Scott won't leave me alone. I had been trying to put him off as long as possible because - honestly - the mere thought of him still ties my stomach up in knots. I get butterflies. My head gets all cloudy, as does my judgment. I knew that if I heard his voice, I was toast. So I tried to placate him through as many texts as possible, trying to also learn about his new life.

Although we haven't spoken to or seen each other in 10 years, we have gone down similar paths and have so many interests in common - it's frightening.

The worst part is, I can guess that he's a liar, and people rarely change, but I just can't ignore him. I just can't.

He said the reason he had to find me was because he has never felt the way about anyone else as he felt about me. There were many excuses to why he said he treated me the way he did, and a few almost made sense.

The things I wish I'd never heard would be that he's never been able to forgive himself for what he did, that I was the one girl he should have fought for and kept. He says he's cleaned up his life, come into his own, and found his higher power, and now realizes what is really important in life: living and love, and that what we had was real, although he was too foolish and stupid to realize it then.

He sent me a text this morning saying, "I really wish I could see you. I get really excited when my phone buzzes and it's you. Only you make me feel this way. I love you still, Angie."

He's been telling me every day that he still loves me.

I probably shouldn't say this, because I shouldn't be comparing, but even The Boy won't tell me he loves me unless I prompt him. Except for on the phone. He'll do that, sometimes.

There is no way I can truly put into words what I'm feeling right now. I know what y'all are thinking - trust me, I do. I know I'm walking a tightrope and yes, I know he's probably still a liar and a con. I made it perfectly clear that I don't need a man, and I don't need anyone to save me, so if he was trying to impress me with material items, it wasn't going to work. He said that made him want me even more. *sighs*

I told him that if he was on my Facebook, then he already knows The Boy exists and that we're together and it's serious. He said, "I don't care. I can wait. I'll show you I'm better."

I've been dreaming about him and I can't stop thinking about him. I thought I was doing okay until he called me, but that wasn't true. I was fucked from the moment he contacted me.

The fact that he's a 3-hour drive from me is a saving grace. The fact that The Boy is living with me is a big help.

What's not a help is that while The Boy is a dream man in almost every sense, he has no passion for me and isn't affectionate at all. I can't remember the last time we had sex and, even when we did, it wasn't as mindblowing as I thought it would be. He has little desire to please me physically and, even with gentle suggestions or guidance, he just won't do it. We discuss sex at other times besides the bedroom, and he always seems receptive, but just won't do it.

Is it wrong to want someone to sweep me off my feet with affection and attention? I don't think so. I just wish it were The Boy doing it. But I've discussed this many times before and, apparently, he just ain't gonna change. So this is kinda stupid to even write about at this point.

The sex with Scott was...well...10 years ago. Not worth mentioning with it that far in the past, right?

But it was amazing. You know...I'm just sayin'...

Things are such a mess here that I actually considered dropping everything and leaving. Leaving The Boy, abandoning the house, quitting my job, and just moving up there and starting over. I don't want to say that I still love Scott, because I don't think that's possible.

I'm kinda distracted as I'm trying to write, so I'm going to leave you with this: I'm doing a very good job of fantasizing and then re-grounding myself. Just because I want something doesn't mean that's how it's going to be. I can't explain my physical reaction to his texts, pictures, or voice. He remembers more about our relationship (ha!) than I do, although once he says it, I can remember snippets of that event. Everything happens for a reason, and I'm trying to figure out what purpose this reconnection serves.

Until then, I'm trying to stay focused on getting my house clean and surviving work.
.

This is Where I Declare Scott and Facebook the Devil

The best thing about having a blog where absolutely no one reads it is to be able to write about highly personal, embarrassing, and possibly incriminating stuff. I mean, I've never gotten steady readers and I've only had 2 comments - ever - so what's at risk, here?

About 10 years ago, I met a guy at work. At first I thought he was a little dumb, maybe, and didn't pay too much attention to him. But as time went on and we had lunches together and stuff, I began to see that he was actually pretty charming and funny. We started hanging out together a little bit, and I could tell we liked each other.

His situation was bizarre, but plausible. He told me he was separated from his wife and they were getting divorced ('these things take time...'), but that he still lived at home because he couldn't afford to rent an apartment by himself and he wanted to be near his 2 kids: 4 year old girl and 6 year old boy. He said he went to his father's house in a medium East Texas town (about 150 miles from here) on the weekends. He said he'd had a girlfriend there, but the age difference was too great, and they'd split up.

When we started dating, there were several times we went to his house and he did indeed have what looked to be his own room. His wife was never home because she was out with her boyfriend, and the kids were at her sister's. We got motel rooms a lot because I'd just broken up with the boyfriend I was living with, so I moved back home for the time being.

