Category Archives: Love & Marriage

Today Is Tuesday

June 13, 2006Love & Marriage, Recipes, TravelMush

In which I fuss for awhile, but then there’s a recipe at the end so it might just be worth your time.

We’re leaving on Thursday.

I slept in this morning because there was no reason not to, and because I sleep a lot when I’m stressed out — it’s my preferred coping mechanism, and I figure it’s better than booze or pot, yeah? This fucking go-to-Indiana-and-sell-roofs gig is stressing me out. Not only in and of itself — I’d never apply for a construction sales position if I saw it in the paper — but in tandem with our fairly fucked up financial situation it’s just got me off my center.

Bread picked at me for sleeping so much, so naturally I picked right back at him about other stupid shit. Before it blossomed into a full-fledged fight, we silently agreed to attack the house instead. Dishes, garbage, sweeping, laundry. It was a frenzy of domestic activity. The dogs couldn’t figure out where to lie down to escape our cleaning wrath and finally went outside to get away from us.

We met on the porch and had a nice talk. He said he’s stressed about money but the whole point is to go and work hard and make some, and that overall he feels good about the gig. I said I hate sales and have no construction experience and am worried about hating the job, or worse, totally sucking at it. He told me I’m personable and smarter than anybody else going. (How cute is that?!) Of course, ‘smart’ isn’t always the necessary ingredient. There’s lots of things I suck at that so-called less intelligent folk excel at. Sales, for instance. *rolleyes*

I once spent a summer canvassing for the Oregon Public Interest Research Group. I showed up at OSPIRG in the morning, attended the daily meeting, got my clipboard, and was dropped off in some nice neighborhood in Portland. I spent the morning knocking on doors, informing citizens of whatever OSPIRG thought they should know, and soliciting donations. Lunch. Then an afternoon of the same.

IT WAS THE WORST FUCKING JOB EVER. Ever. EVER. My feet hurt, my tummy hurt from nervousness, and I never once made quota. I really wanted to like it because it was good work, but I didn’t. I quit in a month. I can stand on stage and sing in front of ten thousand people, but that job? Would have given me an ulcer if I’d made myself keep doing it. I get some weird variant of stage fright knocking on stranger’s doors. I’ll chat your pants off if I meet you in a bar, but I’m chicken to knock on your door and offer you something I believe in or that I know you want and need. It’s just how I’m built.

Anyway.

Bread’s truck is leaking oil and coolant. We can either take it and fill it full of oil and anti-freeze at every gas stop, or we can put tires on the jeep and take it instead. Bread hates the jeep because it’s too small and sitting in it for extended periods aggravates his back, plus it’ll look stupid with ladders bungee’d to the luggage racks and it’s ugly and rusty compared to his nice big late model truck. It gets great gas mileage, though, and the A/C rocks.

His truck is big and attractive and looks professional and he’s already put the ladder rack on it, and it’s much more comfortable and will haul more stuff… but it’s expensive to operate. And it’s leaking like a sieve. And none of the local shops can fix it in time. Plus fixing it would take money we don’t even have. And the A/C needs to be charged.

So I made breakfast at about two o’clock this afternoon. Hash browns, scrambled eggs, veggie sausage, gravy. Kind of a variation on that breakfast casserole people make with real sausage and a can of cheese soup. “God damn!” I said, licking the whisk. “I’m a veggie gravy-makin’ genius!”

Bread said, “You do make good gravy!” And coming from an inveterate meat eater, that’s a high compliment!

So here’s how I make vegetarian gravy, yo. My secret ingredients are paprika, prepared mustard, and soy sauce. I know, I know, it sounds weird but it totally works. Plus my gravy? Never lumpy.

Mush’s Kick Ass Vegetarian Gravy

Great over breakfast, or mashed potatoes, or whatever you’d put gravy on.

2 T. butter
2 T. flour
1 c. hot water
1/2 c. milk
1/4 tsp. each: paprika, dill weed, basil, oregano, parsley
1/3 cube Knorr vegetable bullion
1/4 tsp. prepared yellow mustard
dash tamari or soy sauce
salt & pepper to taste

In a medium sauce pan over medium flame, thoroughly whisk the butter and flour together. Let it cook until bubbly and golden.

