The Plan: Part 8

Non-Update Update.

It's evident to you that I haven't posting much about my personal life these days. Perhaps you think nothing worth mentioning is going on. There is plenty happening, but it feels very fragile and private. More importantly, it is business that I must conduct on my own, without comment or influence from anyone else. This is my work: to have faith in myself, to substitute no one's judgement for my own, to understand that all my decisions are mine alone and beholden to none.

Enjoy the photos as much as I enjoy posting them. More soon.

The Plan: Part 7

A Short Nothing of a Thing.

The crowd swells around her as they all bottleneck at the bottom of the escalator. It's a ridiculous notion to have single-width escalators from the train platform up to the station, but that's what they've done. Weekend tourists jostle for position with seasoned commuters, and in their combined hesitation, she slips into an opening and rides up.

At the top, she scans the crowd. Good, he isn't here, just as she asked. He was more than willing to meet her train despite the hour, but she had said no, he should finish his work and wait for her at home. She hated to be met at the gate, be it bus, train, or airplane. A person could never be received the way she truly hoped for. Any joy, sweetness, or gratitude at their meeting had to be tempered by the crowd. You couldn't linger in a kiss, or press your bodies for the length they craved without chancing indecency.

She makes her way out to the curb, the taxi stand, into a yellow cab. Her phone rings with his number. "Hello."

"Hi. Where are you?"

"In a cab, on the way."

"Oh, so you got the early train, good. I just filed my report and am a block away from home. I thought we could meet there and then go get some food. There's a good Italian place not far from here."

"Well I'll be there in about twenty minutes, with this this traffic. But can you swing by a grocery store?"

"Sure. Although I have most things at home. What do you want?"

"I don't want to go out."

"Oh. OK."

"I want you to cook me dinner, then take me to bed."

A two-beat pause, then "I can do that for you, Eleanor."

"Good. I'll see you soon." She hangs up. The light changes and the taxi moves on. She leans back, and waits to be delivered to him.

The Plan: Part 6

Friday, Update.

The day has gotten worse. It's too convoluted to into. Basically my day was miserable with car bullshit and it was all unnecessary and all my husband's fault.

Option for tonight: Going Out.
It's rainy.
My throat and palate hurt, like that coldy feeling.
I don't actually like playing music in front of people.
Smokey bar.
Won't actually get much time to hang with friends.
Have to stay up late when I'm already sleep-deprived.
Have to drive at least half hour each way, already spent most of today in the car.
BUT Would get out of house.

Option for tonight: Staying In.
Trapped with husband and child.
BUT Could pull covers over head.

Wish I could Jiffy-Pop and watch movies with a warm kitty in my lap.

Friday Morning Update

What a fucking week and today has not gotten any easier.

Anyway, right, the week. The upshot is that it feels as though I didn't get any progress made on my big goals. Sure, I had ladies over for wine, and cleaned the house, and spent the day at the pumpkin patch yesterday. But when the fuck am I going to get a job? Finish my story and send it out? Get exercise? I spent this morning running between the mechanic and the body shop and the car rental, all because my husband left the gas cap lid and door (broken hinge) on the top of the car and drove off. Getting it all replaced is over $200. More importantly, I'm the one dealing with it, even though he said he would.

I had kick-my-ass yoga last night. Just wanted to take the hot shower and fall asleep. Crawled into bed, but then had to stay up late talking about the marriage. I was clear in therapy: I'm not unwilling to do more work, but it just seems as though there's nothing left to try. So that leaves the husband despairing. I don't feel great either, but if there's anything I need, it's for things to change. We've corrected the bad habits, worked hard on connecting, and really made every effort. And after a period of improvement, we're stagnant.

Anyway, this is a bit ranty and not particularly productive. Tonight I hang out and play music with friends. This weekend is replete with Halloween stuff. In about 10 minutes a friend is joining me here at the leftie coffeehouse. We'll see if I can pull it out at the last minute.

the Plan: Part 5

HNT The Plan: Part 4

Bedside Reading.