Things progressed and Scott became a permanent fixture in my life. I still didn't like that he would go up to his dad's, but I sometimes went with him if I didn't have plans. I met his father one time and, honestly, he wasn't all that hospitable. Dad's girlfriend was a real bitch, too. He showed me around, pointed out his friends' houses, the club they'd go to, and so on. I never actually met any of the friends, though.

Many times, we'd go up there and we wouldn't stay at his dad's because the girlfriend was there. We'd stay at the motel on the outside of town. They had a bar there, and they had a live cover band play all the time. They were great. They were really into Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls, but they also played traditional Cajun and Zydeco. I've seen a lot of live bands, but these guys had real talent. Strange to see them in such a podunk town. But that was our deal - to go see them as often as possible.

I was very active in the Z Club and we had a Christmas party - a really big deal - and he went with me. (sorry the pics are weird - they were in an album and i didn't want to get them out)

My mom really liked him, everyone thought we were good together, we had just about everything in common, and he liked my dog. NOBODY liked my dog. He did. I figured that meant something.

We began talking about moving in together and so I quit my job at the machine shop and began working at a travel agency. I was making pretty damned good money for someone who had no formal education. At that rate, I was going to be able to get an apartment AND that Trans-Am WS6 I'd been looking at! The only downside was that I had to work a half-day on Saturdays.

And that was when it all started going downhill.

Scott would sometimes disappear when I thought he would be at home. There would be hundreds of more miles on his truck than there should have been for someone just driving around town. His stories began to not quite add up about certain things. I noticed he was taking his headache pills an awful lot more than he should have been. He even asked me if I knew where he could get them refilled despite the prescription's instructions. I found blond hairs in his truck. He rear-ended a dump truck (so he said) on the access road of a major freeway here, but I found the ticket he was given, and it happened in ETX, and he didn't rear-end anybody; he hit an open gate.

I knew something was up. (i am brilliant, no?!)

One Friday, our office building had a fire on the upper floors, but they sent everyone home. I got off work at 11am. When I went to surprise Scott at work and take him to lunch, he wasn't there. In fact, he'd taken the whole day off. His boss, who had been my boss for years as well as a good friend, told me he'd been working half-days on Fridays, only in the afternoons. He was confused, as he thought I knew.

It took me a few minutes to put 2 and 2 together, but I finally came up with a plan. I went home, changed clothes, told my parents what was going on, and didn't even try to call him or anything. I went back up to his job. I left my boss my keys and took his little Nissan 240SX. It was a sweet little car - quick - and it was near-black and it would probably be dark by the time I got there. I didn't want him to hear me coming in my Broncosaurus. This was the perfect disguise.

So I drove to the town in ETX, preparing myself for what I was going to find - if anything. I'd only been to his dad's house a handful of times, and he'd only driven me around town once. It was dark and we'd been drinking then, anyway. It was probably a wasted trip, where I'd get no resolution, but I had to catch him.

I went by his dad's, but no one was home. I drove by the club, but his truck wasn't there. I decided to try to find his friends' houses. One I remembered clearly, because it was two houses off a main highway, on a side street - I thought I could remember it if I could see it again. So I found the few highways I thought it could have been, and just drove. The first highway I tried was it. I saw the house, I saw his truck, and I saw the lights on. I was praying - PRAYING - that he'd just be at a kitchen table playing poker with some buddies.

When I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the older mobile home, I could hear music. Oddly enough, it was the song we always considered to be "our song." So I knocked after waiting a few seconds to listen. All I heard was music. Then footsteps across the front room. Then Scott's eyes peering out through the mini-blinds of the front window. Then silence.

The music cut off and I could hear shuffling around and nobody was coming to the door and I so I started banging again and screaming, "Get out here! I know you're in there!"

Eventually an older woman came to the door wearing nothing but a t-shirt. I said, "Where's Scott?" She denied knowing who he was, despite the fact that I pointed at his truck in the driveway. I could hear a ridiculous commotion of shuffling and screeching and thumps in the back somewhere, and then a crash. The woman kept putting me off and buying time. At that point, I saw Scott jump in his truck, start it up, knock down a chain link fence and drive through the neighbor's front yard to get away.

She finally admitted that she knew him, that he'd been there, and she invited me in. We started talking, and I learned an awful lot.

That was the woman he'd been seeing when I met him. He'd never stopped seeing her. He was spending almost every Friday morning with her. He came back to Houston to be with me, but told her he had to go back to be with his kids. She informed me that Scott was not actually divorced and, as far as she knew, there were no plans for it. She was old enough to be my mother...and had a daughter my age in college.

I stayed there for a couple of hours. I'm not going to get into it all, but I learned an awful lot about what I didn't know...