Mix hot water and milk together (to take the chill off the milk) and add it to the roux along with the bullion cube. Whisk until the gravy comes to a simmer and starts to thicken. Reduce heat slightly.

Add spices and whisk well. Add the mustard and tamari, and salt & pepper to taste.

Serves 2-4.

Cheer the Fuck Down, Already

June 7, 2006Love & MarriageMush

In which I hate — with a passion incandescent — morning, morning people, and everything having to do with either. (Behold my bitchiness unfettered!)

Bread invited me to go to bed with him at about ten last night. Since I’m a grown woman and dislike being put to bed like a child, I said I’d be there in a bit. When I felt like it.

I require a certain amount of space. Private, personal, alone space, and I haven’t been alone for weeks. He’s always there and I haven’t been home by myself in too long. And since I know it’s gonna be far worse in Indiana, I decided to hang out alone for a bit. I stayed up until twelve, alone, by myself. Then I went to bed, where Bread was hogging the sheets and wouldn’t get out of the middle of the damned bed and was twitching and snoring. The third time he woke me up, I moved to the office daybed and crashed out in peace.

This morning, a good fifteen minutes before my alarm went off, Bread was at me to get up, get a move on, let’s get going. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and loud and fucking disgustingly, irritatingly cheerful.

God save me from morning people. Why can’t I have a somber “Get up, it’s 7:45”? Why the bouncing and cheeriness and loudness?

He’s in pre-trip mode, all excited like we’re going on vacation. Which we’re not. We’re going to work. Sales, for chrissake. This is so not a vacation.

He just took away 15 minutes of sleep from me, and naturally I was grouchy and grumpy and rude and he knows better. I told him to fuck off and go away.

Then he had the nerve to get all up in my shit. “This isn’t how you’re going to be in Indianapolis, is it? Because this shit isn’t gonna fly! You’ll have to get up early and we’ll be working long hours and–”

Blah motherfucking patronizing blah.

The man is five years younger than I am, and he had the nerve to fucking stand there and lecture me about getting up like he was my father. In other words, I was awake less than two whole minutes before I was consumed with a fiery rage so bright I had to close my eyes and actually think about breathing. If he’d just told me what time it was and left the room, I could have waited for my alarm to go off, pressed snooze once, and gotten up. Like a normal goddamned night person. But no, it went like this:

He quit talking and left the room. Then he came back a couple minutes later. “Oh come on, Michelle! Get up! We have to drop my truck off at Haney’s then go to borrow my mom’s then I have to meet Steve for coffee and –”

And my ALARM hadn’t even GONE OFF YET. There was no reason for anyone to be saying anything to me yet. My day HAD NOT YET STARTED.

“Shut up,” I said. “I am lying here, breathing, waiting until I can get up without saying something to you that I will always regret. Go away, for the love of God. I’ll get up in a minute. I swear.” Aren’t I good? I did not say, GET THE FUCKING HELL AWAY FROM ME YOU FREAKISH MORNING PERSON! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!

He made some grumpy well-you’re-a-fucking-bitch noise and left the doorway, but he came back 45 seconds later! Which part of GET AWAY FROM ME BECAUSE I’M INCREDIBLY MAD confused him? I was so mad I could just barely deal, but then he had to open his mouth and start fucking talking again. “Can I just say something while you lie there all pissed off?” he said.

Oh God, no. Please. Just go the fuck away. Let me get up, get showered. I hate you so much right now I’m about to pop an artery! Fuck the hell off, man!

“Yes,” I said, in the sweetest voice I have. “Please do.” It was either that or murder him with my bare hands, and he’s big.

“I’m leaving at 8:30, no matter what!”

“Fine. Thank you. I understand.” Just get the fuck away from me before we get a fucking divorce, you moron!

He left the room and I breathed and said my mantra in my head. When my heart rate was normal and my skin was no longer hot, I got up and took a shower. Then I got dressed. I collected the items I needed for the day.

I was standing by the door ready to go at fucking 8:29 A-fucking-M.

Yes, I’m an impossible bitch in the morning. I know that. He knows that. He also knows that nagging me, cornering me, bitching at me, and worst of all, lecturing me before I’ve had coffee? Is a Bad Idea, and he did it anyway.

And I? am a fucking saint. I held my tongue and was in the truck at 8:30 like he wanted.

