Good Enough

As any of you that have read this blog since the beginning (THANK YOU!) know, my divorce was rough.

You know the marriage was rougher.

Ward and June Cleaver we weren’t, that’s for damn sure.

Who cleans house in high heels and pearls??

Who cleans house in high heels and pearls??

I wasn’t spectacular to him. I’ll take responsibility for my share of blame in the collapse of our marriage. To be sure, he wasn’t spectacular to me. The only honest thing he did before he left with that other woman (I’m working hard at reining in my Bitter Bitch) was to admit that he had spent 16 years emotionally and mentally abusing me.

Yes, he admitted it. Shocking, no?

And, here we are, over two years since the separation and almost two years from the divorce and I’m still dealing with that crap.

hand tiedHow frustrating is that? I know that I can’t expect to be over it immediately. I know that I will feel the effects for years. But I have made so much progress in coming back to life that it is so defeating sometimes to know that I am still trying to untie myself from his definition of who I was.

It is so very hard to recover your self-esteem, your sense of self, when you spent 16 years with the person that you pledged to love and who pledged to love you, trying to do the best you could and it was never enough.

You were never smart enough.

You were never skinny enough.

You were never pretty enough.not good enough

You were never sexy enough.

You were never a good enough mother.

You were never a good enough housekeeper.

You were never…..

Nothing I ever did was good enough for him.

When the man that you have married tells you that you are subpar at every level on a daily basis, you don’t just get over that in a snap.

So, here we are, two years later, and I’ve met this guy. He’s pretty terrific. OK, he’s more than pretty terrific, but we’re not going to go into massive details. Let’s just say that he’s very sexy, very smart, extremely witty, a talented storyteller and so much more *nudge, nudge, wink, wink*.

He’ll tell me that I’m beautiful and sexy and smart. He does so with regularity and ease. You can tell that he means it, that he’s not lying to just get into my pants. I can tell he means it. Truly means these things that he says.

And I want to believe him. I do. I want to see what he sees. I want to feel that I’m beautiful, sexy and smart.

Sometimes, when we talk or when I’m with him, I feel it. I feel like I’m all of those things and more. I feel like Superwoman having a man as great as him think those things about me.

But, when our conversation is done, or I go home, or even sometimes when we are chatting, I wonder what it is that he sees.

I know he can’t be seeing the same woman I see. That woman isn’t smart, nor sexy, nor beautiful. She doesn’t have anything to offer to a great man like him. Why does he still talk to me?

For 16 years I was told that I wasn’t beautiful, sexy or smart. For 16 years I was told that I wasn’t enough. So, how can I be enough for this man who has everything in the world to offer a woman?

And therein, my friends, lies the issue.

I have to stop wondering what I should do to “be enough” for a man in my life and just be me. Be myself in all things.

Good enoughI have to stop trying to be anything for anyone and just be the person that I am.

I have to just be me.

I have to be that woman whose eyebrows are never plucked quite right, whose roots constantly need touching up, whose house is never clean enough, who feeds too many stray cats because she’s a sucker for them. I have to be that dorky lady who laughs too loudly at lousy puns, who thinks science jokes, Doctor Who and Cosmos are pretty awesome. I have to embrace my almost bottomless pit of trivia about nothing that anyone in the world cares about. I have to appreciate my love of all things J.D. Robb, Patricia Briggs, Laurell K. Hamilton, and J.K. Rowling. I have to be political and care about what is going on in the world. I have to be all of those things.

Because all of those things make up the person I want to be.

If somewhere along the way I happen to be lucky enough to find someone who is willing to accept me with all of my quirks and my dorkiness and my lame jokes and my obscure passions, and also finds me sexy and beautiful and smart, then that will make me a pretty lucky lady.

It doesn’t mean that I will not ever have periods of self-doubt. Bouncing back from a bad relationship isn’t easy and it takes time.

But I have to stop wondering what he sees in me, why he likes to spend time with me, what the attraction is. Instead of questioning it, I need to just accept it.

It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter what.