These days I'm regularly found curled up in bed, reading The Best American Erotica 2006. Of course one immediately has to ask What am I wearing? No no, the first question is why is it Best of 2006 when 2006 isn't over yet? But I quibble.

This book is one of three erotic anthologies that I own. One is a collection of 5-minute reads. Another has a general 'naked' them. They're alternately tawdry, terse, and sometimes ill-constructed. So what does it say about me that the BAE2006, as pedigreed and well-written as it is, is my least favorite?

Susie Bright, the editor, has made discerning choices. The stories are all high-quality fiction with immediately compelling (or often repelling) characters. Situations feel authentic. What completely amazes me, however, is the variety of these components. Gay construction works buggering each other 21 floors up share the volume with a strand of pearls telling their sordid tale. Like the most intimate and fiendish fucking, there are no constraints to what can happen. No matter your taste, you will find something that pushes your buttons. More likely, however, your less recognizable, more primitive buttons will get jammed too. Hard.

I think that's happened maybe once. The readings intrigue and impress me, but not arouse, at least consistently. Often I muse, "Interesting" then turn out the light and go to sleep. I'll keep trying, though.

The Plan: Part 3

The Plan: Part 2

Right boot.
Right sock.

The Next Plan

I realize you're due to arrive soon.There goes one boot.
Left sock.

Getting the idea that this will test your patience? Good. See you tomorrow.

The Lord Maketh the Mondays to Sucketh.

My husband and I talked last night, after I posted my last entry here.

We feel hopeless about our relationship.
We can't tolerate this misery.
We love each other.
We want the other to be happy.
Neither of us feel any joy anymore.
We fear the process of splitting up and living alone.
We fear continuing this marriage.
We fear for our son.
We fear for our son.
We fear for our son.

**It doesn't help the mood that I have to go grocery shopping and take the boy to the doctor. And the 'check engine' light is on.**

First Star.

Today I yearn. It's intense and pervasive. I'm revved up with nowhere to go. It's isn't simple horniness, which a toy and some privacy could solve. This is different. This is the gut-level emptiness and requisite despair that nothing will change.

I don't want just the orgasm. I want the touch. I want the hair pulling, the grasping fingers, and the frantic gasping for air. I want the fierce. I want the bold. I want unapologetic pushing and pulling and twisting. I want the gratitude of connection when our lips finally meet. I want to feel as though he is as close to eating me as he can get. I want the slurping and greedy drinking from one another.

Today I yearn.

And I despair.

What I want is aeons away from what I have now. Have they built a spaceship to travel that kind of distance? Will I be extinct by the time the aliens play the message, my heartbeat and pulse reduced to grooves on a gold record?

Star light,
Star bright,
First star I see tonight,
I wish I may
I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight. . .

. . .faith
. . .courage
. . .hope.

Unspeakable!

I've already had too little sleep and too much family this weekend. My son's coughing woke me up from a dead sleep last night; the evening's red wine and life worries kept me up. I finally emigrated to the couch with my toys to release some of the stress and jam the reset button, hard.

I concentrated on what the most possibly unspeakable and sordid fantasy could be. What I came up with being teased to the point that I beg to have my ass fucked. Let's face it, sodomy is a patently taboo subject and act. To just allow it is depraved. How messed up is it to actually ask, no, beg for it? Unspeakable!

Well, that's where my brain went. Someone behind me, me all slicked up with saliva and lube, he's stroking his cock up and down my pussy lips, teasing my asshole. Everything's wet. I'm wanting more than a fucking. He backs off, sits back on his knees. I follow, my body chasing his retreat. He won't move toward me, but allows me to press myself against him. I ask him to give it, but he won't. Finally I'm panting with need, moaning with body versus brain conflict. I eek out a 'please' but he demands more explanation. 'Please don't make me want this.' He laughs, teases. 'Please do it.' Still he won't take the hint. He waits and waits until I can say it clearly 'Please fuck my ass.' He pulls me toward his lap and nudges my asshole with his cock, but no further. He's waiting for me, leaving it to me. I'll have to do it, to impale myself on him, cementing the choice as mine, something I'm asking for, something I'm pursuing, something I'm taking, not merely allowing. He sits steady and waits for me to work him inside the tightest of spaces at my own pace.

