First?
That crazy juggling woman over there to the right of this screen? Click on her. My ego needs stroking, and I am all annoyed every time I go to that fucking Top Mommy Blogs site and see myself losing to giveaway-review-coupon blogs.
Seriously . . . everyone above me is a free-shit whore.
No offense.
Every time, it annoys me.
Mark’s suggestion?
That I hold a post hostage until I reach some magical number of votes . . .
You want more Pretty All True? Vote to make it happen!
Mark is all evil and manipulative.
He does not seem to be aware that I am not able to keep myself from posting every day, and so the threats of withholding?
Would be empty.
Sigh.
Once a day.
Fuck.
And for those of you who have already abandoned this post because I am all whiny and demanding and forcing the clicking hardship upon you?
I am all sad that you will not be here for the next part of this post.
Which goes like this . . .
Fuck you.
OK, then. Moving on.
A warning here? I am about to be revealed as all old again.
Mark and I are sitting on a park bench yesterday as the girls play.
We are talking about what an idiot I am to have lost my wedding ring . . . again.
I am feeling defensive (because I am in the wrong), and so I say, “Yes, well . . . at least I don’t walk into the ocean all mournful and killing myself every night.”
Mark is startled, “What?”
Why must I always explain everything? So fucking annoying.
And so I give him a chance to redeem himself. I turn and look into his eyes, “Seriously? Seriously? Think, babe.”
There is so much blankness in those eyes, I cannot even tell you.
Sigh.
So I help him out, “Every night, as long as we have been married? You make a neat little pile of your belongings before you come to bed. Your glasses, folded neatly. Your wallet to the right of your glasses. And then atop your wallet? Your comb and your wedding ring. Every night. Just saying.”
He stares at me, “OK . . . and . . . .?”
“And what? Every night you do that. And every night I have a moment of sadness that you are dead.”
“Kris? You are insane. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Nope. I so do not.”
“That is not possible.”
“Really, Kris? Really? I cannot read your mind . . . it’s all scribbled and dark in there. You are actually going to have to tell me what you are talking about.”
“That movie! Coming Home . . . where Jane Fonda falls in love with Jon Voight, who is all damaged and broken and in a wheelchair. The Vietnam War movie . . . Coming Home. Duh.”
Empty blank stare.
“Remember? Jane Fonda volunteers at the rehab clinic or something. She meets Jon Voight, who is all tousle-haired and adorable in his wheelchair. And then they yell at each other a lot and then they have sex. It’s all hot and she has her first orgasm and realizes that her husband is a selfish prick? Those were some good sex scenes, as I recall. And Bruce Dern plays her husband? And he is all uptight and awful? Even though, if my wife was off discovering orgasms with Jon Voight? I would be a little pissy too. But anyway, Bruce Dern is all ruined by the war and then all ruined by his life. I think he won an award for that movie.”
“Are we going to get to the part where you make any sense?”
“Didn’t you see this movie?”
“Yeah, like forever ago.”
“Ok, so then you know.”
“Know what?”
“That you are Bruce Dern. Every fucking night. You are Bruce Dern to me. It’s OK, babe. I have learned to deal with those little nightly twinges of sorrow at your death.”
“And still? I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Are other people’s husbands this stupid?
So I lay it out, “That scene . . . that heartbreaking scene where Bruce Dern piles up all of his belongings on the beach. In my memory his wedding ring is the last thing he piles. Right on top, all shiny. And then he turns and walks out into the ocean to die.”
Mark is staring at me, “How many times have you seen this move?”
“Just once, like . . . maybe thirty years ago. Why?”
“You saw a scene in a movie once, thirty years ago, and that single image stayed with you so that every time you see my ring and wallet piled up, you think for a moment that I have killed myself?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“You remember that, but you have lost your wedding ring . . . again.”
“And again . . . what’s your point?”
“You are not normal. That’s my point.”
We sit together and ponder that newsflash together in silence.
Later? I did find my ring, by the way. At the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry.
And last night?
Mark made the same little pile he always does. Glasses neatly folded. Wallet to the right of his glasses. Comb and wedding ring atop the wallet.
I get undressed as I stare at his belongings on the shelf.
And for a moment? Mark is gone. I miss him.
Sigh.
I need to watch that movie again.
Jon Voight?
Swoon!
And people?
I need stroking.
Ahem.
The fact that you remember that movie doesn’t make you look old.
But Mark carrying around his own comb sure makes him seem so. ;)
Oooooh . . . I am so telling Mark you called him old.
I so am.
And you have internet again!
Yay!
I missed you!
No Internet yet. Damn AT&T. We’ve been using Craig’s mifi card. Slow, but better than nothing, I guess.
And really, I’m fairly certain that only 13-year-old girls and old men carry combs with them.
Just sayin’.
Ummmm . . . babe?
Mark says to tell you that your Costco date?
Is fucking OFF.
Snort!
Dammit.
Even if I eat poo logs and gravy?
Mark is thinking.
Reconsidering.
Hold on . . .
He wants to know if you will eat Costco samples without bitching (as someone who shall remain nameless does).
And if you will walk with him aimlessly through the electronics section even though there is nothing there he needs.
And if you will encourage him in his useless bulk purchases of cereal bars that no one ever eats.
Your answer?
If he can agree to overlook my need to buy the 184-pack of every-shade-of-the-rainbow gel pens, Chinet plates with the three separate sections, and Maidenform bras, then we have a deal. Swoon.
Mark is in agreement.
And he loves you again.
Don’t fuck with his comb.
Snort!
i voted! yeahhh! but you lost me on the other part. just being honest.
Sorry to have lost you.
I confuse people, sometimes.
What with the scribbling.
And the murky darkness.
You know, I only saw that movie once, and it has stayed with me forever. I remember being so shocked that the cold, unfeeling Bruce Dern would kill himself. I thought, maybe, at first it was heartbreak. Then, on the way home, I decided it was shame.
RE: voting at juggling lady. I say, hold a post hostage… I would for sure vote every day. Otherwise, you know, the coupon lady sistas is gonna win. Fer Sure.
Coupon ladies are always going to win.
Free shit trumps words . . . every fucking time.
I don’t need to win.
OK, that’s a lie. How awesome would it be to win?
I am a teensy bit competitive.
Sigh.
And that movie?
It lingers.
I want to see it again . . . see how close my lingering sense of it is to the reality.
Yeah, because that always goes well.
Snort!
ok, I am way late with this comment so it will probably end up in the lost comments blogosphere somewhere.
BUT..
I feel fucking stupid, for an uber-web-tech-geek. So if I click the button does it automatically vote for you? Cause it just takes me to the site and then sits there staring at me. Waiting for me to do some fucking thing and I have no idea what.
So I just come here every morning now and click your button, hoping it is not a pointless endeavor cause I’m not doing it right.
Snort.
You’re doing it right.
If you click through to the page that says “Click here to Vote,” and click?
That’s it.
Thanks, you.
Very much.
Oh, and i simply must agree with @nodavberry there. I’m not going to squish your dreams, truly, I will support them to the end. But I stray away from over half those mommy blogs. The cute and fuzzy shit only last for about 3 months anyway and then it’s on to reality folks.
Take your cuteness, your fuzziness, your freakin Babies ‘R Us pastel designs and shove them so far up your obviously Over-functional-Martha-Stewartness ass.
I apologize for using Martha in this way. Cute and cuddly mommy bloggers have their place, just not with me. Sorry.
Motherhood with Uma Thurman. Watch it. My kinda mom.
Kris. My kinda mom, person, writer.
Jus sayin.
That Mark sure is evil genius and knows how to play the game pretty damn well.