He called and tried to talk his way out of it. He tried to lie and lie and lie. I told him to forget it, that I was going home, and he was free to fuck that old lady all he wanted to.

Apparently, he went back to Houston that evening and went to work and cleared out all of his toolboxes and everything. He didn't even leave a note saying that he was quitting...he just left. He went by his house and took his essentials, and moved out. He moved back to ETX and either moved in with his dad or that old lady.

The next morning, I called Scott's wife. We had a really long talk, too. It ended with us both in tears: me because I felt so guilty, and her because she just couldn't believe her life was in such shambles. She didn't have a boyfriend; she'd been going to the Medical Center on her time off (she was a nurse) because her mother was going through cancer treatment and the prognosis wasn't good.

For several weeks, he kept trying to win me back. He came to my parents' house several times. One time, I called the old lady when he knocked, left the phone off the hook, and let her listen to the whole thing. I mean, there was no way I was going to go back to him, but I sure did like him trying.

And then it was over. He quit calling and coming around until about a year after the fact. I never did answer his calls, though. I never did figure out what he wanted.

Fast forward ten years to last Friday.

I get a message on Facebook saying that this guy wanted to friend me. I thought, "It couldn't be him...right?" So I waited. Eventually he posted one picture and, sure enough...it was him. So I sent him a message about "Wow. You're, like, Person #4 on my list of People I Know I'll Never Hear From Again. What did I do to deserve a message?"

So, instantly, I receive a message with apologies. He said he was so sorry for treating me the way he did and that he knew he caused me a lot of pain and he was so sorry for it. Then he gave me his cell number.

Because I just wouldn't be me if I weren't poking the hornet's nest with a stick, I sent him a text: "You can send Flowers of Apology to..." and gave him my work address.

I went on Facebook, and I saw that I was his only friend and that he'd only just opened an account.

He ended up telling me that he was on a Vette forum and one of the users had all his pics on Facebook. He said he went on there and looked me up and he couldn't believe I was there. He said he'd been looking for me for awhile but couldn't find me, so when he found me on there, he started an account just so he could contact me. I'm not sure I believe that, because if you Google my name, I pop up, like, everywhere.

Whatever. On with the story.

Now, he's sending me texts telling me that if I go up there with him, I wouldn't have to work. That his house is paid for, and he'd give me one of his Vettes. He said he knew me better than anyone and knew I've only gotten better in time. He owns his own business and needs my brains to help him run it. He keeps telling me he misses me. That he's ready to settle down and wants it to be me.

I've thrown out a lot of roadblocks like, "You don't even know me anymore, regardless of what you may think. Ten years changes people." and so forth. He doesn't seem to mind.

I haven't mentioned The Biy because it's sort of immaterial. The Boy has nothing to do with this. I don't want to start up anything with Scott because he's an egotistical, arrogant liar, cheater, and he's Catholic. Nothing against Catholics, it's just that it's not my thing. I tried that once and it didn't work out so well. I don't even know him. Honestly, I never did, if you look at our history. So I think it's ridiculous that he's even talking to me in this manner.

Anyway, every text he sends me gives me a little more insight into his life, although I'm pretty sure the stuff he's telling me is, like, the best of the best. He's shooting his load all at once, here.

Plus, I went to his county's tax assessor website, looked up his property records, then GoogleMapped his house and used the 'street view' feature, and...well...let's just say that even though I don't have land, I'm better off in this house. He also still has that blue Chevy...it was in his carport.

I admit, it would be nice to be a kept woman and drive race cars to the store. It would be nice to not have to work unless I wanted to. It would be nice to see if the sex was as phenomenal now as it was then. But, I mean, really. That's totally not realistic and the guy's a creep!

The Boy and I are in a decent place, I guess. I don't want to leave him, but I don't really want to take any further steps, and he keeps pushing me. He sat me down last night to look at engagement rings online and design one. I could see us getting married in time, but we have problems that need to be worked out (SEXcoughSEX) before I make another potential EXPENSIVE mistake, and I just don't feel like I'm ready yet. I want to have all the good things that come along with marriage, but I know that's the wrong reason to marry someone.

So, if I were ready to turn my life all upside down over somebody, it would be The Boy. Not Scott.

And I still don't have those flowers.

Pencil Sharpener Befuddlement

A simple manual pencil sharpener...you know, the kind with a hand crank that’s shaped like a teardrop that you have to empty every single day? Yeah. The old-school kind. Well, my kids were taking a test today that requires a #2 pencil. I, of course, must provide them with one because...well...parents won't buy school supplies and if they do, the kids won't bring them. That’s how it is these days. So, I gave them brand new, shiny, unsharpened pencils to use in my class and pointed to the sharpener.