I hate being apoplectic before coffee. Seriously. It’s just not healthy.

In other news, I got our new laptop via DHL, so that cheered me right up!

Saturdays Are For Recovering

June 3, 2006Finance, Love & Marriage, SocialMush

In which I learn a valuable lesson about stress and partnership, and a Friday that goes all the way into Saturday morning!

After work last night, I went and had that nice cold cocktail. Yum. Then I jumped into the BBT and drove myself home, windows down, NPR on the radio. Friday! The weekend! Yes!

I decided to go through the mail immediately when I walked in the door. I’d been intending to do it for two weeks, and there was a massive pile of it on the laundry table that I’d been studiously ignoring. I figured if I left it, it would continue to not get done.

Bread came in and we had our usual ‘how was your day?’ conversation. He helped me sort the actual mail from the garbage. [We get mail by the metric ton these days, I swear to God. I even opted out a few years ago, but someone seems to have bought us subscriptions to Consumer Reports and Atlantic Monthly magazines and now we’re back on all the lists. It’s a nasty waste, all that paper.] When I found the bills, I opened them up and added the couple I’d missed to my spreadsheet and showed it to Bread.

“So what’s this?” he asked, reading.

“The bills. The money we need.”

“Hrm. Well, here’s a start,” he said, and handed me a hundred dollar bill. “The mortgage is paid?”

“Yup. This list is just bills, though, no food or gas or smokes or anything!”

“Uh, yeah, I see that.” He grinned at me. “Quit stressing! It’s not even as bad as I’d thought. I’ll handle it. Now, wanna go have a cocktail at the Hideaway?”

And that was it. Gorgeous was right. She’d told me the day before to share the burden with my partner, that that’s what they’re for. So I did, and he said he’d handle it, and he will because that’s what he does. And now I’m not freaked about it any more.

The man actually laughed at me. I’d gotten myself all worked up about it, had been mulling it over for days and days… you see, I do all the bookkeeping: I open the mail, I write all the checks, I pay all the bills. Naturally I have something of a running total in my head, and so I start stressing much earlier than necessary… I think the man actually found it amusing that I’d gotten into a funk about money.

Bastard. (This is the man who has said to me on more than one occasion, “If you’re worried about money, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You can always get more money.”)

Then we went right back to town. We parked at BoSe’s house, walked through the incredibly packed ‘downtown’ area of Fairfield. (It was Art Walk with some kind of Italian Days theme. The square was SRO and there was no parking anywhere.) We had drinks at the Hideaway and started passing out invitations to the barn party. Bread spoke with BoSe a couple of times. Eventually we were tipsy and hungry so we went in search of food.

Every restaurant on the square was SRO. I decided I wanted Los Portales, so we walked over. They were closed. At 8:31 on a Friday night. I was starving and hot and pissed off and nagged Bread into walking two more blocks to University Amoco, which has a new Mexican restaurant called Guadelejara in it. ALSO CLOSED. By then I was hot, pissed off, and my feet hurt ’cause I wasn’t wearing walking shoes. I monstered on Bread a little. He asked me why the hell I was taking my shit out on him, and I said, “What the fuck! You do it to me all the time!” and started marching back up Second street.

We ended up at Torino’s. They’ve updated their menu, so I had ‘manicotti’ and a side salad. It wasn’t brilliant, but it wasn’t pizza either. After that, I felt so much better.

We went next door to the Dead Cock and stayed there partying until one in the morning. Well, Bread left at one — we had a fight in the parking lot first, of course — I stayed and closed the bar. Ray had a little after-hours at her house; we left the bar right after last call and did a whirlwind tidying-up at her place. (It wasn’t dirty. She’d said it was a sty, but basically all we did was tidy things up, take out the trash, and light incense!) It was a fairly small after-hours; bigger than she’d wanted or expected, but not huge. I tried to crash a couple of times but both times she came and found me and asked me what I was doing!

Around four, she told the few remaining stragglers that she was going to bed and threw them out. Then she and I settled for some girl talk, but I basically fell asleep on one of her kids’ bunkbeds. I can’t do that all night shit very well any more.

