Uncorked

Last week in New York, I walked along crowded sidewalks beside and old friend and we talked about our lives. Our real lives. The lives we don't talk about.

It's funny, how so much of me is laid bare in these pages, yet really, you don't know me any more than you know any other transgender pseudonym on the internet. Everything I tell you could be some elaborate fable. I could be the 389 pound phone sex operator you are *convinced* is 18-and-three-weeks old and totally into you. You and I have no tangible relationship relative to reality and yet, everything I haven't told you, every lie of omission in the story you read about me has effectively stopped me from writing all together.

***

She and I walked through Central Park under the cold, damp, creamsicle streetlamps, eating pretzels with too much Gulden's, talking about how difficult it is to hide some of our story and share the rest of it. We naturally want to keep the most tender parts of ourselves held back from the harsh LED lights of the internet, but those are the ones that push the hardest to come out and in order to stop them, we have to shove a cork so far down our throats that not another word can pass by.

***

Last month, I had to go through my archives for last year to pick my three favorite posts from 2011. It took me 8 minutes to read *all* of my archives. Three years ago, exactly on my 33rd birthday, I signed with a literary agent. One who approached me. One who signed me without so much as a proposal for a book. And three years later, I still haven't written one tangible sentence.

***

It gets to the point where, until you say the one thing you can't, you won't be able to utter any other words.

My husband is an alcoholic.

He was missing for seven hours tonight.

I am more afraid of what will happen next if I don't say that than I am afraid of what's going to happen once I do.

Mostly, I am just afraid.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

There is a reason I go to bed hours before my husband does, and this right here is exactly it.

It is 1:06 am and I am sitting on the couch with that exhilarated feeling you get in your head and your forearm for exactly 1.37 seconds when you just *know* that this time, the lawn mower is going to start. 

My father will tell you with no hesitation that my first step-mother attempted to murder him in his sleep one night. He woke up in the middle of the night to find her straddling him (easy, tiger, it's a family blog) with one hand over his mouth and the other pinching his nose shut. 

They say we all marry our fathers. I guess I married my father's sinuses. 

When I was very, very little, we lived in a house made of stucco and mud. The walls were ridiculously thin and my bunkbeds shared a wall with my father's headboard. Knowing this fact, you think they wouldn't have let me watch hour after hour of The Incredible Hulk, but no one ever said my parents were smart and more nights than not I ended up wedged in between them in their bed where I could confirm with deafening certainty that the source of that horrible, wall-shaking noise was my father's face. 

I guess it's not until you're married for a few years that snoring goes from lullabyish soothing to force-choke worthy.

Tonight I laid in my bed, counting chain saws, trying to figure out why I let him go to bed first and how much duct tape it would take to remedy the situation. I tried to channel my inner four year old and find a way to be comforted by the audio reenactments of the book of Revelations on the pillow next to mine, but it turns out that pretending your husband is your father, even for a second, it just a terrible, rotten, no good very bad idea, indeed. 

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

67 years ago today, a baby girl was born in Zanesville, Ohio, who would change my whole life.  See, that girl would grow up to be a college student who met a football player, and they totally did it.  Three times, in fact.  And thanks to her, I have someone to talk shit about on my blog.

My husband is really great.  I'm just going to say that now and get it out of the way so he doesn't kill me when he reads this.

That motherfucker never buys me flowers.  EVER.  I mean, come on.  Three of your spawn carved their initials in the walls of my uterus, homie.  Would it kill you to throw a rose my way once in a while?

He's going to say, "Shut up, ho, I totally give you flowers."  And I'm going to follow that with a, "Whatever, hosehead."  It's not that he doesn't ever, really, I guess.  It's just that his delivery is all wrong.

Example:  Pick a Valentine's Day, any Valentine's Day.  The routine is he gets up, has some coffee, opens the fridge, says, "Oh crap, we're low on milk!  I'll be right back!", hops in the car and comes home an hour later from Safeway with the very last flower arrangement they had crammed in the back of the cooler right next to the milk, which consists of one near-frozen rose, about 8 tons of baby's breath, and some asparagus because someone bought all the bamboo stalks.  But at least he tried.

But there was this one year, and oh lord, he actually outdid himself.  He came home from work the night before my birthday with ohmygod this bouquet of flowers.  I can't even tell you the flowers.  The thing was bigger than my torso (no small feat).  There were lilies and roses and shit I ain't nevah seen before.  It was actually arranged. The vase was this ginormous round glass bowl, so you could see all the stalks.  It was To. Die. For.  I don't think I have ever loved a gift more from him.  Like, I called his MOTHER to tell her about it, that's how happy I was.  Like, I'm pretty sure I had sex with him because of it, too.  THAT GOOD.

For a few days, I was totally thrilled.  I suppose I harped on it a little too much, made too big a deal out of it, was too happy that he'd totally wasted what was obviously a buttload of money on me, because he started trying to disclaimer it, like he was hurt that I was so overly happy about one bouquet of flowers or something.  He'd start in with, "Well, I just grabbed it fr..." SHUT UP, DUDE.  Do NOT ruin this for me.  A bit later he'd say, "It's just some stupid thing I.." UH UH.  No you don't, fool.  He kept it up until one moment, when I didn't catch him in time, and what does that moron blurt out?

"It was JUST a left-over bouquet from a function at work, that's all!"