Let me mention also that I had two electric sharpeners. I say had because I no longer have them. These ghetto-ass kids broke them within the first week because they were shoving the pencils in so hard it burned up the motor or broke the sharpening mechanism. One, someone tried to sharpen their pen in. So...manual only from here on out.

I noticed the line wasn’t moving. I had, like, 20 kids wrapping around the room waiting for the sharpener, so I noticed something was wrong. The first kid in line had 3 other kids trying to help him. They couldn’t figure out how to work the manual sharpener. Totally perplexed, they were wiggling the shavings holder. They kept rotating the handle, but then sometimes they'd just move it back and forth. One of them finally figured out that the handle was supposed to crank in a continuous motion, but was doing it backwards, so it wasn't sharpening anything.

Seriously. So, I did what any good teacher would have done: I watched with disbelief and tried to stifle the laughter and debated about whether or not I should pull out my camera phone and video it for submission to YouTube.

Eventually, one of the enlightened ones showed them what to do.

These teenagers are our nation’s future. You might want to contemplate emigration.

Yelling at the Football

One of my students said to me today, "Miss...you know a lot about outside. Listen to this!" And he proceeded to tell me a story that happened during morning football practice. I'll hit the highlights:

Student: "There was this giant bug on the football, and it was just sitting there. I waved my arms, and it wouldn't move. I started yelling, Hey, bug! Get off my football! but it wouldn't leave. It was so scary looking, and nobody wanted to get near it. You know, we're afraid of outside. Anyway, it looked like a grasshopper, but it was a lot bigger, and it was, like, black, but kinda like a cockroach. I don't know what it was, Miss, but it wouldn't listen!"

I was trying to figure out why a freshman in high school was a) scared of a bug, b) scared of the outdoors, c) yelling at the bug and expecting it to decipher ghetto English and actually understand and disappear, and d) why they didn't just kick the football so that the bug would have no choice but to vacate its roost.

Then I began asking questions about what kind of bug it could have been, to be that big and so scary that a teenage boy wouldn't even confront it. After several questions and answers, I finally figured it out.

It was a cricket.

Me: "Oh, so you mean it was a cricket on your football, right?"

Student: "A what? What's a cricket?"

Me: "..."

These are the types of students I have: students who don't even know what a fucking cricket is, even though they've been exposed to them their entire lives. *sighs*

There Are Worse Things I Could Do

"There are worse things I could do,
Than go with a boy or two.
Even though the neighborhood thinks I'm trashy,
And no good,
I suppose it could be true,
But there are worse things I could do." ~ Rizzo in 'Grease'

I've been doing some thinking. (Ha! Big surprise!) I came to realize something. There are worse things I could do than have one, simple drink.

I did not go on a bender.

I did not go out the next night and drink.

I did not go out last night or tonight to go drink.

I was honest with myself and my feelings about it.

I did not tell The Boy because there was no reason to.

I did not really do anything wrong - except to me.

I did awaken a monster, but I'm resisting his charms.

(but wasn't that monster already awake?)

I had the worst day of this school year yesterday, and I stayed sober.

I'm still sober, today, even though it's a Friday night and I'm unescorted.

So, yay me. I did some good things, even in my mistake. I guess I just had to put it into perspective. I drank when I'd vowed not to and, yeah, maybe I should be spending my evening with the local AA group, but I'm not. And I'm still sober and being honest with myself.

My GOD, isn't this recovery a wondrous thing!? (sarcasm, people...)

In other news, The Boy is working his last two days as a night shift employee. I sorta dig my freedom and time alone, but I'm glad he'll be back around. He keeps me from withdrawing too far into myself and thinking too much. He makes me happy - most of the time - and I'm hoping his new hours will improve our sex life. I mean, it's not like it could get any worse. Seriously. It's been damn-near 2 months. How I have managed to stay faithful to him is beyond me. Probably because I have no takers...

(actually, i do, but our schedules never seem to jell, so i take that as a sign)

Speaking of fidelity...The Boy brought up a possible engagement again. I am tired of discussing this. I am not ready to consider the possibility of getting married again. I'm just not ready. I'm not even out from under the rock of irresponsibility that my ex-husband left on my head. The thought of getting engaged when I'm not even getting laid is just...asinine. Why would I agree to marry someone (even if it's a year in the future) when I'm not having needs met? Right. I wouldn't.

But, in true Borderline Personality Disorder fashion, I've decided that, since other things in my life aren't going right, if I just change some other stuff, it'll make everything else better. So...I've decided to dye my hair again. Since I am currently very blonde, it only makes sense that I would head in the exact opposite direction. I really like the Miss Clairol Reddest Mahogany Red for right now, but I'm thinking it might not be dark enough for me. But, knowing my complexion, it will probably be just right.