She woke me up at eight. (Groan.) I sat in her kitchen trying to wake up while she chatted cheerfully about her kids and family and sucked down three cups of black coffee in less that eight minutes. (Ray is so fucking cool.) Then we hopped in her new car — she traded in that monstrous grocery getter for a late 90’s Saab — made a deposit at my bank and headed out of town.

She dropped me off at home before nine, then headed for Ottumwa to pick her man up. I fed the dogs, grabbed the Frapuccinos I’d bought and a glass of ice and headed for the bedroom. My man was sleeping, so I stripped and got in with him. He woke up, we, ah, ‘greeted’ each other, nudge nudge wink wink, then he got up and I went to sleep.

I got up at two, put on a bikini, made tostadas, lounged on the porch in the sun. Ray threatened to swing back by on her way back from Ottumwa tonight. Other than that, no plans. Maybe clean the barn. Go swimming. Eh. It’s Saturday, I don’t have to do shit if I don’t want to! Yay!

Hey! I might survive!

May 18, 2006Health, Love & MarriageMush

In which I seem to be recovering.

I feel better today. Seriously! I’ve been awake for a few hours now, in a row. I told work I might even be in later, but we’ll see.

And no, I’m not going to get my tonsils hacked out. It takes ten to twenty days to recover from that shit, did you know that? TEN to TWENTY DAYS. And after ten to fourteen days, the scabs come off and if the bleeding doesn’t stop by itself? Emergency cauterization surgery! So, like, fuck that running.

Bread sat at my desk and read all the posts on my index page this morning (he’s been to goblinbox maybe five times in the ~~seven~~ eight (!) years we’ve been together), while I lounged on the day bed in a pile of dogs, and he actually laughed out loud several times. “See, I told you I’m funny!” I said proudly. Then he took that National Geographic survey and only missed two. Two!

“I suppose I’ll never hear the end of it,” I said. “You’re gonna go ’round thinkin’ you’re smarter than me now.”

He laughed. “Who doesn’t know that Italy’s shaped like a boot! Jesus, Mush!”

Insufferable bastard.

Late For Dinner

May 2, 2006Geek, Love & MarriageMush

In which I’m incredibly rude.

Last night I stayed late after work, moving goblinbox.com to its new server. Bread called and wanted to meet for a drink and then dinner. I said I’d be right there… then I got distracted fucking around with this or that thing. I finally realized what time it was — forty-five minutes later — and ran out to the jeep, and Bread was there and boy was he PISSED ALL THE WAY OFF AT ME.

I so deserved it.

We drove to a restaurant for pizza in our seperate rigs. When we were seated, I apologized furiously for being so late. I’m a geek who needs to watch the time.

In other news, I’m totally moved to the new box but Keef wants me to wait ’til the new DNS server’s working. So the move may not be for another day. Or two. Or three. We’ll see.

Shopping for Mexican

April 30, 2006Domestic Goddess, Love & Marriage, SocialMush

In which we prepare for Friday’s par-tay.

Saturday Bread and I went to town and had McDonald’s for breakfast. I know, I know. Don’t say anything.

Then we went to the vet’s and bought Frontline for the animals. Then we bought kibbles for the animals. Hundred and ten bucks right there. (Next time, we’re getting gerbils. I swear to God, three dogs and a cat’s a habit more expensive than drugs.) Then home.

I had a lunch date with NLW at noon-thirty, but I was totally late and the poor woman was starving when I got there. She fed me spinach pesto and we drank the six dollar bottle of wine I’d brought. Somehow during the course of the afternoon I spent sixty bucks on yarn, needles, and a pattern — I’ll be knitting this in a week or so. My first sweater! Hopefully starting it in May will mean I’ll actually be wearing it by next winter. (I’m still knitting the Fuzzyfeet my mother requested last Thanksgiving.)

I stopped at the store for a few things afterward and was home a little after five. Bread talked me into going back to town for the third time that day, and we ate dinner at the Dead Cock. It was slow in there, mellow and quiet. We watched South Park and went home.

Today I slept ’til ten. (Yes!) When I got up, Bread was doing laundry. Then we went to Nanner’s house, and Bread cooked breakfast. I have no idea why he cooked breakfast; he just did. He made asparagus, tomato, and onion omelettes with hash browns. It was awesome.