All that matters is: He does.

That’s good enough for me.

Do you want some cheese with that whine?

If you’ve read any of my posts prior to this new me blog, then you know that this is not where I expected to be. I never expected to be a divorcee. I never thought that I would be restarting my life at age 40. This is not what I planned.

But I’ve learned something in the past couple of years:

Life doesn’t give a shit what you planned. At all.

I think John Lennon said it best:

Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.

Smart and talented.  Only the good die young, right?

Smart and talented. Only the good die young, right?

I had a plan. I knew that I was going to be married to the same man (not happily, but still), and we were going to see it through to his retirement. We were going to buy a house and settle into a neighborhood and make friends and be happy. Life was going to take us to where we were planning on going. I was going to teach and he was going to do something with his degree (that was vague because he didn’t even know what he wanted to do) and we were going to see our kids off to college and live there the rest of our lives.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, life got in the way.

Life is rarely, if ever, smooth or nice or predictable. Things happen. People happen. People change and make your life different because of it.

helping get up with textIt does no good to whine about it, or throw a pity party or to be unwilling to make the best of the hand you were dealt.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day. He is a perfect example of being somewhere he never expected to be, ever. A good man, he is, one of the best. He made a mistake and now he’s sitting in jail because of it. He made a mistake and he’s paying the piper for what he did.

Some time before he got into trouble, his marriage fell apart. He likes to take most of the blame, but I told him that it takes two to work at a marriage and neither of them were willing to work hard enough. As his marriage was falling apart, he was sent to Afghanistan for a tour of duty there. While he was there, he met a woman.

Love at first sight is wonderful!

Love at first sight is wonderful!

I asked him if it was love at first sight. He said, completely without irony, that it was. He stated that they tried to ignore it, that he was going to try to fix what was going wrong at home. But then his ex-wife left, taking the kids and most of their possessions, and there was nothing left to save.

He decided to give it a go with this “once-in-a-lifetime” woman that he had chanced to meet while at war.

Fast forward and he’s in jail and she’s retired from the military. She moved to a town to be closer to where he is incarcerated and has been having a hard time of it for the past year or so. Things haven’t worked out the way that she expected and it’s harder on her to have him where he can’t physically support her while she’s out there.

He told me that he spoke to her the other day and she said, “If things don’t change soon, we’re going to be homeless!”

Now, this upset me on a couple of levels. First, your love is in jail. This is a shitty place to be. He doesn’t need thelove behind bars extra stress that your whining creates. Also, delivering that last line with a good dose of, “It’s your fault that I’m here!” really sucks. I mean, seriously? Secondly, I asked if she was working. He stated, “No, she’s not. She expected to be with me at my next duty station and be a stay-at-home-mom.”

Um, WHAT?

Seriously? I didn’t expect to be a 40-year-old divorcee living in a damn trailer in the northeast with frozen pipes and no money in my bank account.

But what you expect and what you get are very often two different things.

I’m not ragging on stay-at-home mom’s at all. Don’t get me wrong. But what the hell is wrong with this woman that she has decided that she would rather lament what should have been rather than rolling with the punches and standing up on her own two feet? This woman retired as a senior enlisted from the military. She’s obviously a capable person, who commanded troops. Get off your damn ass and get a job!

And, honestly, making the man that you proclaim to love feel even more guilty about where he is is not fair to him in the least. Stop whining and be a capable woman and take care of yourself.

I just don’t understand that at all. I mean, my situation right now is pretty crappy. Hell, it’s been a pretty cruddy couple of years.

But I don’t have the luxury to sit around and lament my situation. I have to get up and change it. I have to keep soldiering on. If for no other reason than my kids.

pooSometimes, life is big, steaming pile of poo poo. You can either sit there in the fumes and complain about the smell or you can move upwind.

The choice is always up to you. Always.

Sometimes, moving upwind is a lot harder than sitting there in the stench. But if life were easy, it wouldn’t really be

I'll take that mulligan now, thanks!

