There is a good amount of pressure in returning after an unplanned 3-week blogsence. A looming cloud of expectation. A clasp-handed anticipation of tales. Adventure. Eager noses pressed to the laptop, quickly scanning the words to read about adult bed wetting, slovenly roommates, misguided minuscule Lotharios, and absent-minded naivete. So you could understand my reservation to return with nothing but a crazy aubergine blister and a wicker basket full of excuses.
I appreciate your patience as I spin my way, Tazmanian Devil-style, back into your computer. What are my excuses? What have I been up to? How will I keep your attention so you don’t dump me like a white lady with 8 kids?
My first excuse is as raw and real as good old fashioned fear. It began when I dry erased all traces of my blog from Face Place. Then I deleted my favorite entries from Spy Mace. Posts were halted from pocket to page because I couldn’t be certain whose eyes and hearts would be invested in what I wrote. Offending, alienating, and tearing are not my goals. I’m not here to verbally maim or bisect anyone who crosses my path with word swords. I’m here to make sense of the moments I have to brown knuckle my way onto this spinning little ball of a planet.
But I found that safety and authenticity are not friends. The live on different sides of the tracks. They eat a different lunch tables at John Hughes High. Authenticity puts an aluminum bucket of swinecrit on the rafters at Safety’s prom. To be me, how I live here, I need to put it all out there. Layout out there like Jon Gosselin’s belly. Consider this my mea culpa for the life of my blog. That 9 times of out of 10, I leave it all here and don’t think about it again until you remind me I put it here.
The ABFF is moving to Austin next month. And a part of me is scared shitless. It’s that part that is pretty sure if I left the curling iron on or wonders how many packets of Splenda I can consume before I get a tumor. The part that harbors an almost paralyzing phobia of zombies and episiotomies. She came to town to interview for the job and my confidence in my side of the friendship was shaken. We’ve been maintaining a distanced friendship for half our lives. We’ve always been outskirts friends. We’ve buzzed by for the big things but have never been in the same habitual space. We’ve made concerted efforts for exotic big city dinners, an exhausting flash through every tourist attraction in NYC, outrigger wedding in Taos. But never a mid-week happy hour or an urbane movie night. We talk about life and kids and culture and change; not reality shows and how to make it to work on time after a night at the strip club. She’s my grown up friend. The model of the life I should be living if I could get my shit together. The one I tell about my (imaginary) book who, 5 minutes later, emails me a list of publishers and a publications accepting entries from amateur writers. The one that got me blogging. The sad thing is I love her to death. She’s my sister from another mister. So it’s one of those reality pills I will need to swallow. I’ll sip off my 16oz glass of mama’s sweet tea, hug her with sweaty palms, and welcome her to the beginning of the rest of our lives.
I pride myself of doing things my way. I try to make my life distinctive, to matter in new ways. To conquer things I never imagined, in big and small ways. I am able to do it things like roller derby but not so much with my weight. Roller derby was my attempt at something new. To blaze a path not traveled by anyone I know. But… it was kinda …boring. I know people have seen derby on TV and imagine it to be all tiny skirts hurling tattooed, sweaty bitches over padded rails. And it very well may be, but the training…not so much. Plus, I got this ugly purple blister on my toe and decided I am not putting the appearance of my feet (or face) in peril for the sake of conquering boredom.
Oh, and I realized that I am the worst wife ever.
The Hubster’s high school friend, Javier, came to town with his girlfriend, The Teacher. When Javier and The Hubster are together, they turn into Dumb & Dumber meets Aneurysm & Brain Damaged. They’re the duo who came up with the idea to put a ciggy in the mouth of a dead armadillo. The ones that had simultaneously thought to rob the pimp because “What’s he gonna do? Tell the cops he got robbed by 2 white guys??” And it’s entertaining for about 20 minutes. Then you just want to punch them in the wiener. The Teacher and I had been in contact with trivial things like sharing flight information, coordinating pick ups, and managing the itinerary for the 4 days they were in town. Had we left any of these up to the boys, they would still be at the airport subsisting on mini bottles of liquor, Cinnabon, and Starbucks. If they actually made it to our place, the plan would likely be something like this:
2:00pm Wake up
2:05pm Watch every season of “South Park” over 24 bottles of beer
4:30pm Jack In The Box
4:45pm Watch the entire “Chronicles of Riddick” series
9:00pm Shower
9:03pm Head downtown to pub for more beer
1:00pm Watch “Rambo” with the volume so high the walls shake
3:00pm Poke girl in bed with spontaneous boner
3:03pm Rub hand print off face, scratch balls, fart, go to bed
I did the best I could to make sure they inserted events into the weekend that would be interesting to anyone that wasn’t a 12 year-old boy. Like The Teacher. But I came off as a nagging wife instead. Mainly because The Teacher is in that phase of the relationship. The one where her man can do no wrong. Where she’s interested in seeing every part of his life so she can understand him better. To feel closer to him. I imagine she went on vacation to build memories for their scrapbook, not because she had a burning desire to visit hot-ass Austin. She giggled and smiled and brought him water every morning. Massaged his feet, rubbed his back, and shared food off her fork. After 3 years of marriage I’ve traded bringing him morning water for thumping him on the forehead; rubbing his back for incessant requests to get his hair cut ; sharing food off my fork for getting tanked during the 90 minute wait for the restaurant The Hubster chose that’s 23 minutes out of town.
That’s just how I roll.