Nanner gave me an office chair. When we got home, I cleaned my office and the bedroom and swept the parts of the second storey that aren’t actually under construction. Bread brought my new chair in. IT ROLLS. I love it. It’s a totally legit office chair! It has arm rests and it’s adjustable and everything. It’s possible that I’ve never been happier about a chair in my entire life.

Amazon Blonde and Truck came out; Truck stayed here and AB and I went to ScrOttumwa to do our Cinqo de Mayo shopping at the big goddamned community-killer they call Super Wal-Mart. It’s so fuckin’ cheap I feel dirty — and not in a good way — whenever I go there: we bought a cart full of stuff and it only cost $66. And $22 of that was for the half-gallon of namebrand rum we’d bought!

I know their prices will pop back up to average after they’ve killed all the older, smaller grocery stores in town, but for now? You just can’t get shit cheaper anywhere else. (Plus their Mexican — excuse me, Hispanic — food selection is much broader than any of Fairfield’s stores.)

After shopping, AB and I stopped at the Tom-Tom Tap for cocktails and a gossip. It was lovely. Love the Tom-Tom.

Later, at home, I folded Bread’s laundry (in order to empty the dryer so I could wash and dry my own clothes) and Bread did the dishes. If the fucker’s not careful, I’m going to start believing him soon when he says he’s actually learned to be a decent roommate.

In other news, I had goblinbox moved over to the new server, but then Keef had an interaction with the new server’s support/billing departments that was so scary and wrong it just boded badly for the whole enterprise and he dropped that whole thing like it was hot and got a server elsewhere. So I have to move the whole goddamned site again, but it’s nine o’clock on Sunday night and I ain’t drivin’ to town to do it now, and I sure as hell ain’t doing it over dial-up from home.

In short, there may be outages tomorrow in goblinboxland. But rest assured, my babies, that mamma’ll be workin’ on it.

And All My Clothes Are Clean

March 14, 2006Blurbs, Love & MarriageMush

In which we check in with my weekend… and my marriage.

The weather was gorgeous Saturday. Bread and I went to town and visited the bank to cash his check (he’s working again!) and then we went grocery shopping. We intended to buy food for the weekend.

We spent two hundred dollars.

But OMG were the bloody marys good! Boo-yah! (Absolut Peppar? Jalapeno stuffed olives? Pickled asparagus? TOBASCO DILL PICKLES? So good. I had three.) Bo came out to let his dogs run around; he brought stuff for Jager bombs. We BBQed: marinated tuna steaks, corn on the cob, portabello mushrooms. Garlic bread. I even baked a German chocolate cake.

Naturally I had to nap all afternoon, after so much indulgence. Bread woke me up just before dusk and ravished me, then I got up and he fell asleep. Then the sun went down and the temp dropped like a stone.

I talked on the phone with my bro for an hour or so.

I texted my girlfriends to see if anything was happening. One was out of town, one was home for the evening, another was eating Oreos. So I read for awhile and went back to bed. Talk about a nightlife.

Didn’t do shit on Sunday ‘cept go to band practice. BvB was out sick, so it was just me and the guys. We played for a few hours, broke for dinner, and then spent the rest of the evening watching the telly in PjK’s very comfy living room. We probably won’t practice again until April since half the band will be travelling or working… basically, the rest of March is shot for rock ‘n’ roll.

Yesterday I stayed home and cleaned the house because I couldn’t stand it a second longer. I did six loads of laundry, vacuumed, dusted, tidied (Bread leaves shit laying around all over the place), washed five days’ worth of dishes, made a big ol’ pot of lentil stew, watched a movie about the Funk Brothers, brought a load of kindling down from the barn, and in general slaved my ass off doing menial crap.

The house looks much better. And I was able to dress in all clean clothes this morning!

~+~+~
In other news, we had something of a state of the union talk Friday night. It was brief, but the jist of it was that he wants to know what the fuck I think I want. Since I don’t actually know what the fuck I want, I’m supposed to be thinking about it.

So I am.