And waiting for that certain moment when I've taken him in and begin to whorishly ride him.

**new photos in the coming days, after the weekend**

Misc.

I've spent the last few days sorting through past blog entries. It's amazing to read backwards in time, but feeling as though I am posting the same sorts of things every day. Equating it to looking at a star is not inaccurate; everything feels like present day, but actually you are gazing a million years back in time. There is nothing I've said before that wouldn't be relevant to say still, and that makes me feel both amazed and encouraged, surprisingly. If my marriage ends within th next six weeks, I can look back and know that I've struggled long and hard, fought as well as I could, and never blithely looked away from the reality of the situation.
****
Came home from yoga last night all wiggly wanting a large, huge, gigantic vat of a bathtub to fill with steaming hot water. I would have stripped naked and lowered myself in. Ideally you would have been there to lean against, and to scrub my back.

The Plan, Part 5

HNT: The Plan, Part 4

Scroll down and you'll see this is photo four in a series. Lucky you. Meet the rest of the HNT crew here.

A Brief Aside

Therapist: Do you think it possible that as you emulate your full self*, you and your husband will get along better?

Me: No.

*yes, this is the way she speaks.

The Plan: Part 3

The Plan, Part 2

Our Heroine Has A Plan.

I've basically had two moods for the last two weeks.
Hide!









and Sad.

So I got out the camera to take some pictures. I decided it was high time I shook myself out like a wet dog, for at least a few minutes. I put on the fanciest of my Fancy Lady negligees.
I played around on my bed, looking at myself, moving my hands over my body. Finally I played the photos back and was overcome with fondness and pity for the lovely, lonely girl I saw. That's when I took the Sad photo. There is so much of her that isn't seen, much less touched or admired.

Anyway...

Over the next few days I'll post the photos here. You and I will both see me, not hiding or sad, but gorgeous and expecting more. Here's one now:

I Find These Hilarious and Inane.

Joe Mathlete Draws a Nipple on Ziggy's Nose (so that his nose looks like a titty).

Joe Mathlete explains today's Marmaduke cartoon.

Adventures of the S-Team, in the medium of Lego.

Pink Is The New Blog, the bitchiest celebrity gay-man gossip blog around.

You Should See The Illusionist

I'm not good at writing about films. Sometimes I feel like crying while eating a bottle of nutmeg because I can't connect to modern cinema. I don't know jack shit about themes or motifs. I could try to be all erudite, but truthfully, I mostly say 'I liked it. I hated it.'

Well I loooooooved The Illusionist.

Last night I drove downtown, got a gigantic Birthday Cake Remix,and went to the theater.

I left the film moved and touched with a squiggly, tremulous gladness to be alive on a smoky autumn night, wishing I could watch it again or at least listen to the music for the rest of the evening just to hold on to the feeling. I drove home wanting to share the experience with my husband, to urge him to see the film, and anxious to talk about it. When he asked me how the film was, I tried to express how magical and lovely and wonderous I found it. He nodded his head, glad to hear it, but didn't ask anything else, didn't keep the conversation going. We moved on to talk about his evening. Soon I excused myself upstairs to get ready for bed.

A week ago I would have jumped on the computer to email a friend, laid out how I felt, and looked forward to the ensuing dialogue. Even if he hadn't seen the movie, he would have returned the conversation or talked about a similar feeling from a movie, or art, or the Bach Cello Suites.

Instead, I stayed stuck with the lonely feeling. And that's the whole point to this. I am lonely in my own home, even as my partner sits next to me. I'm not trying to escape it anymore.

I'm facing it, but I'll be damned if it's how I'm going to live much longer.

Day One.

So I've decided to keep writing here. I can't bear the thought of giving that up too, concurrent with everything else right now.