Later, after the dye job, I'm going to cut bangs. Long, straight-across, eyebrow-covering bangs. Corrective color is easy to budget for, but chopping hair that is waist-length...well...that's a permanent thing, girlie.

The Boy is practically begging me not to do it. He said, "The girl I fell in love with has blonde hair..." as if somehow, by dying it, I will be a different person, no longer worthy of his love. What? If anybody reads this at all, and if you happen to be a guy, would you please decipher this for me? How can my hair color make that much difference in the amount of love I receive?

There are worse things I could do. Seriously. I could do more than just dye the hair. I could chop it. I could get a neck tattoo. I could be fucking someone else because The Boy won't fuck me. I could be sitting in a bar with a bob haircut and dark reddish-brown hair, a neck tattoo, with my third drink in front of me, seeing how many men I could get to talk to me and pick one to go home with...But I'm not. I'm sitting in front of my broke-ass laptop on a Friday night, listening to techno music, wondering if I'm actually going to attend that photo shoot in the morning - early as hell. My hair is still blonde, my drink is still sweet iced tea, and I am still tragically un-fucked.

Although, I guess, in retrospect, that is the worst I could do...

Backslide

I am pretty disappointed in myself. I messed up big last night. Not the kind of big with far-reaching consequences, just the kind of big that's enough to bobble your confidence and make you second guess yourself to death, wondering if you'll ever be able to return to a normal life or if you're destined to be forever damaged.

Since The Boy was working - still on that god-forsaken night shift - I met up with my best friend of 19 years, Cowboy. There is no way for me to explain everything we've gone through together. But last night's mission was simply to sing a few songs at karaoke and just have a good time.

Cowboy has always been a serious drinker and smoker. I was, too, but I quit smoking 4 years ago and...well, you know about the drinking. Recently, Cowboy was diagnosed with Diabetes and is on 2 types of controlled-substance doctor-prescribed crazy pills, so he is under very strict orders not to drink a drop. I figured he'd probably have a drink or two and a Lone Star or two, as is his way.

I got to the bar first, so I ordered a Sprite with grenadine and lime. Looks frou-frou, but is totally innocuous. When Cowboy arrived, he ordered a Jack and Coke, a Lone Star, and another Stoli and Cranberry for me.

What?

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to ask...are you drinking tonight?"

We all know what I should have done, but I'm sure y'all can guess what I actually did. By the time I wrestled with my brain and thought I'd found the 'nads to say no, the drink was in front of me and I had a straw to my lips.

The positive spin on all of this is that it was the only alcoholic drink I consumed last night. I did have enough (circle one) foresight self-preservation fear sense to stop there.

Cowboy didn't mean any harm. I'm fairly certain I haven't even talked to him about going to AA off and on. Most of the small details of my life get overshadowed by the fact that he has 7 children and little time for anything else.

Well, I guess that's not true, either. He does manage to find a bar every weekend.

At any rate, I could have said no at any point before the bartender presented me with my Achilles heel, but I didn't. I am weak, that is true, but I guess I just hit a breaking point.

I have been in many bars over the last few months. I've gone for karaoke, I've gone to see bands play, both with The Boy, alone, and with other friends. And I've always managed to be okay and not drink anything. I don't see alcoholism as a 'disease.' I feel as if it's a battle of wills, and I should find a way to be strong enough. Alcohol is everywhere; you can't avoid it, you can't ignore it, and you have to deal with it. Every day is a test, and I've had a pretty good GPA up to this point.

So what was different?

Was it because The Boy is working nights and I knew I would have been asleep for hours before he got home? Was it because I was in a bar I'd never been to before, and I felt like I could 'get away with it' because nobody knew me there? Did I want to pretend like I was single again and do those things again? Did I want to see if I could truly limit myself to just one drink and control that monster? Beats me. I have no idea.

What I do know is that I went out Friday night to one of my favorite little rockabilly bars to see a band play. I stood at the bar all night long, watching the bands. Not only did I drink Coke and nothing else (god, how i really hate carbonated drinks...), but not one man said a word to me. Granted, I didn't do my hair and I'd just woken up from a nap, but I didn't look bad. Hell, those were the exact same conditions under which I met The Boy: same bar, my boyfriend at the time left me alone on a weekend evening, I hadn't done my hair, and I'd just woken up from a nap before I went to the bar. Funny coincidence, anyhow. But I digress...back to last night.

I didn't tell The Boy. He'd be more pissed at Cowboy than at me, and I don't want that. It wasn't his fault.

I should be racked with guilt. So why don't I feel bad? There are two possibilities, and I'm not sure which is true: 1) I realize that sobriety is an ongoing struggle, and there will be setbacks. It's happened before. This may not be the last time. All alcoholics go through it at some point, so I've been told. Or, 2) I really don't feel like I did anything wrong. I mean, it's not like I got drunk, right?