I’ve been in a marital funk since last September. I was hoping it was a phase I’d pass out of, but it’s been six months and hasn’t eased. I still don’t know if I want to keep playing house or not, and I seem to have developed an aversion to couplehood. While I love my man it seems I don’t want to constantly be taking another human being’s needs and desires into consideration. I don’t want to share, and I don’t want to be half of something but would rather be a complete something unto myself. I want my own space, my own schedule, my own diet, my own finances, my own autonomy. I’m tired of compromising all the time, of giving and adjusting and reconfiguring myself into shapes I don’t want to be in. He says I’m standoffish and distant. Mostly I just want to be left the hell alone.

I know all you single people think I’m a complete idiot, and I acknowledge that it’s certainly possible. It’s not like I don’t understand the perks of a long-term relationship: cuddling. Laughing. Self-inquiry. Someone who lets me put my cold feet on him! Not having to make the lattes. Companionship. A shared history. Love. Division of labor (well, sort of). All those sweet things are what make me hope I’m just having a rough spot rather than an actual realization.

I can’t help but wonder if I’m like the dogs, always wanting to be on the other side of the door: Let us out! Let us in! Let us out! No, let us in! I spent the majority of my life desperately wanting to find someone, to fall and love and get married, to make a life just like the one I’ve found. But now that I’ve got it? I have fantasies about being alone. Independent. Autonomous. I want to be selfish, I guess. I’m tired of being a mature grownup who gives and compromises.

Ah, it’s not even about compromising, precisely. It comes down to not having anything in common. While we get along well, we love each other, and we’re easy together, we just never have anything to talk about once we exhast the “how was your day” topic. We’re not interested in the same stuff, never have been. He’s not going to grok anything I say about {Internet, musicianship, geekhood, sci-fi, Hinduism, etc.} and I’m not going to grok anything he says about {construction, guns, cars, trucks, bikes, etc.}. We used to fake it, but we’ve been together long enough now that neither of us really tries any more: he starts talking and I glaze over, and vice versa. I go do things he’s interested in but I’m aloof because I really don’t care about {demo derbies/blues concerts/swap meets/gun shows/tool expos}. He tries things I’m interested in once and makes an effort to be polite, but is never willing to do them again because he really doesn’t care about {jazz concerts/book stores/seeing Amma/vegetarian restaurants}. There’s no malice, it’s just that different things make us tick. We want to live differently, eat differently, have different priorities. Just how it is.

While I don’t seem to want what I’ve got, I know it’s good and I don’t want to let go of it. I’m in emotional stasis, and it’s really not fair to him at all. I’m a fantastic roommate, but not much of a wife these days and I bet he’s totally sick of my shit.

It doesn’t escape me that I might just be an idiot, that if I close that door I’ll just want to be on the other side again immediately. Wouldn’t that just serve me right.

On What It Means To Share

February 15, 2006Love & MarriageMush

How long are mid-life crises supposed to last? Because I think I’m still having one.

It started before my birthday last September, my self-styled crisis, and though I’m feeling much better in many ways I’m feeling worse in others.

Well, not worse. I don’t feel bad, exactly. I just don’t give a shit about a whole huge section of my life.

I seem to like best the parts of my life that occur places other than my home.

I like my job, I like my band, I like my local bars and restaurants, I like my friends. I don’t want to go home after visiting any of those places. I get mild baby anxiety symptoms when driving home.

Yes, I just said that: going home makes me anxious. Because I’m clearly in deep denial about things.

Aw, fuck.

I’m hip deep in the seven-year-itch and I’m trying to figure out if I still like being married. Actually, no I’m not – I know I don’t like it right now. What I’m trying to figure out is if my selfish discontent is enough of a reason to kill a perfectly good, took-me-years-to-find, warm and solid relationship.

This is not a fun space to be in. I feel like a total cunt.

I could go on and on and on describing all the shitty, destructive, heartbreaking relationships I went through before I found a man who loved and wanted me, and I could compare and contrast all night, illustrating how hard this relationship rocks. And there’s really nothing wrong with it. My home life is smooth. We laugh every day. We never argue about the things that most couples divorce over because we’re both really laid back.

But. While there’s nothing wrong with my marriage there just isn’t much right with it, either. I’m wondering if this is temporary grass-is-always-greener phase, or if I really am discontented in any kind of meaningful or significant way.

(Someone said something to me the other day, something that really struck me: “I want to be with someone who will make me be more than I am by myself.”

And I asked myself, am I more than I would be alone? And the answer, I think, is no. I’m not. I’m less, because I spend so much of my time caring for him that I end up not caring so much for me.