I’ll take that mulligan now, thanks!

life, would it? It would be some kind of game where you could call “Mulligan!” whenever you screwed up.

But life isn’t a golf game. You can’t sit there and play, “What if?” with you life. Correction: you could. But what would it gain you? How is that moving your life forward?

How is that making you a better, stronger person than the one you are today?

You have a choice. You can sit there in the stench or you can pick yourself up and chose to move forward. Away from that which is toxic, away from things and people that do nothing to help you become a better person.

Remember, the choice is always yours.

Personally, I don’t know of anyone’s poo that actually smells like roses.

Would you like to join me in moving upwind?

T-minus 4 days and counting

I have to go back to Court on Monday.

No, it’s not an actual hearing.  It’s a mediation session where we try to work out the issues of our divorce without going to court.

I’m not looking forward to it.

I dislike confrontation.  Truly.  Don’t get me wrong, I won’t run from a fight (unless someone pulls a knife – then Flash will wonder what the hell just passed him), but I dislike walking into one.

And I don’t want to see the asshole.

I don’t like seeing him when he comes to pick up/drop off the kids.  I don’t like talking to him on the phone.  I don’t like interacting with him at all.

On Monday, I’ll have to sit in a waiting room with him and then go into chambers with him.

Yuck.

I spend most of my days pretending he doesn’t exist and just spending his money.  I wish I could just go on like that.

I’m not going to let the idea of Monday ruin my weekend, but it’s always there just waiting to pop up and remind me.

Kind of like my lawyer bill 🙂

I think that Tums and I will become great friends this weekend…..

“They” said WHAT?

Coming back to work sucks after a vacation!

Just to reinforce the fact that it is a Monday morning, I got called into my boss’s office.

Whenever I get called into the boss’s office and she asks me to take a seat and close the door, you know it’s not going to be good.

This was no exception.

Someone has been spreading rumors.  Someone has been saying that I am screwing some of the soldiers I work with. Someone who doesn’t even work in the same building with me.

Not screwing one, not screwing two, but screwing “some.”

No specifics were given.  No proof was offered.  No names were named.

Except mine.

Now, I’m alright with a little gossip.  I’m new, I’m an unknown, I’m single and I (in my opinion) look alright.  I’m a little flirty, I’m definitely friendly and I have a way with people.  Oh, and the guys talk about my tits.  Yeah, that’s always a nice little piece of information to have….

But what the hell is wrong with people that they have to level an accusation like that? 

There are several reasons that I have a problem with this.  Let me ennumerate them for you:

1) My husband left me for an adulterous bitch.  Why would I do that to anyone else?  None of the soldiers I work with are single.

2) You have no proof.  Unless you have pictures of the proof in my “quivering mound of love pudding,” shut the hell up!

3) Who I screw is none of your business.

4) This accusation could cost me my job.

Yes, that last one is definitely the most serious of the bunch.  “Fraternization” with the soldiers could cost me my job.

Oh, and now I’m the talk of the office, and not in a good way.  In fact, one of my coworkers walked in and had a little discussion with my office mate about me in hushed tones.  How do I know it was about me?  Well, the words, “slut,” “fucking,” and my name all were a little loud.

Plus, I have good enough hearing that, as my mother always said, I can hear a fly fart.

Yeah, that fart would be preferrable to hearing myself referred to as a slut in the office.

I have a three mottos in life:

– “Life life full out and regret only the paths not taken.”

– “Leave no evidence.”

– “Don’t piss in your own pond.”

Now, the last two are especially appropriate to my sex life.  I don’t want to leave any evidence and I don’t piss in my own pond. Meaning, I don’t screw people in my circle of friends or from my job.

Yes, I have sex.  Yes, I have it with different people.  No, I don’t screw anyone that is married.  Period.  Which means that I’m not having sex with anyone at work.  Which means that I’m  not fraternizing.

So, kiss the hell off.

I have to have a meeting with my supervisor’s supervisor so that they can “double tap” the fact that I shouldn’t be screwing anyone at work.

