Song on the iPod: `Lover, Lover` - Shaggy
Song in my head: `What Might’ve Been` – Little Texas
Actual conversation at work yesterday:
Co-worker: Wow, why are your arms so scratched up? Do you have cats?
Me: No, we did a bunch of yardwork.
Co-worker: With cats?
Ha! Anyway-- onto things.
My ex-husband is getting remarried.
There.
I said it.
Wow, for some reason just typing it makes it finally seem real.
So. Yeah. He`s getting remarried. In less than two months. Seriously! On my dad`s (and my boyfriend`s) birthday. I`ll bet my left boob most of you men right now are thinking (not to be sexist) yeah so, you left him, big deal, not your problem, he needs to get laid, get over it already, yes?
But women, c`mon. Back me up here. No matter how dysfunctional the marriage, how bad the breakup, how horrible his porn addiction - or pick your favorite flaw- there`s still that squeaky little voice in my head that keeps urging me to get wasted, sing bad karaoke, and puke into my hair. Am I right?
It`s not that I want him back. It`s not even that I miss him or think I made a bad decision. Hell no. In fact, I know I made the right decision. And okay sure, I had some guilt over dumping a man I was with for over 10 years-- notwithstanding the mountain of crap I put up with, long story for another time or look back in my archives. I worried about him, didn`t want for him to be alone, didn`t want him to miss me-- but--
It`s him. He was my first love, my husband. And I know, I know- it takes two to tango. Ugh, here comes the cliche monster, roar. but it’s just - weird.
I guess there`s this twinge of Wow, he`s actually over me. He`s actually moved on. Never mind that he moved on with a thin, blonde stick insect named Brittany with these ginormous boobs she`s waiting until their wedding night to share plentifully with my ex husband. I wish I didn`t feel like he traded up; not that I`m a fat but small-breasted rhinoceros named Broomhilda. Because I`m not. But still- just-- ugh. bangs head on desk
Part of it too is that I thought I would remarry before he would. Call it competitive. Which just sounds stupid, because I`m not ready to marry again quite yet. We`re blissfully taking our time, we have a plan. Kind of. And also, I`m happy, dammit. I really am. Happier than I`ve ever been, both in my relationship and life in general. I have the man of dreams. Oh. my. god. And if it hadn`t been for how my relationship went south with my ex, we wouldn`t have met.
And the GTF made a good point. I know, SHOCKER. I don`t have to worry about my ex anymore. He`s not my problem anymore. He`s not alone, he`s not pining, he`s not bitter. Perhaps now I can finally get the horrible image of the last time I saw him out of my head—he`s sitting on our couch, holding my dog that he ended up keeping. He`s crying so hard he`s hiccupping and gasping, begging me not to leave while my dog whines pitifully, wondering where I`m going as I turn my back and walk out the door.
Guilt. Awful guilt.
Not. my. problem. anymore. Though he does still have my awesome place settings and pots and pans and that pisses me off. Oh, and speaking of that, could they have registered for uglier sh-t? Blah blah blah. White this, cream that, silver this. Whatever. La la la, to quote my Will. He`s not alone, I`m not alone. Everything is good and right with the world.
So yeah. Over it. I`m fine.
On to more important stuff, like the kick ass fitness center my new company has. Holy CRAP!
So here`s the thing. After working for one agonizing year in the psychotic manager crapholes that are small companies, boy did I forget about the glorious wonders of bloated, rat raced corporate America. It`s a beautiful thing, folks. Giant cubicles, company-issued laptops, kick ass health insurance, bonuses-- and freakin` AWESOME gyms!
I`m in a contract to hire recruiting position, so even though I`m still in my contract period - 90 days, BLAH!! - I can workout in a fully equipped gym 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We`re talkin` stairmasters, elipticals, bikes, treadmills, free classes, plus a full weight room. Score!!
Since my hours are 830 to 530 (icky Dallas traffic and I`m one scary b-tch), I can still get up at the reasonable hour of 6 am, throw on functional but modest (a.k.a. no mega black hole cleavage) work out clothes, and head out with my bag and clothes for the day. I`m at the office and on the elliptical with my iPod and NikePlus 25 minutes later! I`m already feeling better, happier, more energetic.