I don’t know that I believe that being with another person, any other person could ever make a person become more than they are alone. It is an interesting thought-experiment, though.)

It seems I’m tired of giving. Of being required to give, of having agreed to give so much of myself to another person. Tired of having to be pleasant, available, open. I don’t want to talk about my fucking day, I don’t want to cuddle, I don’t want to be propositioned, I don’t even want anybody to be there when I get home. I want to be able to go somewhere, anywhere that is totally and completely MINE and where no one has the right to walk in and expect anything of me without being invited.

I spend a lot of time in my office, but my husband just walks in and bugs me. He’s not trying to bug me, he’s just trying to hang out with his wife — the one who has been ignoring him a great deal for about five months now. But it feels like he’s bugging me, and I’m discovering that it pisses me off that I’ve made decisions that have put me in a position where I have essentially given up my right to be totally autonomous ever again. I’m not a me, I’m a we, and I don’t like it. It’s our house, our life, our world.

I really don’t feel like I have the right to say to him that I want him to stay the fuck out of my room. I mean, this is what I always wanted, right? A life partner. To never be alone. To be known and loved. He’s my husband, my partner, he should be able to ask me for my attention and affection. He deserves.

Sad thing is, apparently I need a great deal more space than he does. He seems to be infinitely capable of sustaining a level of physical and psychic intimacy that makes me feel like I’ve lost my boundaries altogether. And the experiment of the past few years of my marriage has taught me that when I feel like I’ve lost my boundaries altogether? I. Go. Nuts.

I get crazy, depressed. I have these terrifying, awful panic attacks.

Who knew! It turns out I’m really, really good at denial… and all this time I thought I was really in tune with myself!

Christ.

Reading the blogosphere yesterday killed me. All these single folk going on and on about how they wanted intimacy, to belong, to have someone wondering where they were, to have and to hold, yada yada yada. And I’m thinking, What I would give to be alone! To not have to answer to anyone! To schedule my own meals, sleep times, social times! To not be a fucking ‘we’! To be able to make decisions by myself again! Oh God, to control my own life!

But it’s been so long that I don’t know if I really want what I think I want. This could just be a phase, a step of personal evolution. Growing pains. Does anyone really want to be lonely?

I am a pretty selfish person. I’m great at giving when I choose to give, but once I pass a certain line I resent it. I didn’t know this about myself, but after observing the shape of my panic disorder over the past few years I have to acknowledge that it’s true: I didn’t want to know I was selfish, that I resented sharing myself and my space so much, so I internalized it and became sick.

I basically don’t want anyone depending on me. If that’s not the very definition of selfish, I don’t know what is.

Rocking

January 17, 2006Love & MarriageMush

In which I rock.

I’ve rocked myself to sleep for most of my life. It’s a rather violent, whole-body rock, and if I don’t braid my hair it ends up incredibly tangled and snarled and takes twenty minutes to brush out. I’ve always preferred to sleep on mattresses on the floor, in order to avoid having to hear the sound of springs creaking.

I’ve rocked for so long that I can’t remember not doing it. My parents say I started when I was tiny. My father once commented that it was a rather autistic behavior.

When I was a kid, I worried I’d do it in my sleep at slumber parties and be teased for it. When I started sleeping with guys, I worried they’d see me doing it and think I was a weirdo. I’ve always been vaguely embarassed by it because one can’t necessarily control what one does in one’s sleep, but I’ve known a lot of people over the years and my rocking, in the grand scheme of things, really ain’t no thang comparatively.

Everyone I’ve ever slept with for more than a few nights has witnessed me rocking in my sleep. Most ask about it, I explain I’ve always done it, they say it annoys them to have the whole bed sway like that, and that’s that. I could usually manage to not do it for a few nights here and there, but I always did it when sleeping alone.

The first time I lived with someone I was sharing a bed with, I made an effort not to rock at all. I still did it sometimes in my sleep, especially when stressed or sick, but with some discomfort I managed to learn to fall asleep without rocking. It took about six months for me to learn to be able to lie down and just fall asleep while holding perfectly still.

When my first live-in relationship ended, I went back to rocking. I stopped every time I had a live-in boyfriend, and started again when I had my bed back to myself.

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