I will be demanding proof and names.  I want to know who I was accused of screwing. 

That way I can figure out if I enjoyed this imaginary sex or not.

Cause this is bullshit.  If you don’t have enough of a life that you have to invade mine, then I’m going to at least have the satisfaction of knowing who my accuser is and who I, supposedly, had sex with.

I mean, if I had sex with someone, I hope they at least picked someone that was halfway decent looking.  It would be even worse if they accused me of having sex with one of the “handsomely challenged” folks I work with.

And if they want to manufacture stories, I’ll point them to WordPress where their fiction may be welcome.

Cause their fiction isn’t welcome in my life or my job.

UPDATEYou can find out about the aftermath of the afternoon meeting here ~

It’s a Vagina, Mr. Speaker.

Now, I’m sure we’ve all heard about Michigan State Representative Lisa Brown (D) being silenced for saying the word “vagina” on the House floor when debating a health bill that sought to put the life of a 20 week old fetus above the life of the mother.  (The story and video can be found here and further video of other women fighting this bill can be found here)

She was removed from the House floor and barred from participating in any further debate on this bill because the word she used was deemed “offensive” and one that the Speaker “would not use in mixed company.”

What word do you use, sir?

Pussy?  Snatch? Bearded clam?  Cooter?  Beaver? Cunt? The Promised Land?  Puntang? Roast Beef Curtains?  Lunchmeat? Meat wallet?  Down there? Vajayjay? Twat? Vadge? Verticle Smile? Whispering Eye?

Quivering mound of love pudding?

What other word would the Speaker have chosen for discussing a medical bill about medical issues to do with a woman?

I’m puzzled.

See, I think that the Speaker doesn’t think about vaginas in a physcial sense.  He certainly never talks about them – unless he’s talking about legislating them.

It seems that the Speaker and his ultra Conservative right-wing friends wish to legislate women’s vaginas, but not mention them.  Like they are something nasty and naughty.

The medical term for vagina is “vagina.”

Imagine that.

And, Mr. Speaker, you should take note that a bunch of your constituents have them.  And we use them.

Sometimes we use them all by ourselves.  Something that is sometimes more satisfying than using them with our partners.

I mean, it’s like reading a book.  You don’t always want to read the book aloud to be shared by all and sundry.

It’s kind of funny, too, Mr. Speaker, that those of us with vaginas have brains.  And we have opinions.  It may be a news flash to you that we use our brains to form opinions and then we use those opinions to guide us at the polls.

When you ban a woman from speaking out about a health bill that will clearly impact her, and other women’s, health for using a medical term describing what you are trying to legislate, other vaginas women may get upset and not vote you back into office.

Another point, Mr. Speaker, that I would like to make.  Why in the world is a very partisan group like Right to Life helping you write legislation?  This point was brought up on the floor by Rep. Dian Slavens (D).  Right to Life is an ultra-right wing conservative pro-life group that does not have the best interests of vaginas women in mind when constructing legislation.  They care only for the fetuses at the detriment to the vagina’s women’s health.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a proponent of abortion.  I’m a proponent of women being able to make the best health care choices for them, without any kind of legislation barring them from any choice that they may want to make.

If this includes an abortion due to circumstances like incest or rape, or because carrying the baby will create a major health problem for the mother, then they should have a safe option for getting that procedure done.

To bar a woman from participating in any kind of debate about the health care choices of their vaginas because they  use the medical term “vagina,” is ridiculous.

It’s be like telling the Viagra people that they couldn’t say “erection” in their marketing campaign.

I find it ludicrous that you don’t want to hear the word “vagina” because it is so offensive to you, yet you insist upon trying to legislate it to the nth degree.

If you cannot bring yourself to say the word “vagina” in mixed company, then maybe you should keep out of every vagina in your State until you’re invited to occupy it.

No vaginas were harmed in the making of this post.  All slang used in this post can be found here.

