I Eat, Therefore I Am

I was never skinny. Well, maybe almost never. I was pretty skeletal a couple of years ago during the pinnacle of my marriage misery. I don't think there are too many calories in black coffee and Camel Menthol Lights, and for a while there, that's all that I consumed. But that was really just a fluke so I'm not sure it counts.

My mother is short and fat. My grandmother was even shorter and fatter. Even as a kid, I was curvy with big boobs. So I guess its only natural that as a "grown up" (ha!) I would be the same. I stand 5 whole feet tall, so every ounce on me shows. Being so "petite", there is a fine line between curvy and chunky. At this moment in time, I'm leaning toward chunky, and I am not at all happy about it. When I look in the mirror I see my mother, which makes me want to vomit, because when I look at my mother, I see my grandmother, and my bubby was not an attractive woman. I love my mother; worship the very ground she walks on actually, but I do NOT want to look like her. In my mind's eye, I am young, sassy and smokin' hot. I am very happy with this little fantasy I have created for myself, and goddammit, visions of my mother and my bubby are not going to ruin it for me.

It is bathing suit season, and I should be watching what I eat. Instead, I cannot get my chubby fingers to my gaping mouth fast enough. I'm not sure I even taste food lately. The next shovel full is heading toward my mouth before the one that is already in there has even been fully chewed. NONE and I mean NONE of my clothes fit. The only way I would be able to get my fat ass into my jeans would be if it were humanly possible for one to suck in their thighs.

As if the lack of ass-room in my clothes weren't a big enough problem (no pun intended), I am also facing a shoe issue. Now I'm a chick, and like most of my species, I love shoes....The higher the heel and the pointier the toe the better. A nice pair of heels works wonders. They give the illusion of extending the legs and enhance a great set of calves. The problem here is that my feet have gained weight too. My freakin' feet! WTF. So now its not bad enough that I am going to have buy a whole new wardrobe or figure out how to hold in my thighs all day, but I also have to deal with blobs of fat oozing out the sides of my strappy sandals.

I'm a firm believer in the notion that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, but what have I done to deserve THIS?

Never a Dull Moment

Since I broke up with Him - even though I thought men were on the wwwwaaaaayyyyy bottom of my to do list - I have a whole new batch of stories to add to the saga that is my love life. What's it been? A month? Man, can I do a lot of damage in short time. Where to begin...where to begin?

Man #1 will be affectionately referred to as "Soul Patch".
Man #2 will sadly be referred to as "So Close".

Soul Patch was red flags from day one. A little distant. Still married. Going through a very ugly divorce. But who insisted he is "so over it". Over it, maybe. Ready, nope. I had met him a few times before through mutual friends, and I was super attracted to him. So, against my better judgment we met for drinks (I think we drank somewhere around a dozen Ketle One on the rocks between the two of us), which - big surprise - turned into a wild fuck fest. And yes, he rocked my world. It was one of those scenarios where we were so hot for each other only half our clothes came off, and where not an inch of the bed was left untussled (tussled, is that a word?). We actually rolled off the bed and landed on the floor a couple of times. But - and there is always a but - he is sooooo not ready. Great sex...lotsa laughs...bad timing. Dammit I hate when that happens. Oh well. Next.

I had high hopes for So Close. He was exactly my type. Tall, not thin, goatee, liked to party. We chatted. We talked. We went out. We had a great time. We talked like two old friends. Chemistry, definite chemistry. Now, I believe that since there are so few quality people out there, if you meet someone you like who likes you, there is no need to play games, self-debate about when its appropriate to call, or wait a specified period of time before seeing each other again. So, in the morning (yes, I spent the night), I said just that to him and asked when we could see each other again. I wasn't exactly prepared for his response...So Close had a date like 12 hours later, and it wasn't with me. Yikes!...ok, now that threw me for a loop. Not that he was doing anything wrong, because in reality we had only been out once, and who was I to be offended that he was going to meet someone else the very same day? But it somehow felt like rejection - and boy do I hate rejection. And because Stacy's World is either Black or White, that just had to mean that he must not like me all that much. So I did what any red-blooded sociopath would do, and I brazenly expressed my displeasure that he would dare not consider us exclusive after knowing each other for five full minutes. Ahhh, yeah. That went over real big with him. Next.

...to be continued.

Excerpts of Hate

My ex-husband has never forgiven me for breaking up our happy little family. He thought- and continues to believe -that four people existing within the same structure constitutes a family. He is also apparently under the impression that its acceptable when one of those four is loud, volatile, drunk, stoned, and lazy.