The short version is that I've started to reconcile with the fact that I think and feel that my marriage is over. It's not what I want to think. I've been fighting it. Do you think I want to rip my home apart? Do you think I want to cause someone that kind of pain? Do I relish the idea of giving up all that's good about our marriage? No, no, no. I'd rather not. I'm really scared of the prospect and so I've kept myself at this place of indecision (and misery).

As long as I had a particular friend to talk to, invest in and be filled by, I could pretend that my marriage was working well enough, limping along but not crippled. But I don't face reality when I do that. I've had to ask that friend to put our friendship on hold for now, until I face my life and do what I think I need to do. This is no fun either. I get a panicked throwing-up feeling in my stomach thinking about us out there in our shell-shocked bunkers, eating beans from a can, our radios silent.

To console myself, I imagine the Next Time. When I've straightened out my life and we can see each other again, even just for beers and sushi. Or farther down the line, when I'm free for a weekend and there's nothing to do but listen to records, eat garlic pasta, and laze around.

Today is Day One. No more fucking around. I will fight for the life I want.

Call for Help 2

Thanks guys.

I'm on a Mac, OSX. I only use yahoo internet mail. I use Firefox.

For argument's sake, let's assume a suspicious spouse home alone for the weekend, and has extensive experience servicing, diagnosing, configuring computers.

Any more input?

Call for Help.

Hey is anyone out there a real techie?

I need advice on Cleaning the System. I need to know what of Blogger or emails is left even after I delete them. Specifically, if someone computer-trained and curious wanted to find dirt on my computer, could they? What should I do to Clean Up?

And no, opinions don't count. I need expertise.

HNT

Not feeling so great today, keeping it low key.

A Little Steadier for the Next Half Hour.

I had a good therapy session (implying that the appropriate part of my brain was successfully removed out of my nose) and remembered two things:

The decisions I've made have not been wrong. They've been right for the time, for who I am at the time. Unfortunately, I'm at a place where the right choices now mean undoing some of those decisions. He was the right man to marry at the time, for who I was at the time. Now I am different and what I want may be different too.

And I haven't risked everything for nothing. I've gained a lot, not the least of which is a concrete sense of who I can be if I let myself, with the right person. I found my inner Isis. I can't believe I forgot that! All I can say is that I was frightened about the future, about being alone. I'm sorrey.

Couple's therapy in half an hour. Awesome!

Into the Fray.

It's cloudy and dim this morning; waking up felt like swimming through fog. I'm on autopilot now, doing what must be done to get out of the house to start the day. Don't think, don't pause, because in the spaces is the despair and fear. I dressed as for going into battle: deliberately, steadily, mechanically.

When I take a deep breath, it hitches. My eyes are swollen. The right one looks as though it's been punched.

Today is a day of difficult choices, not one of which will make me actually happy. Why is life always like this?

Back In Action.

I know, I know, I promised a big juicy blog bite when I got back to writing. I don't think I can do it.

And I don't mean just now. I mean ever.

I can't tell anymore if this blog is a useful outlet for a side of me that doesn't get stretched and exposed in real life. Maybe writing continues to be important for me to do, as I often don't know what I think until I write it out. Writing in a journal never worked, but the discipline of the blog has kept me writing steadily, if not always thoughtfully, for almost the past year. WryGirl has helped me express myself in real life.

or

Is this blog a detrimental refuge? Do I hide behind my little avatar as a way of not engaging in the real, actual, hardcore world? If I spent the time I dedicate to the internet on real-life efforts, would my life be immeasurably better? What if I confided in my in-the-flesh friends instead of to strangers on the internet (no offense, guys)? I make myself vulnerable here just about everyday; at the start I felt as though I was pulling my skin off my face. Now, however, the real act of courage may be to take it Live and In Person.

Could I integrate these two lives of mine? Am I the whole person yet -- the bawdy, obnoxious, desperately sexual WryGirl and the conscientious, responsible mother, friend, wife? I fear that I would fall back on old habits, settle for less, especially not having the actual people around who could remind me, 'Girl, it's in you. Find it, keep it, it's yours for always.'

