In general, “dumping” is a word I try to avoid. Those of you who take issue with “moist” know what I mean. There’s just something completely unpalatable about the word. I won’t even refer to Lucas’s truck by its proper name, preferring to call it a Tonka. Even if it is made by Fisher Price. Yet, I’m the first to admit that I’ve been an offender in the past: at sleepaway camp I once broke up with a boy across the dining hall by way of metered clapping and song.
Quiet please…
Dedicated to Steven Matty from Stephanie Klein
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Trash is dumped,
And so are you.
Trés nice of me. Too bad (and thank God) Karma’s an even bigger bitch than I am. But today I awoke with a smear of thoughts, items I’m still trying to nab up, and figured it was time for a brain throw down. Sometimes it’s just plain essential to unload all the thoughts that keep bubbling to the top—to skim, if you will. Here’s the fat at the top of my mind:
A thank you. I need to say it. It can be very isolating and embarrassing to face the dysfunction in your marriage, or life, even. I realize it’s a growing process, but it shouldn’t feel shaming. I haven’t answered my phone in over a week. Haven’t even listened to the ten voice messages, still waiting for me. So add sorry to this note of thanks, too. I get that not everything needs to be shared on a blog, but when it’s something I’m in the thick of, something I feel alone in, it’s when I need to write about it most. For support most of the time, and in this case, I needed to air and share it so I’d confront it. Once you blog about it, you can’t just sit on the sofa and watch The Good Wife, as if nothing even happened. You can’t pretend it away. The only way out really is through. And that’s where we still are, working through.
Another sorry. I can’t respond to every email, but I do read them all. Some of them I keep open (yet minimized) for months, intending to respond. Others, to which I believe I’ve responded, only nope. Wrong, lady. Totally ignored ’em. Worst offense: reading the emails on my phone. Because as much as I try to remember switching to “mark as unread” so it will in fact appear on my computer, I don’t always do it. And then I’ve gone and read this heartfelt email, really intending to respond, but I don’t. And I’m sorry. Especially to the unwed, no recent prospects, reader who confided that her parents wanted to buy her a birthday gift of paying for her to freeze her eggs. I think of you often and hope you’re in a better place (and quite frankly, I would have taken them up on that deal).
And another sorry. I don’t update as often as I’d like because sometimes it feels like I have nothing to say. Or there’s too much on my writing to-do list. At other times, like today, I have too much to say and don’t want to—forgive this unsavory expression—blow my whole load in one shot. Hate myself for that, but damn, it’s true. So to that point, I’m going to hoard all my other scattered thoughts, hoping to share them, one by one, like a normal person, each day on this here loverly nest of blog.
In the meanwhile, I’ve got a Sex & The City flick by way of chick for which to dress this evening. Now, excuse me while I figure out how to turn an Hermes scarf into a turban… or blindfold from what I’m hearing.