Dan is the type of person everybody loves to have around. If there was a party being planned, he was on the top of the invite list, and the guy everyone gathered around once there. At 6'2" 200+ pounds, he is a big man, with a huge smile and a booming laugh. But, for some reason, whenever he got to our front door, he left all his niceness outside. Each day was a crapshoot. You never really knew which Dan you were going to get, and I could never understand this. And I could never- even after 20 years -get used to it. When I was a kid, when we heard our father come in the front door, we ran to greet him. We couldn't wait to throw our arms around him and get that big "daddy hug". Yay, Daddy's home! Not Dan. My girls ran to the door and were greeted with rejection. "I'm hot", "I'm sweaty", "I'm dirty". He'd push right past them, headed straight to our room, where he would stay, t.v. on, sorta half laying on our bed, with his feet on the ground and his head slightly raised by either a pillow or his forearm. As for me, I never got a warm hello, or a loving kiss, or that special look that says "Its been a long day, and its so good to be home". Is it possible to use up all your niceness on others so you have nothing left for the people you claim to love?

I spent years making excuses for his behavior. To my family, my children and mostly to myself. Personally, I don't like living on eggshells, and shortly after I crashed and burned from mental, physical and spiritual bankruptcy, I mustered the courage and strength to end the madness. Our divorce was quick and relatively painless. The aftermath, however, has been one seriously fucked up rollercoaster ride. Some days he hates me less than others, which does nothing more than lure me into a false sense of security. I should know better after all these years that his feigned kindness and sincerity is going to be short live and just a precursor to a blow out. I tell you these things, because last night was one of those blow outs...a scene so ugly that I'm not even sure I can adequately convey just how hateful and traumatic it was for the girls and me. I took the girls to a party last night. We were invited guests in someone else's home. He called my oldest daughter while we were there, and she innocently told him where we were. Even though I am no longer his wife, he still thinks he can tell me where I can go, what I am allowed to do, who I can be friends with, and what I can do with our children.

The following are excerpts of hate; taken verbatim from the conversations that ensued, and the numerous voice mails he left me after I stopped answering the phone. Not one word of this is made-up or embellished for entertainment value:

"You are the most disgusting person I have ever met in my fucking life. The girls will never see me again. I am not going to kill myself. I am just going away for years."

"You are so fucking worthless. You are not even a person. You should morph yourself into a snail and crawl around the world."

"You are the worst person I have ever met in my life. I wish I could have aborted our children so they wouldn't have to be raised by you. God bless you. Stop the madness."

"I am leaving all these same messages on T's (our oldest daughter's) phone so she can know what her mother is."

"You are not even human."

"I am going to your house to break all the windows so its unlivable."

"Play these messages for everybody. Please. You took away my girls. You threatened me."

"Please Stacy, you are killing me."

"You skanky promiscuous whore."

"I am not drunk."

You Asked...

For those of you who are looking for my version of the Plantation/AP (a/k/a Eatapeach) soap opera...I had posted what I humbly considered a really good piece of writing. BUT....in my infinite novice blogger way, I accidentally deleted the entire thing. Oh well. You win some and you lose some.

My Favorite Song

I know some day you'll have a beautiful life
I know you'll be a star
In somebody else's sky
Then why, why, why can't it be mine

Oh My Aching Back

When I ask "how are you doing?", depending on our relationship, I expect varying degrees of honesty from you. Don't get me wrong, if you are in my inner circle, you had better tell me the truth - I want to know that you are okay or not okay, whatever the case may be. But, I can't stand it when someone I only mildly care about actually tells me how he or she is doing. Seriously, when did it become appropriate for an acquaintance to tell me that her menstrual flow is exceptionally heavy this month? Is nothing sacred anymore?

Unlike my Aunt Stella who routinely answers the "how are you" question with details of her latest bout with rectal impaction or the most recent family crisis, I'd like to believe that when I am asked how I am doing, I respond with the appropriate amount of decorum. But sadly, I'm afraid I am becoming more and more like my beloved aunt. Lately, I feel like all I do is whine and moan. I complain about work and about my kids. I complain about how fat I've gotten and that none of my clothes fit. I complaint about the price of gas and the fact that cucumbers cost $.79 each. I complain about the entire male species, and various other things no one wants to hear about. The obligatory, "good, thanks for asking", has been replaced with gripes and complaints and detailed descriptions of the lump I found in my abdomen, how tired I am all the time, or the green slime dripping out of my right nipple. I have mastered finding something wrong with everything, and bitching to anyone within earshot.

When did I become so negative? No more, I don't like it. As of this moment, if I don't have anything positive to say, my lips are zipped. I mean really...Life is good, right? Now, please pass me my walker.