to Little Women, though. I must have read that book ten or fifteen times on that couch alone.

I vividly remember sitting on that couch with Heleneke, listening to the little transistor radio I’d snuck in. She perched on the wooden arm of the couch and I knelt, radio in hand, trying to pick up the signal with the wonky antenna. We were trying to listen to K.C. Kasem’s American Top 40.  We were thrilled when “Life’s Been Good” by Joe Walsh came on. We both bounced with excitement, popping a few more springs in the process.

I often wonder what happened to that couch. I know what happened to that copy of Little Women – it’s in my bookcase right now.

This was done as a writing exercise, originally posted on Adventures in Babywearing. For more couch posts, go check her out.

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Disjointed

Both of my kids are sick today. The Bug started puking in the middle of the night and Boo has a nasty-sounding cough. I think I got about an hour and a half of sleep.

That Canadian Boy I Married refused to go in a bit late so I could run to the market for a few things – we’re out of milk and I wanted to get some Saltines and applesauce; typical sick day food. So later, I’m going to have to go myself, taking them both with me. Hopefully The Bug won’t puke while we’re out.

He’s mad because I slept (or, rather, dozed between bouts of puking) on the couch last night.

Boo was crabby and didn’t give him a kiss goodbye this morning. Of course, as soon as he walked away, she wanted one but he refused and walked out the door, leaving her crying.

I just don’t think this is going to work. I don’t think he likes us, any of us, that much any more and I’m not sure that I like him either. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I do like him, sometimes, I just don’t think I can live with him any more. I don’t think he’s going to change that innate selfishness he has going on; I just don’t think he’s capable of it. I don’t think he even realizes that he does it. The fact that I have to ask him for these things, like going in half an hour late so I can run to the market without two sick kids in tow, and the fact that he refuses, doesn’t indicate that he’s willing or able of changing that aspect. Plus, I’ve become so ingrained in my attitudes that I’m not sure I can change either. I don’t talk to him about anything anymore, mainly because when I used to he either didn’t listen or didn’t remember it. He seemed disinterested, too wrapped up in his own thing, so I stopped bothering. I should have tried harder. I could have made more of an effort instead of retreating inside my own head.

I think about living on my own all the time. I fantasize about it the way some people fantasize about winning the lottery. It still makes me sad to think about this ending. We’ve been married for nearly ten years, not an inconsiderable amount of time.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, where I’m going to live, if this ends. I don’t even have a job right now, nor do I have any prospects of getting one any time soon. My credit history sucks and finding an apartment is going to be difficult.

He did say that he wanted me to find some books that might help us work on this, so perhaps all is not lost. The problem is I don’t even know where to begin. Most of the stuff I saw online was pretty Christian-based and neither of us are religious. At all.

If any of you have any suggestions for books, I’d love to have them. I’m floundering over here.

When All Else Fails, Steal

I don’t really have an update on the situation with That Canadian Boy I Married. I’ve had a headache for weeks, I’ve had a sick kid on my hands for a couple of days now (puke…sweet baby Jeebus on Melba toast, I hate puke) and I’m in a total fog most of the time.

So I stole this from Where Am I Going And Why Am I In This Handbasket?

What was…

The first blog you ever read?

The first album you ever bought?

The first car you ever drove?

What is…

The scariest movie you’ve ever seen?

Stressing you out the most right now?

One of your most vivid childhood memories?

Also, what are you having for dinner tonight? I need ideas.

State Of The Union

Sunday we’re supposed to have a state of the union conversation. We started last Thursday, talking about some of the things that have been going on, issues we’re having with each other – because I’m hardly blameless in this – and decided that setting aside a block of time on this weekend would be a very good idea.

I’m kind of freaking out. I just don’t know what I want, from him, from me, from the marriage. It’s all hugely confusing and when I try to think about it, my mind starts doing that curl-in-a-ball-and-rock-back-and-forth thing. He says he just wants to sort things out, decide if we have enough in common to keep this going or not, to talk about what we like about each other, what we think needs to be changed and what things aren’t going to change no matter what (his love of sports, my love of being left the fuck alone). It all sounds reasonable and right but it’s making my stomach hurt and my head ache and I find myself weeping over stupid things.

I asked him  how his parents did it – they’ve been married for over 30 years, so they must be doing something right. His answer? “My dad hung out at the Legion every night, drinking with his friends and my mom stayed home because she didn’t like doing that. Their marriage sucked when I was a kid and didn’t get better until my dad started going away for work for two or three months at a stretch.”  *Cue Jaws music* My response, before I could even think was “Well, the apple didn’t fall far from that tree.”

So, yeah. I have no clue what’s going to happen on Sunday, but I feel pretty sure I’m going to need a large, stiff drink when it’s all said and done.