Okay, sure, so it requires my OCD to kick in a bit and plan my outfits, organize my shower and hair and makeup kits. But it`s worth it. Plus, my OCD has more important things to worry about - like putting away winter clothes and bringin` out the sundresses and tank tops - and organizing them by color. Yeah. Shut up. Yay! ::happy dance::
So yeah. Kick ass gym. Corporate America, I only have one thing to say - MWAH!!!!
::sigh::
Grrr, topic number 3. The dying uncle. I have a dying uncle. In the past 18 months, he`s battled and beaten stage 4 lung cancer and stage 2 and 3 brain cancer with endless chemo (and despite plenty of bad attitude). He`s alienated his wife, his daughter, his oldest brother (aka my dad), and everyone else that tries to convince `mind over matter` has proven to work over and over and over again, especially in people with terminal diseases. And now he is terminal. Really terminal. Stage 4 liver cancer terminal.
Of course, my doomsayer, might-as-well-be-planning-his-funeral grandparents aren`t helping. Constantly praying over him, asking about his `financial affairs` and crying like blubbering idiots.
I`m sorry, I probably sound incredibly insensitive. Children aren`t supposed to die before their parents. It`s horrible. My grandparents are almost in their nineties (able-bodied, yes); they are simply, country people who have had their long-in-place faith in God shaken to its core. Never mind my uncle has never been able to catch a break what with divorce and debt and that`s another long story.
But it`s getting ridiculous. They don`t even trust my dad (who lives an hour away vs the 5 hours my grandparents drive every week to see him), much less my uncle`s WIFE to take care of him. They convinced him to leave all his money to his spoiled daughter (my cousin, sorry, but she is) instead of his wife (who only gets the house that desperately needs upgrading and the veterinary business that`s flailing terribly since he got sick).
The whole situation just makes me mad, and with the stress my parents have had between my dad`s job and the house (yet another looooong story akin to sticking epidural-size needles in one`s eyes), it`s the last thing they need.
Let me paint ya a little picture. We all gathered out at my uncle`s house last week to celebrate his birthday (sans his daughter. Yeah.) The cousins (and our respective significant others) had good laughs. Good food. But there was this somber air about the whole thing, what with my skin-and-bones, bald, pale uncle barely to get out of his chair and my grandmother and aunt weeping over saying grace, over the sausage and German chocolate cake, over the birthday cards - ugh.
Oh my, the cards. Do you know how hard it is to find a card for a `dying` (my grandmother`s word) person that won`t offend anyone? I mean, considering your audience in that situation is like trying to plan a holiday party at the United Nations. Someone`s just plain gonna be pissed off. The card can`t mention anything about `next year` or `lasting this long` or `for a long time to come. Nothing like `at least you`re over the hill and not under it!` What about the cute frog who says `You`re how old? Wow! At least you haven`t croaked!` Oops. Bzz! Wrong answer! Nor does a dog crapping in the backyard as a birthday gift or the crotchety old lady spitting out the candles come across as particularly side splitting at a time like this. And I`m sorry, but the sappy `You`re that one special uncle who makes everyone feel loved` would just be a bloated line of crap. So I`m reduced to a pair of pink female sheep wearing birthday hats, the front of the card reading “Happy Birthday”, the inside stating “Two ewe”. The end.
Again, call me insensitive, but it`s just a bad situation all around. When all I really want to do is stand on a chair and scream `What is this, a pre emptive wake? Just bop him over the head with a large frying pan and put him out of his misery!` What he really needs is laughter, love, and positive thoughts. But no. Not gonna happen. And it makes me sad.
But despite dying uncles and remarrying ex husbands (and a bit because of kick ass gyms) life is good.
Stay tuned for pics of the Wienie Queen (my dachshund, dirty people!), our garden, and our fabulously retro hot dog cooker (yes, we`re dorks)
Ciao.