Lying by omission to The Boy is wrong. I know that. And I do feel bad that I didn't just confess to him that I drank one drink and stopped there. Fear of being wrong and fear of being looked down upon and fear of getting yelled at are the three things stopping me from telling him. The last time I slipped up, I did confess as soon as I got home and hours before he would be home, so he wouldn't be surprised when he got here. Let's just say that it did not end well for either of us, or for two other people who sort of interjected themselves into our dilemma.

When I was driving back home last night, I called The Boy to let him know I was headed home (he's a little protective, wanting to know each of my moves as the night progresses and such - i have no problem with obliging him), and I did tell him that I didn't want to be sober anymore, that I wanted to drink whenever I wanted to, but I knew it would destroy me if I did. I acknowledged to him that I simply cannot control it, but that I miss being out of control and the whirlwind of an evening and all. The only two bad things about being a drunk for someone with no dependents is the sheer amount of money you waste, and the hangovers. And, I guess, the ruined relationships from the fighting and misunderstandings.

I feel a little bit like a sheep that's wandered away from the herd of protection. I'm a little lost, and I'm not sure how to find my way back. I am afraid that I opened a floodgate and the water's rushing in and I'll never get it closed again.

Wish me luck on fixing this...

Honey, Did You Walk the Washing Machine Today?

What in the world is it about having testicles that prevents a man from loading a washing machine evenly so that it doesn't walk across the floor during the spin cycle?

The Boy has this horrible habit of putting only a few things in the washer - usually heavy items like those god-awful coveralls he wears at work and gets grease all over them but still brings them home to be properly laundered because he says the laundry service doesn't actually wash them, only cleans them - and then wanders off somewhere. He's long gone, and I'm curled up on the couch, all cozy with a blankie and a laptop and the cell phone and the cordless phone and a dog on either side of me and one buried in the blanket somewhere, and then I hear "ka-thunka-ka-ka, ka-thunka-ka-ka, ka-thunka-ka-ka" and I can hear my poor little Kenmore washer just kathunking apart! By the time I unravel myself from the tangle of dogs, blankets, and wireless technology items, the washer has managed to move 2 inches to the right and forward about 8.

How hard can it be? One pair on one side, the other pair on the other! Or, how about this novel idea: WASH A FULL LOAD!

When I was still married *shivers*, my ex-husband would do the same thing with a few pairs of jeans, or one comforter, or 3 bath towels. The only problem there was that when the washer decided to 'walk' across the floor, it would take huge steps at one time. By the time you figured out what was going on, it had wedged itself up against the laundry room door, preventing you from opening it. The washer fit it its little area so tightly that it was almost impossible to push it back into the correct spot just by applying force against the door.

Luckily, I was skinny enough that we could push the washer back just enough - even if it wedged itself in there crooked - that I could squeeze in and re-adjust everything.

My biggest fear was that he would do that on his way out one day, and I'd come home from school (i was a college student then) and find the condo flooded with an angry downstairs neighbor waiting at the foot of our stairs, because the damned thing would walk so far away without intervention that it would pull the hose out of the wall.

I wish that his biggest mistake had been flooding the apartment, rather than practically ruining my life...Fucking jackass.

Needless to say, every time The Boy does something like that, it sends me into a panic, and I simply cannot relax until the entire wash cycle is completed. Mind you, I've gone in there, redistributed the load in question, repositioned the washer, and waited in the laundry room for the cycle to resume to see if I needed to do it all over again. But I still have that weird phobia about watching that washer walk right out my laundry room door, and into my hallway while I just sit on the couch, unable to get up because of the big, heavy deaf dog that won't move just because you're squirming a lot.

That's all. I have no witty closure today. Sorry.

(of course, saying 'today' implies that i do indeed have witty closures on other days. but we know i do not. but i'm also not going to edit it. sorry.)

Today's Flushable Post: Facebook Fails & Regurgitated Pain

Facebook is the devil. I'm fairly sure I've said that before. I mean it. I've been lucky in that, sure, I've found / been found by old flames and ex-crushes and people I just liked to fuck...but that doesn't mean that I would have anything to do with them presently. Mostly, those reintroductions just make me feel pretty good about myself and my current situation, as fucked up as it is. I can always look at them and say, "Well, at least I'm not like them!"

A couple of weeks ago, my old best friend from high school and many years beyond found me. I was taken aback. We'd parted due to her ongoing drug fixation (remember - i was doing all i could to stay clean and i was actually winning at that point), and I basically told her I couldn't hang out with her if she was going to continue to use drugs in my presence. She picked the drugs, and all her drug using buddies, over me. I was fine with it at the time but, like most other things, I didn't truly deal with the feelings of being abandoned. After all we'd been through, I couldn't figure out how she could just let me go that easily...I would have done anything in the world to defend our friendship. Especially if it were something as simple as to just not smoke out of a 4' bong when my buddy was visiting - for just a few hours.