I'm such a fucking idiot. I've made such a goddamm mess of my life. How, then, can I trust myself to get myself out of this mess, to start making the right choices?

Thanks, as always, for listening.

The Business of the Blog.

Well Bitches, that time has come. I have to turn on word verification. I'm getting plates and plates of hot steaming spam.

And this comment deserves an above-the-fold reply:
Does it make you feel lonelier and more despairing, when you reveal your most intimate sadness, to have some stranger offer to tie you up and spank you, or to have some software masquerading as a person recommend travel bags? -Mired Kiter

Well, Mired, I'm glad you asked. A lady such as myself always hopes for reflective, nuanced replies from her readership, regardless of the content of the post. When I reveal my most intimate squirmings and yearnings, I know that I must do so without expecting any reply at all, much less the one I crave, wherein someone offers to spank me, sodomize me with the hard end of the cat-o-nine, stuff me in a travel bag inside a laundry basket, drive me away in a car and tumble me out the door.

*sigh*

**Oh, and I'll be off the net for the next few days. Will compensate when I return, my bitches.**

***No, I don't know why I'm in love with calling everyone Bitch.***

The Longest Mile.

I just got up from my bed, with my pillow, planning on having a good cry on the couch. My snuffly nose diverted me to the bathroom, and then to our study. I took out the pile of photos of my mother and shuffled through them. Photos of her as a girl, as a teenager with a shift dress, a cigarette, and a cocktail; as a fearlessly adventuring adult; and as new grandmother holding her newborn grandson in her arms. It was these last ones that really got me weeping - the unbridled joy on her face would have made you cry too.

And I just wept. For losing her, my grandfather, and my daughter; for being abandoned by my father; for being raised by a hurtful and damaging stepfather; for my marriage; for feeling as though I lost myself when my mother died and haven't found myself yet; and for all that I yearn for and will never have.

Finally, I paused. Here was a photo I had forgotten. In it, I am almost seven. I sit on my uncle's lap. We are looking at the camera very steadily. It is a nice portrait, especially since I have two long stalks of some plant sticking out each side of my mouth. Then I remembered. There are people in my life who still know me, who have always known me: as a funny little girl; an awkward teenager; a bride and a mother. Friends who trick-or-treated with me; cousins who ate sandwiches at the table with me as my grandmother complained about our sandy feet; women who cried with me at the bedside of my dying mother.

I may not know myself, nor may they know how exactly to respond to all that I face, but they know me. They are my family. They aren't in the race with me, but they're on the sidelines throwing cups of water and bananas and orange slices, holding the signs with my name on it, yelling silly stupid hilarious things, and I know that when I get to the finish line of this marathon struggle, they will wrap me in a shiny blanket, take me home, and put me to bed.

Lucky You, Here's a Rant.

Today I'm pissed off. Cranky crankasaurus. And watch out, Osbasso, I may be in a mood to whine. Better just click yourself away from here if you mind.

Let's see where this morning has brought us: the favorite coffee house and bookstore, sitting on a comfy couch, watching people, drinking my fuzzy coffee beverage. It's not so bad. Soon I'll start writing for real. For now, though, I need to work-write my way through this mood.

Honestly, my personal life is such a pile of burning truck tires that I wouldn't have to look far to figure out what could be bothering me. Foundering marriage? Absent friends? Professional angst? I muddle through this crap everyday; today feels different, as though there's a twisted bolt in my gut that some fucking thing is cranking hard in a bad way. It's tightness and pain, breathtaking with an accompanying lump in my neck.

Here's what I think it is, and it may crack you up. I'm tired of spilling my guts. I'm tired of opening myself up to people and not being met. I'm tired of telling people all the genuine things I think and feel, and sharing the vulnerable parts of myself and just not getting the same back, or not having it understood, or not being celebrated for all the different things I am.

You know, I'm sorry that a lot of people in my world don't know how to connect to or articulate their emotions, but I am really fucking tired of always taking these risks of expression and getting nothing back. Or worse, punched in the stomach. For example, my husband's response to what I shared about my yoga class (see post below). My energy for this kind of bullshit is spent. Yet funnily enought, the bullshit just goes on and on.