 

Waiting for a response and musicals

Good afternoon.  How is everyone?  I’m bored out of my skull.  Seriously.  I have had to turn to the WordPress world to entertain me.  I have read some amazing posts today and some that I should definitely not read at work, especially on a day when I had to attend 2 hour sexual harassment awareness training.

Yeah, not conducive to not committing sexual harassment at all.

Do y’all ever post something and then wait for a response?  I mean, I can’t be the only person that does this, right?  You write something, a poem/story/lyrics to a song, and you send it out into the ether.  But you take a moment and maybe, just maybe, send it to someone in particular.  I mean, you take a moment and email the link because you want to make sure that a certain person sees it and it doesn’t get lost in the other electronic traffic that they receive every day.  You figure, “Hey, an email from them makes me take notice.  So it should work the other way, right?”

You email the link and you wait, eagerly anticipating their response.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Yup, still waiting.

I truly hate waiting.  I am impatient and I start to fidget when I have to wait.  And then I’m assaulted with the doubts.

Maybe they read it and they don’t like it.

Maybe they didn’t bother to read it cause I’m not really that important to them.

Maybe they just don’t give a shit and they deleted it from their cache.

Yeah, I don’t do waiting well.

So, I’m going to move on and think about other things.

Like the movie ticket I just bought.

Yes, I just bought a movie ticket to see the 60th Anniversary, digitalized, on-the-big-screen-for-one-day-only, release of “Singing in the Rain” on July 12th.

I am EXCITED about seeing this on the big screen.  Seriously, hands down, one of my favorite movie musicals of all time.  The only one I like better is “The King and I.” 

Yes, I am just that big of a nerd.

I mean, who doesn’t want to see this on the big screen:

Or this:

I mean, this movie is terrific!  I’ve seen it numerous times and I have loved it each and every time.

Now, I get to see it on the big screen.  The ticket is residing in a place of honor on my refrigerator, half covering up the “Perfect Homework” certificate my son brought home.

Yes, it rightfully deserves a place of honor.

The movie is, obviously, the cat’s meow!

Faking Phone Sex

How many women, by show of hands, has faked an orgasm at some point in their life?  *counts*

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Every woman has done it.  Maybe you just weren’t into it that night.  Maybe he was just that bad.  Maybe your mind was on what needed to be done for tomorrow. 

Whatever the reason, there are some of us out there that deserve an Oscar for making their man feel like a man by faking their satisfaction.

I’ve done it.  Don’t be ashamed.  We’ve ALL done it at least once in our lives. 

But last night, I think I stooped to a new low.

I felt like a phone sex operator….and I wasn’t getting paid.

I’ll admit, when my usual NSA (no strings attached) texted me earlier in the evening and started talking naughty, I couldn’t wait to have a little phone sex with him.  He was talking all kinds of stuff – tying me up, spanking me, using his tongue in places that are not mentionable in polite company.

Yummy!

But then I picked up the kids.  I ate a Subway sandwich for dinner and it didn’t agree with me, at all.  At all.

I definitely wasn’t feeling like any phone sex after eating my weight in Tums and fighting with the kids to take a shower and get into bed.

But, I had already promised.  And I don’t like to back out of my promises.

So, after the kids finally got to bed I called him.

And I totally phoned it in. 

I made all the right noises and said all the right words.  I talked sexy and dirty and hmmmm’d and ahhhh’d. 

I did all this while fully clothed and picking out my and the boys’ clothes for tomorrow.

Yes, I totally faked an orgasm on the phone.

He didn’t fake his 🙂

I have phone sex with this gentleman at least once a week.  It’s always enjoyable.  I like it because I never have to worry if I’m making stupid faces or my one-ab doesn’t look sexy in that light or that position.  I can just let go and totally enjoy myself.

But it just wasn’t happening last night.

I take solace in the fact that I don’t normally do this.  This was a one off deal, I hope! 🙂 

But I feel a little guilty that I did phone it in….but not enough that I wouldn’t do the same thing again.

Tums, kids and showers a romantic scene do not make.

Here’s to it being better the next time….and I’ll accept my Oscar whenever the Academy decides to call!