There are some things that I am really good at. Some things, in fact, that I might even say I am the best at of anyone I know. Like writing a card; I can touch you with few words. Like singing a beatles lullaby to my daughter. In the small hours of chronic coughs and temperatures: I'm the mom you want in your ear. My chicken and dumplings are—let's face it—legendary. There are things I do well.
I am inept at one thing: I'm not good with boyfriends. Not really that I'm not good with them, just that I'm not good at getting them; my procurement skills leave something to be desired. What I am good at is attracting them, then unintentionally making them think I'm psychotic. Which I find pretty funny and basically pathetic. And which they just about never find funny but do stop calling. Immediately.
I'm starting to think it's not them: it might even be me.
I'm naturally curious. I'll tell you right out about it: I'm going to google you. From that I may get a map to your house, I might find out where you work, I might even find out your wife's name. But I'm not stalking you. I'm just naturally curious. I'm interested in you. I like you.
And all that might be well and good except for my basic weakness: talk. I cannot keep my mouth closed. Even now in the middle of the night, I have to tell you what I'm thinking. And so! When I tell you I googled you: guess what? Yes, I am good at making them think I'm psychotic. And no matter how hilarious I think it is when other chicks stalk you….let's face it: I am not crazy. just a little unwell.
It's my dang boundaries, folks. I've got brick walls up where there should be shrubbery and I've got little tufts of monkey grass around my vulnerability. I would love to be able to sit here and think it through then stand up and point my finger at the reason why I'm that way. Lord knows it's not my fault. Right?
No, no. it's his fault..
He made me believe we were building on concrete then one day thought it'd be funny to tell me it was really a pool. Then he filled it up with water. and I thought I really might drown in that freaking thing. Unti I re-learned how to swim.
Yes, Everything is his fault
No, no. It's mom's fault. If she would've taken her divorce better, then I would have had a role model. I would've seen how to date after divorce. I'd never have made all these mistakes if she had done it differently. See. It was her.
No, no. it's dad's fault. No. his wife's. Whichever. Equating drunkeness and wildness with the good life. Celebration was more important than a cause for it. Even if there was cause for sadness. Let's have a drink, we'll all be laughing soon enough. Tin foil wrapped around air. Why would I be able to discern what is honest or a lie; I've never known anyone authentic.
So bring out your boxes. Of kleenex. And please cry in pity for me. I'm nothing more than a product of my experiences. i have become cumbersome. melodramatic in the shallow bits and aloof when the plot thickens. I'm bitter, but cute.
i've had enough therapy. it's just me after all. stick around a while and then you'll see...a different side of me. i'm funny as hell. i'm so smart it scares you, in the good way. and that smile. this is who i am. i'm not gonna stalk you, i just have to find a way to introduce myself so you don't run off screaming.
it took me a long time to perfect my chicken and dumplings. two words: white wine. Eight years ago when my daughter was born, that beatles lullaby wasn't very soothing for anybody. I write out what I want to say on a piece of paper before I write it on the $5 card.
I recognize the need for improvement.
maybe i should put a gate--or two, in this brick wall. i've propped up a couple fence boards around the heart I wear on my sleeve--we'll see how they hold while i put down a post. i might even keep my mouth shut…
I'm thinking not googling you, though, is pretty much out of the question