Sometimes writing here helps. But it doesn't get me a real arm around my shoulders or a voice on the other end of the phone saying 'Baby, I know how it goes.' Like everything else, it feels like writing a letter, twisting it into a bottle, and throwing it into the sea. Will I get a bottle back? Maybe. But it's just a bottle. I'm still alone on this island with the monkeys, and the sunburn, and the ever-fucking coconuts, my god the coconuts.

It's a constant and pervasive loneliness. How many philosophers have said that to be human is to be alone? Fuck man, it's exhausting and I don't want to be lonely anymore and I want it to stop absolutely fucking right now. I want the magic wand. I want the fairy godmother with her bitchin' Camaro to zoom up and make my life better.

Today, if I could take my son to Paris and not ever speak to any of these fuckheads again, I absolutely would.

But my passport expired.

Lucky you. I'm sticking around.

Do You Hear Me Knocking?

For one year, I lived alone in Maine. I had a bedroom that looked out on trees and the dirt parking lot where the other tenants parked their trucks and motorcycles. Only six apartments in the two-story building, and I had the upper left-hand corner unit. Nobody above me.

People moved in and out without having been noticed in-between. I made no friends. If I think hard, I can imagine that the across-the-hall neighbor was a hairdresser or a waitress. Maybe.

But I knew my downstairs neighbors. I never knew their names, but I knew them well.

I'd go to sleep around 11. By 2 a.m., I'd awaken to the sounds of her high-pitched moans and grunts. They were having at it. He was nailing her. Maybe I heard the headboard thump the wall too. He grunted and cried out. Sometimes I could hear that they were talking, but not the actual words. Fucking fucking fucking, really having at it.

What I wish could have happened then was to turn to my lover as we both lay awake, listening, and without saying a word, give our neighbors a run for their money.

The truth, however, was that I was alone most nights up there in the woods. The college boyfriend came to visit, but all I remember is that he was picking up his dog; maybe he slept on the couch? There was a boy who, well, nevermind him. The only man to remember, who carried his toothbrush to my house in his shirt pocket, left after one lovely, tender night.

Ok so there I am, alone, neighbors fucking. Listening from afar to their passion, and their wild desire for each other, fascinated. I was only a remote participant, an eavesdropper, and it was on those nights when I felt more alone than ever. I could hear what was out there in the world, what was possible, but inaccessible. So night after night I rolled onto my stomach and rode my fingers until I came. I always wondered if the bed shook, and if that couple, locked in their embrace, could tell that something was going on in the bed above, and if, each night, her voice rose up to me a little more clearly.

Boobie-thon 2006!

No, I'm not making this up.

And it's actually important that you check it out. The relevant blurb:

The fifth annual blogger "Boobie-Thon" launches on Sunday, October 1, 2006. It will run through 11:59 p.m. EDT on Saturday, October 7, 2006. This yearly event features bloggers showing their (covered and uncovered) breasts in order to raise money for charity during Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Click, view, help. That's the deal.

Boobie-thon.

And yes, of course I'll submit a photo. Any of you other blogger ladies in?

Monday Morning

I awoke in the middle of the night this weekend to tend to the sick boy. In general I've been a bit wiggy. So when I got back into bed, I wanted to feel a mere notion of that. I nestled up to my husband's back, just to ease the ache, even if I had to pretend I was with someone else, which I did.

After about five minutes, he turned over onto his stomach and scraped me off of him, like scraping ice cream off a spoon, leaving it to melt, sweet and cold on the plate.

I turned and slept, dropped deeply into a dream about a boy. He moved my car, that was the relevant thing. When he returned the keys to me, in front of our friends, we held each other. Not a hug. A long embrace. He stroked my back and my hair; I buried my face in his neck for a whiff of soapy clean boy. We stood there as our friends asked each other what was going on with us, but we didn't care and really, neither did they.

I awoke calm and comforted. I had what I needed.