Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “May, 2014”

Young Pups and Old Dogs

I’m flying!!!!

About once a week I get to leave Stalag 13, also known as my office trailer, and venture up the hill to the post office. This morning Kansas is beautiful; around 80 F (26.6 C for the rest of the world), with a nice breeze. By this afternoon it will be a totally different story, with a temp of 95 F, and wind gusting to around 40, and about 60% humidity.  I hop in my car, roll down the windows, and prepare to take advantage of the perfection of this particular Tuesday morning.

On my drive up the hill, I notice the dogs in the car ahead of me are taking advantage of it too. I see a white pup, with a black nose and floppy ears first. His head is bobbing all around, trying hungrily to grab a scent of something, jowls blowing in the breeze, ears flipping all around and even making a circular motion one time, because this pup can’t keep his head still just to enjoy the breeze in his face. I have no idea what the dog’s age is, but it’s pretty obvious he’s a pup, with his head darting all around like he’s going to miss something on the ride, and might never get the chance to see it again. Unable to stand it any longer, he makes his way to the other window, hoping to catch a glimpse out of it.

That’s when I notice the all black face of another dog that was obscured by all the pup’s bobbing and weaving. We stop at the light and I can see the gray on the old man’s nose. He is calm. He lifts his face to the sun, inhaling slowly, savoring the bouquet of the morning. He appears tranquil and comfortable with where he is at, in this particular space and time. The pup doesn’t even annoy him as he makes his way back and forth along the seat, as he remembers he was young once and he too felt the need to run at life like there wouldn’t be enough time to smell everything along the way.

I have to turn to get to my destination and they continue on. When I stop, I sit for a second, thinking about how I can relate to both those dogs. I too want to be tranquil and comfortable with where I am at, and some days I can. Some days I can stop along my way and savor life. Other days I am still the pup, running from one thing to another hoping to find an exciting adventure.

I decide being a little bit of both is just fine with me. I step from the car and lift my face to the sun, feel the breeze on my face, and inhale life.

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Friday Mind Fuck

vase

I learned a valuable lesson today. I will never step foot in another gun range.

I was raised in Kansas. I grew up around guns. I have enjoyed shooting guns.

I don’t enjoy it anymore.

I’ve been “on edge” since my first go-round with abuse. I don’t like people sneaking up on me and touching me. I don’t like people jumping out from places and trying to scare me.

And after being beat up this last time, I really don’t like loud noises. They make me jump. They make my heart race.

I tried to go to the gun range with some co-workers today. I put the ear plugs in. I picked up the weapon.

Someone fired next to me. I jumped.

I fired. I jumped. T

The person next to me fired again. I jumped again.

I laid the weapon down and walked quickly out the door, escaping to the street.

I’m still shaking inside. I want to go home and lay down in my bed, where I still keep a baseball bat at arm’s reach, and sleep and forget how the sound made me feel.

I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want for stupid shit like this to mind-fuck me.

But one thing I’ve learned since going into therapy is that broken can’t be fixed.

Broken can only be mended.

Willy (Wonka) Envy

Look but don't touch!

You can look but you can’t touch!

I had to admit it to My Man.

Like Charlie standing outside the sweet shop without money to buy a Wonka Bar, I was envious.

My Man had gotten The Golden Ticket of blogging. He had been Freshly Pressed.

 

GOLDENTICKET

I think this is what it was like for My Man to get Freshly Pressed.

My Man was excited, and rightly so. This was something he had been striving for since beginning blogging.

I admire him, because unlike me, he actually has blogging goals. I just kind of post an eclectic mess, in an extremely random fashion, thinking that maybe one day I’ll hit some sort of blogging payola.

My Man on the other hand, strives for a certain number of subscribers and views, and usually posts a certain number of days a week. He’s dedicated to his craft.

I’m just hanging around like Veruca, screaming every once in awhile like a spoiled brat, and licking the damn wallpaper.

 

That means immediately!!

That means immediately!!

And not only did I have to admit to My Man that the little green monster of envy had bitten my fat bottom when he was FP’d, I also had to admit to being visited by that damn thing called jealousy.

You know why? My Man has groupies.

I mean with a blog like his it’s to be expected. Every naughty little Catholic school girl for miles flocks to worship at his altar, led there by the search term, “What would Jesus Christ do?”. Wait. Maybe it was the search term, “What would Johnny Cash do?”. I always get that mixed up.

But Man In Black groupies, or “Sisters” with bad habits, either way, they adore him. They want to prostrate themselves and profess their undying devotion to his particular brand of religion. They’re willing to flagellate themselves in order to wash his feet, and kiss his ring, and open their mouths for him to place his “communion wafers” so delicately on their salivating tongues.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene's standing around my man.

Me, purple with jealousy, because of all the Mary Magdalene’s in training, standing around my man.

Bless him, I think, as I make the sign of the cross while kicking bitches out of the way to get to him, My Man is understanding of my envy of his Freshly Pressed status. As writers we all want to be acknowledged in that Golden Ticket way, and he doesn’t think I’m a slimy Slugworth to admit my envy of that status.