After some time had passed, I tried finding her. In another life, I was a skiptracer for collection agencies and auto repossessions. I used every tool available to me and I still couldn't find her. Not a big surprise, seeing as how her name is so incredibly common.

At my 10-year reunion, I ran into someone who still talked to her on occasion. Word on the street was that she was living the full hippie lifestyle in a community/commune/colony/compound type place that was totally self-supporting and sustained. Not my kind of shit at all. I LOVE my indoor plumbing and shampoo! So, I kinda gave up.

I'd never actually forgotten, but I'd given up. I still thought about her every day, I still wondered how she was doing, and I just missed her. She was the closest thing I'd ever had to a sister; the only woman I truly got along with and there was no backstabbing; someone I really loved and thought of as family. Past the initial hurt, there was just a sense of loss. I just missed her, plain and simple.

The ugly truth of the matter is that she never cared to look for me. My name is unusual. I live in roughly the same place I did when I was a teenager. If you Google me, I pop up all over the place. I'm even still listed with 4-1-1 because - holy shit - I still have a landline at my house! Years and years went by and she never made an attempt to contact my parents, my friends, or me directly. She's been back to our town several times, apparently, to see friends, but she's never tried to see me. I accepted this fact a long time ago.

And then, I get the message asking if I would add her as a friend. How ridiculous that phrase sounds when it's typed, although I know how Facebook means it. There was no personal message included in the add, just the request. Of course, I approved it, and spent a few minutes looking through the pictures she'd posted of her new family. I left her a few nice and genuine comments, and she thanked me for them. And that was it.

I'm happy for her, because she looks very satisfied and content. It's very clear that we are two completely different type of people at this stage in life. Maybe all those things that bound us as friends have completely disintegrated by now. She doesn't seem to be hankering for any conversation, or perhaps she would have asked me something as innocuous as 'how have you been,' but she hasn't done that.

There is no way to reflect on my life, my accomplishments, my adventures, my mistakes, and my triumphs, without thinking of her. She was there for all of it. She helped me discover my own strength, my own identity, my own voice. I wish I could say that I can get over this, that this is all 'high school shit' and it's time to move on, but it wasn't. She was a fixture in my life from the first week of freshman year well into my 20's - a decade of friendship. It was, arguably, the most important friendship I've ever made. So yes, it does hurt that it's of no consequence now. I can even deal with us not really communicating and just having an icon on a page.

I just wonder if she ever thought of me.

Screw the Crawling...Let's RUN!

I tell my students, "There are no shortcuts in life. It's kinda like Monopoly. You still have to go around the board. Some end up hanging out in Free Parking or get thrown in Jail (yeah, i know...you're innocent), but you still have to go all the way around. You can't cut a path across the board between Community Chest and Chance, skipping from Connecticut Avenue over to Marvin Gardens!" Of course, half the time I have to explain what a Monopoly board looks like, because Lord knows they grew up with themed versions of Monopoly, like SpongeBobOpoly, if they even played 'bored' games at all. But that's a different rant.

And it's true. You pay your dues, you move on. You've got to crawl before you walk. You've got to walk before you can run. Erik Erikson wrote a lot about the stages of human development, and you can't skip one. If you do, it will resurface as a problem requiring much medication and therapy later in life.

I'm writing this particular entry, however, not on the life stages, but on one particular aspect of human development: adolescence. During the teenage years, development revolves around identity. The Intimacy vs Isolation part isn't supposed to come into play until the age of 19 or so, but I think it's happening at a younger and younger age. Case in point: it happened to me when I was still a very young teenager.

There were many horrible things that happened to me as a young teenager, coupled with the fact that I was already dealing with juvenile depression (which didn't 'exist' when i was kid...). Many of the very adult situations I had to deal with were beyond my adolescent capabilities of processing, so I simply didn't deal with it at all. I passed it off as, "Oh, I'm okay. It was no big deal. See? I'm fine..." and either everybody bought it, or nobody wanted to be bothered with it. Either way, nobody in my life actually stopped me and made me take stock or see a professional or whatever.

At one point, I was hospitalized for months on end. I was totally misdiagnosed. For starters, it was an insurance scam (that's a whole other entry), so although I had a real opportunity to get some assistance for the problems I did indeed have, because of the intentional misdiagnosis that would get them more treatment money, that opportunity was lost. I did not get the help I needed because they were too busy trying to treat something I didn't have. And I was on the defensive, frightened, victimized, drugged up, and humiliated so often, all I wanted was out of there. I wasn't going to say, "well, no...i'm not an alcoholic...but i do need help for x, y, and z! since i'm here, why don't we get to work on that?!"