Oh, no he didn't.  He did not tell me that he grabbed something off a table at work and gave it to me as my gift, did he?  Yes, yes he did.  That was information I could have gone my WHOLE LIFE not knowing.  Talk about a buzz kill, yo.  I'm pretty sure I un-had sex with him that night.

Point is, though he totally provides for my every need, buys me awesome Christmas gifts, gave me a shiny new laptop just because, and does not throw anything at me when he has to spend his one day a week off washing the laundry I was too busy blogging to get to, he sucks at flowers.  And flowers are the key to any woman's heart, I don't care who tells you what.  Diamonds are for cutting glass, that's it.

There's more, but it's at my review blog, and I'm all about giving you the option to pass on that, so follow if you like, don't if you don't, but I actually have a little something to give away, in case you're interested.  And no nudity this time, sorry.  Or you're welcome, depending.

It's Not A Sin If We're Married, Right?

The first day with the mother in law, I have to admit, went pretty damn well.  The Donor headed out to the airport to pick her up with the kids at noon, leaving me two hours to frantically clean everything I've ignored for a year take a shower, get dressed, and relax.  3of3, who hasn't seen her gramma since she was 5 months old, took all of 30 seconds to warm right up to her.  We had a late lunch, a later dinner, an awesome gift exchange, Ding Dongs for dessert and then everyone headed to bed.

I'm sitting on the couch right now looking over the laptop at my husband.  A shockingly large pile of Kit-Kats separates us.  He's got the UFC on; I've got the blog up.

Good god, I have never wanted to jump on someone so bad in my whole life.

I remember when I was young and just starting out in the world of doing it.  I was 19, engaged to a fabulous boy (who will hate me for writing this, sorry) and living at home with my parents.  He was, too, but my parents were a bit more open-minded than his (understatement of the year) and so we spent most of our time at my house.  We made most of our time at my house.  We got really good at sneaking around, at being quiet, at hiding that shit.  We never once got caught, even when we were doing things on the dining room table 20 minutes before the dear old parents came home from work that no one should be doing on one's parents dining room table, even when we were right in the middle of the living room when the dear parents were upstairs watching tv.  We were stealthy, and yeah, it was totally fun.  Maybe it was the whole 'it's more exciting when you don't have permission' thing, or maybe I'm just a perv.  Bygones.

Either way, here I am, 14 years later with my husband's mother sleeping one wall away from us, and I have to keep eating Kit Kat after Kit Kat just to keep myself busy enough to not pounce on this poor, unsuspecting man.  I really can't explain it; it's just that damn naughty factor that is always my undoing.

We really need to get that hotel room already.

I have this $50 gift certificate for Smarty Pig, which is an online, FDIC insured, short term savings account thingy that I won from Jeremy at Discovering Dad which I could totally put to use saving for a lovely weekend getaway, except the damn thing only works for Americans.  Pshaw.  So, whoever shares the best 'dear god we need/needed/will be in need of a hotel room story' gets it.

Do your parents live with you?  Are they coming to visit?  Did you lose something rather important to you on Sunday, January 16th, 1994 while your dad was right above you upstairs cooking bacon and eggs?  Leave your story in the comments, and the juiciest story wins on Friday.

I Sure Hope I Put That Netflix Movie in the Mail

Exactly one year ago today....

See this?



This is what I am doing tomorrow at 6 a.m. or so. With 3 kids. One of which who is under 2.

I think my Happy Meal is missing a few fries.

Our little one week vacation went slightly over schedule. We came, we saw, we stayed. Sometimes it flat out blows my mind how much can change in a year. Here's to my husband, who had the courage to try. Here's to my kids, who had the capacity to understand. And here's to me, who, for the first time in her life, attempted a little thing called forgiveness.

I'm glad we took that road trip. I'm glad we decided to make his Father's Day present us. I'm glad that I didn't intend this, or even want this, when I got into that car. It's been one of the hardest years of my life, this one, more internally than anything else. I don't know how to forgive, I have no earthly clue how to trust, but I'm learning. Every day, I find out one new thing about myself. This thing, this rebuilding a marriage, has been so much harder than anything I've ever had to do before.

But you know what? It's not impossible, it's not too hard, and there are days when I think that nothing in this whole world is more worth-while. The speed-bumps are annoying, the pot-holes really, really hurt when I hit them, but the times when the sun is out and the road is open? Those are the happiest times of my life so far.

Would I do it again? I honestly don't know. But, just once, I did that thing that I was most afraid to do. I took the road less traveled, just like I said on my wedding announcements that I would. And I am really lucky that I did.

I remember stopping at a pretty schwanky hotel in Boise tonight one year ago, the one I couldn't afford at all but got anyway, figuring we'd just eat mac & cheese for the rest of the month once we got home, throwing the kids in the pool, and calling Gigi to check in. I remember the sound of her voice, and the concern she was trying to mask, and I remember thinking that, for the first time in my adult life, I'd found home. That woman was home. I remember reading my comments that night and seeing Diane's, and realizing that she, a woman I still have never met in real life, was home, too. That I had real, grown up friends, that I had finally found my spot in Denver, in life, in all of it.

And then I just never came back.

I miss home, I really do. I ache for Denver, for Gigi's kitchen, for the possibility of taking in a Rockies game with Diane someday, for Molly and Marge and Aimee and David and Andy and Stephen and all of you in the Mile High Club. But, you know what? This right here, this couch, these pictures, my Mini-Cuisinart; that's home, too. And that's just fine by me.