The jealousy he gets, but tells me it is quite unnecessary, as I am the only fat bottom girl who will lick his lolly.

And I’ve learned, that regardless of the female masses who adore him, at the end of the day, and the beginning, and in the middle, he’s My Man. He’s my Everlasting Gobstopper. He’s the one who every day, makes me feel like I’ve stolen a sip of a Fizzy Lifting Drink and that I can achieve new heights just because he’s there holding my hand.

***This is written all in good fun, as My Man is quite aware I am extremely proud of him, and adore his wicked sense of humor, his sexy brain, and also the python in his pants. He’s very talented, and I only hope I will have the pleasure of riding his coattails, and maybe a part of his anatomy, into a life filled with fame and fortune! And he is always there, supporting my writing, and as my muse. Some day, hopefully we will collaborate on a writing project, because we’re a dynamic duo and will kick some literary ass!

A Melancholy Mother’s Day

I wrote to my daughter’s mother today to tell her Happy Mother’s Day. Yes, you heard me correctly. I have a daughter, but I am not her mother. It pained me for years to say this, but it is the truth.

You see, I got pregnant and had a baby at 16. I wasn’t equipped to be a mom. I considered abortion, but by the time my mind really allowed me to realize I was pregnant, it was too late, and I don’t think I could’ve gone through with it anyway. So I did what numerous teen girls have done before me, and I put her up for adoption.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

I felt like a piece of my soul had been torn out of my very being. I felt incomplete most days, because I knew she was out there but she wasn’t a part of my life.

Some days I wanted to die it hurt so bad. Other days I thought her being gone was like a death, but worse because I didn’t know where she was or what was happening in her life.

I wanted to be a part of her life, but knew that I had to wait. I had to wait until she was at least 18 to start looking for her.

It didn’t take 18 years. Around her 10th birthday, her mother contacted me and she and I started a regular correspondence. She would send pictures and letters occasionally, and I would send gifts to my daughter. Her mother and I developed a friendship, born out of heartbreak – hers for not being able to conceive, and mine for giving away my child. Her mother was very appreciative of my sacrifice and knew what I had done hadn’t been easy.

When my daughter was 24 I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to extend a hand in case she was interested in getting to know each other, or I wanted to find some closure so I wasn’t sitting around wondering for the rest of my life.

I wrote my daughter a letter, telling her that if she was interested, I would like to get to know her, and if not, I understood and wouldn’t contact her again.

About a week later, I received a Facebook friend request from her and was elated! She and I began corresponding and getting to know each other. She wanted to know about my son, her half-brother, and was interested in some family medical history also.

We arranged to meet. She was so much like me it was scary. Nature wins out over nurture obviously.

I found out she was getting married within a few months, and she invited me, and my family to the wedding. It was bittersweet. I had to leave the venue and go outside to get a grip on my emotions.

It’s the oddest feeling to share DNA with someone, yet be on the periphery of their life.

I would say my daughter and I became friends of sorts. She came and stayed with me a couple of times, and my son and I would visit her.

Even though I knew that I wasn’t her mother–I wasn’t the woman who had raised her, who comforted her when she cried, who reveled in her achievements, who waited up to make sure she came home safely–I was the woman who had given birth to her. I was the one who carried her in me for 9 months. I was the one who held her, and fed her, and changed her diaper for 4 days before she left the hospital to go be with her new family.

Because of that, I wanted her to just one time, acknowledge to me that I had done those things. That I mattered because I gave her life. That I mattered because I let her go to parents who adored her and gave her an amazing life.

The last time I saw her she acknowledged me, but not like I had hoped.

“I wish you’d never had me!”

“Why didn’t you just abort me?”

“I wished I’d never met you!”

“I hate you and you’ve ruined my life twice!”

She walked away and never looked back. She and I have no contact now.

I won’t reach out again.

You might think that’s selfish, or immature. You can think what you like. You don’t know my heart or the hell I went through for years while missing my daughter.

Children break our hearts. Maybe your child broke your heart today, as my son did, with no “Happy Mother’s Day” utterance, no “You’re the greatest mom and I love you”.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent and have a piece of your soul walking around in this world–knowing that as much as you love them, they are their own beings, and they will think, and do, exactly as they please regardless.

Maybe he will understand one day if he has children of his own.

Maybe my daughter will understand one day if she has children of her own.

Maybe, just maybe, she will be able to forgive a 16 year old girl, who was scared shitless, and felt like she had no other options.

But maybe she won’t. And that’s okay. Because I love her anyway. And I love my son too.

And because I love them, I forgive them.

We’re moms, we’re dads, we’re parents. It’s what we do.

Ratios

And I want the perfect bite ratio of sausage to cheese omelette

Just as I want you to think about me as much as I think about you

Can’t You Smell That Smell?

And the shortest distance between two points

is as the crow flies

so I wait for wings to form

make me a bird and let me fly

far, far away

but no amount of pleading with a non-existent god or goddess

can make it happen

so I’m leaving on a jet plane

to get a rocky mountain high, the rocky mountain way

I couldn’t get much higher

if I was huffing the scent of your excellence

while standing 40 feet in the air with you

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