And so it came to pass that 2011 should be in the books, and 2012 should begin.
I have sat, laptop in, well, lap, and tried repeatedly to write a year-in-review post. Each time I got more depressed than the last. So, in order to fulfill the Year-in-review blogging requirement, and avoid a major meltdown let’s just sum up 2011 like this; break up, break up, break down, break up again. Oh, and shoes.
And with that, 2011 is done.
The end of one year, the beginning of the next, while at it’s basic premise is no different than Sunday following Saturday any other of the 52 weeks of the year, is somehow more when it’s out with the old, in with the new. And it becomes a time of tremendous amounts of naval gazing.
I spent entirely too much time and energy being mad at the world. I focused too much on how people disappointed me, hurt me, pissed me off, and were just plain assholes. I spent way too much time feeling lost, out of control and apathetic about the whole thing. 2011 didn’t exactly suck, I sucked.
2012 hasn’t exactly gotten off to a stellar start, but I am 30 minutes away from seeing my girls again, and getting my life back to some semblance of normal, where normal is yelling, arguing, fighting and laughing. Cheer practice and basketball games. Hit the floor running and not stopping until I drop at the end of the day.
Happy New Year to all my friends, family, fans and readers. I honestly hope 2012 is better than 2011. God help me if it’s worse.
To me, it says “I’m the whore who’s banging a married man. He says his wife is ‘not normal’ (whatever that means) and that his marriage is sexless. I’m offering him half a million dollars, kids, the possibility of grandkids and amazing sex (comes with the whore part) and that son of a bitch asshole chooses to honor his commitment?” I wonder if she threw in the part about the kids and grandkids so she wouldn’t sound so superficial just mentioning the money and the awesome sex.
So, basically, money, and sex, and a life with this man are of far more importance to her than his commitment to his wife, more important than the vows he made to his wife, which I’m assuming are the same vows she will want him to make to her should he chose the money and the sex over vows and commitment.
Frankly, this post secret sounded like it came from a spoiled fucking bitch who wants what she wants and fuck the world if they get in her way. Morals, responsibility, honor, and commitment are just irritants in her life. Is it just me, or can you imagine some spoiled little rich bitch standing there stomping her feet because her ‘lover’ won’t leave his wife for her. I’ve seen enough princess tantrums in my life (both by those young enough to get away with them but most by those not) and this sounds exactly like one.
Wonder if she sent him a link to her secret, in a passive/aggressive way to throw her temper tantrum in front of him.
Frankly I just wanted to sit back and say “Oh the nerve of him. WTF is he thinking? Of course he should leave his wife, break his vows, divorce a not normal woman for thinks that are much more important; sex, money, and of course you. Clearly.”
Now here’s a one way ticket to get-the-fuck-over-yourself-vile.
First let me just get this out of the way. I put my life on the internet, along with eleventy billion other people. It’s out there, of my own choice. I blog, I tweet, I Facebook right along with countless other people. I am aware of what I put out there, and I know that in putting it out there I open myself up to judgment and speculation and unsolicited advice, and varying opinions. Welcome to the Internet in America.
It has been brought to my attention that lately, the majority of my tweets and Facebook status updates have been about stress, drinking, and Xanax. And an on-line friend decided to hold an on-line intervention, you know to save me from myself. Going so far as to suggest rehab or AA.
So, I’m here to set the record straight. The problem is, because this is all online, and behind computer screens even if I emphatically deny the charges, it will sound like just that; denial. But I’m putting it out there anyway.
And that’s where this all hinges. Because BPD and alcohol either party really really well, or not good at all. Ok, but did I mention I’m unemployed? I am raising two teenage daughters? For those of you who don’t have 2 teen daughters, they are very expensive creatures. My unemployment benefits cover my bills. Barely. There isn’t much to spare, and if there is, the girls have a list of things they want or need. I don’t have a whole lot of money to support a drinking habit to the point of putting myself in danger.
I mean seriously, give me a little bit of credit here. How many people out there talk about having a glass or two of wine at night to relax? I’ve tried that. It really isn’t my thing. Oh, and for the record? I hate vodka. It is vile disgusting stuff. But I’ve tweeted and Facebooked about it several times recently. Tequila is my poison, and I know my limits and tequila is not invited into my house. I don’t drink tequila or margaritas alone. Captain Morgan is also my best friend and he is also not allowed in my house.
Basically what I’m trying to say is I’m too goddamned broke, and responsible, to fuck my life up by getting lit all the time. Yes I talk about it a lot. It doesn’t mean I do it.
And then there is the issue of Brian. Apparently I’m not getting over him nearly as quickly or completely as some people would like. But then again, they are the same people who think that every single Facebook Status is cryptically about him. As if there could not possibly be anyone else in my life. Uh, this whole me getting over Brian issue? That’s on you, because you’re just making assumptions about things without knowing the details.