I was released and the rumors had circulated. People thought I was either crazy or an addict or damaged; they didn't understand what had really happened. So my more 'normal' friends sort of abandoned me. All that I had left was to join the ranks of the rejects: the drug-addicted, sometimes-homeless, failed a few times, raising themselves, goes-to-school-when-they-feel-like-it kids that I, apparently, had a lot more in common with than I thought.

I put myself in more situations that caused me pain. Then I began doing it to myself because, hell, I'd rather be the one in control of it rather than having someone do it TO me. And all that time, I was slowly breaking myself down. I just skipped over dealing with the feelings, the issues, the root of the problem. "Oh, I'm fine..."

If I had to print a motto on a business card, that's probably what it would say. "Oh, don't worry...I'm fine!" with a little caricature of me with Alfred E. Newman features to the side of it. The truth of the matter, however, is that I really didn't have anyone in the world I could talk to. My 'friends' weren't really friends. We thought we were, but I see now how wrong we were. I'm not entirely sure they ever really cared about me, despite how loyal and true I was to them.

So, the point of this horrible ramble is to say this: I became an addict and an alcoholic to escape the painful emotions of emptiness, unworthiness, being unloved, being used, being ignored, and everything else I was experiencing. For years, I abused myself through self-destructive and high-risk behavior because I was just in pain.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when I was in a very bad car wreck. The car I had spent thousands on restoring and was almost done with was totaled. It was a road rage deal, although I couldn't prove it. I had thousands of dollars in medical bills and, although the other driver was at fault, his insurance wouldn't pay up. That resulted in a lawsuit. I did win - eventually - but I barely got enough money to cover my medical bills. I was in so much debt and I was traumatized and I had no control...and I tried to take my own life.

It was an absolute fluke that I was found and saved. Someone I hadn't seen in many years happened to stop by my parents' house and could tell something was wrong, so he found the hidden key, let himself in, and saved my life. And then disappeared out of my life for another couple of years.

Finally, as a non-traditional student in a 4-year university, I recognized that I needed help. I tried for months to obtain that help. I had little to no money, so I either needed a free service or a sliding scale service. The university offered psychiatric assistance...if you could get them to stick to an appointment. They canceled on me 4 times and I finally just gave up.

I slipped farther and farther into alcoholism. I'm not going to say I was a sex addict, but I was definitely addicted to the power I seemed to have over men. How I managed to graduate is beyond me. I don't remember much. It's all a haze of bottles, essays, lingerie, loud music, thick textbooks, smoky bars, and lots of skin. Seriously. It's like that weird montage from the movie "30 Days" with Sandra Bullock.

Now. After all of that...do you think I've learned to confront things head-on? Fuck no. Don't give me that much credit.

Alcoholics Anonymous is getting another go in my life. I've been sober now for...I don't know...around 4 months now. I really don't know. I kinda stopped counting many tries back because I kept messing up and getting drunk again and it would make me start my date all over again. So I'm not sure. I bought my most recent project car the day after a terrible bender and I had such a bad hangover I had to keep excusing myself while examining the car because I thought I was going to start dry-heaving. So, I guess I could technically track down the day. But whatever. I got off on a rabbit trail again.

The key to maintaining sobriety and finding peace is to unearth all those triggers. What happened to make you feel the need to numb your entire emotional self? Seems like that is yet another discovery process I'm just not really willing to undergo. I don't want to talk about why I drank, because that's going to lead me to discuss why I did all that stuff. The truth of the matter is, really, I don't know if I really know why. I think I know, but that's not really knowing, is it? And I don't want to drag my parents back into this.

First off, there's a lot of stuff about my life they don't know. They don't need to know it. It would hurt them unnecessarily. It just doesn't need to come up, yet if I asked for their help in some clarifications of things, that information would come out. Secondly, they think I'm fine right now. If I start asking questions again, they're going to freak out. Mom calls it 'recovery mode,' and she refers to it like it's some kind of hypnotic state I fall into. "Uh-oh. She's going into recovery mode again..." She doesn't mean it in a mocking way, but she means it in a 'oh no, my baby's in danger of falling off the edge - again' kind of way, because I only go into 'recovery mode' when I'm about to do something stupid.

So, an alcoholic can't just 'get better.' We know this is a lifelong struggle (i refuse to call it a disease), but there are certain steps you must take to reach the summit. For some reason, I seem to think I can skip some of those steps. You know what happens if you reach the top of a mountain too quickly? Your body doesn't acclimate. You get very sick. You get disoriented. I can't expect to reach enlightenment if I'm not ready and willing to tackle all those things that have been barriers for me my entire life.

I'm just not ready.