Believe it or not, this was not about Brian that night
I guess the reason I’m writing this is because really, I understand you said you are coming to me because you care, but clearly you don’t know me well enough. And to suggest REHAB and AA because of Facebook? And I’d say I’m really sorry I’m disappointing you in how I’m handling the whole Brian situation but I’m not sorry. Your disappointment is on you. I’ll handle it however I decide to handle it. I’m doing fine, really. Yes, Thanksgiving sucked ass, but that’s a personal issue. Here it is Monday, and I’m still here. So, thanks for your concern but forgive me if I won’t be making reservations to be spending Christmas with Lindsay Lohan or Charlie Sheen.
For those of you who had a few moments on Thanksgiving Day to sneak away and peek at Facebook or Twitter, you may or may not have seen my holiday was far from the Normal Rockwell Holiday some people were enjoying and more along the lines of a Griswold holiday. I, apparently would be playing the part of Uncle Eddie.
I am not going to get into the nitty gritty of the day. It meant a lot to my mother that I made the effort to come back and spend the holiday with her. It meant even more that I stayed at her house. I know that telling her I love her and I’m sorry and I really enjoyed my time with her may or may not make her feel better. But I know this, I will not even for a second put her between me and the rest of the family.
The truth is this, I don’t fit in. I don’t belong. I’m not like them. I don’t believe what they believe, my life is not like theirs. And this Thanksgiving was wrought with unrealistic expectations. I went back, because I was running away. Running from my demons here. Running from facing the holiday alone. Not just alone away from Brian, but alone because my girls were with their dad’s, and my son still refuses to have any contact with me. I was running away from the reality of a failed fucked up painful life.
Only to be reminded of it time and time again.
And at the end of the day, my sister and I agreed on one thing. I would never ever set foot in her house again. And to my mother, I am sorry, sorry that once again, I fucked it all up for you, for everyone.
I got a text message this morning that said “Will you answer a personal question for me?”
“Fine, yes, I have had sex with another woman. No there is no photographic evidence. Is that what you wanted to know?”
It wasn’t.
Oops.
Later, I got another text from a different person, “I need some advice.”
Uh, ok, as long as you realize it won’t be worth a damn.
I’m trying to decide between playing the filed and exclusivity. There are some things I want to try but can’t figure out how to do it.
I’m not sure how to break this to you, women are not lab rats. That’s what hookers are for.
I can’t afford a hooker, and the things I want to try involve more than two people. Any suggestions?
I’m sorry, I turned in my membership card to the Women who fulfill men’s threesome fantasies support group just last week. Sorry. Play the field. Besides you don’t want to get all caught up in the Holiday Gauntlet of relationships. No man has ever come out of that alive.
The Holiday Gauntlet, or Holiday Triathlon, you know that obstacle course that starts at Thanksgiving and runs up to St. Patrick’s Day.
If you’re Single the gauntlet looks like this:
Thanksgiving is a day you can hang with your family and quasi forget you’re single. They will forgive you that third glass of wine and the second piece of pumpkin pie. Especially if you offer to do the dishes. (That way you can sneak a fourth glass of wine, or third piece of pie.) Also, Thanksgiving is when the stores really ramp up their advertising campaigns and the jewelry stores of the world unite to bombard you with never ending reminders that you are in fact single and you do in fact suck and won’t be getting any bling this year. Pass that damn wine.
Christmas is for the kids. At least that’s what you tell yourself if you have kids. Watching them open their presents and squee with excitement and rush to hug you and say thank you should distract your for about 6.9 seconds. Then they are off to text all their friends about all they got, and you are left to throw away all the wrapping paper and curl up with the book you bought yourself, and drink coffee out of the I <3 Mom coffee mug you kid bought at the school store. By noon you’ll be ready to rip down all the decorations and throw them out with the wrapping paper.
New Years Eve isn’t too hard to navigate. For the most part you can go out and risk life and limb to attend any number of NYE parties offered (for a substantial fee) at any of the hotels, night clubs, casinos in the area. Or you can opt to stay home and watch television. Believe me, not every channel on television will be shoving Ryan Seacrest down your throat. But at some point in the evening it will invariably be all over Facebook and Twitter that it’s NYE and everyone in the world is celebrating a new year with their significant other, and you will be reminded that when the ball drops at midnight, with any luck you’ll be passed out.
And just when you think you’ve made it through the trifecta of Holiday Hell, February throws Valentine’s Day in your face. If the jewelry store commercials, the Holiday music, the parties, and the constant reminders that you’re single have made you want to stab someone, this day will. And forget trying to forget what day it is. Every fucking woman in your office will be getting an obnoxious ginormous bouquet of roses from their significant others and you’ll be stuck answering phones while they go out to lunch.
Of course the reward for surviving the Singles Holiday Gauntlet is celebrating St. Patrick’s Day! Bring on the alcohol!
