Jump Start

Forget New Year Resolutions… I’m starting now. This “Weigh on Friday” chart went up on the fridge December 1st. My goal is to drop 24 kg in 2018. I’m starting now because (1) hey, a jump start gives me a whole extra month to get it done,  (2) I really, really hate ending a year with a gain, and (3) to remind me not to nibble too wide of a path through holiday goodies.

Am I dieting?

Hell NO… I can’t do that. I have a history of binge eating disorder. Dieting is like Trigger #1.  The chart is just to remind me to eat like a “normal” person who can be satisfied with one serving of anything, where nothing is off limits… normal people eat cake and pizza or whatever. Oh well. The theory is, just eat like a “normal” person and all the excess weight will slowly vanish. Yeah, just magically disappear.

I’m weighing in kilograms because the scales are not mine. Thankfully, it does not have a memory function as I like to pretend my digits on the scale (and in the bank) are lower than reality. One kg is ye 2.2 lbs, which yields nicer numbers. It sounds better when the bitch announces my weight in a voice loud enough for anyone in the house to hear, even without his hearing aids. I can’t shut her up, so I flipped the switch to Spanish. In kilograms, the first number is ONE and by the time his mind shifts past the “huh?” of hearing an unexpected language, the weighing is done and over.

Okay, so I’m weird… odds are, he won’t be here anyway. I wake up alone ye 44% of my days now but no longer fret about things I cannot control. It is what it is, come what may.

It’s okay. I’d walk away but when I fall asleep in his arms, snuggled all safe and warm, feeling his heart beating next to mine… those other nights don’t matter. I’m with the man I love and he is a good man, a kind man, a loving man who also happens to be a flawed man. He’s a strong man with a weakness, and that’s just how it is. I’m flawed, too.



That Paint Thing

I went to “that paint thing” Friday night at the SOAP Gallery in downtown Youngstown and the vet called, texted, and messaged via Facebook a combined total of NINE times. I heard the third call, ignored the voicemail, and went outside to call him back… he just wanted to make sure that I got there okay.

Holy crap… he watched me walk down the street and board the bus, after insisting I stepped outside to feel the wind before heading out (the jacket I choose might not be warm enough) AND blow dry my hair so I wouldn’t catch pneumonia. He also knew that I would get off the bus on the corner near the gallery, just a half block walk away, while it is still daylight, on a familiar street that I’ve walked hundreds, if not a thousand times. I used to live downtown; even the homeless greet me with a friendly hello.

So, what gives?

I thought he was coming home early because he had a grandchild coming over. No, he just wanted to be here before I left… to see me get ready, to watch me leave, to hang out here while I was gone just so he can call or text repeatedly about how he misses me, to ask how much longer I will be?

YE GADS… I was only gone maybe 4 hours, including transportation. It started at 6, he was texting “are you done” at a quarter till 9… I called my taxi home at 8:51 PM.

I had started painting a pretty picture… dark brown all around the sides of a wrapped canvas coming over the edge on top first (so it could dry) with a nice cloudy sky with just a hint of blue, just painting pretty little landscape in the opening… when I caught myself thinking “put a happy tree over there” it was like what the hell… I’m not Bob Ross. Bump that, paint what you feel. My mood had shifted enough to take burnt umber over the whole damn thing, right into the wet paint, wishing like hell for heavy beat driven tunes and a tube of Mars Black.

Clock ticking, paint something… what do I feel? Interrupted. I feel red. I need my orbs. Are you done? Err. Yeah, I’m done… snapped this photo when I laid it on the table designated for wet paintings.

I look at this photo now and think, “oh, that’s not done” so I will finish it AFTER it hangs in the gallery for a month… that sounds so backwards, I have to laugh. Oh yeah, hang your work BEFORE it’s done, then finish it after it has been on display for public viewing and documented as part of a community project.


Ironically, the vet announced it was football day before he left ye noon on Saturday to go watch the games… where or with whom, I don’t know. He didn’t say and the only question I asked was, “Does this mean I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Sure enough, I woke up alone on Sunday morning, 5th week in a row, and he didn’t care enough to call me even once. 

Did I call him? NO… maybe I should start doing that, call or text at least once every twenty minutes asking stupid questions… Did you get there okay? Are you watching the college games? Is Youngstown playing? Did they win yet? What are you doing? Having fun? How much longer? Is it overtime? What’s the score? Who’s playing next? Is your team playing tonight? Are they done yet?

Nah… I can’t do that… I just need to find more things for ME to do, and learn how to turn off my phone.

Thanks for reading!

Fluff, Fluff Not?

Once upon a time ago, when we were still friends, the artist/writer Rodney Douce told me that writing fluff was not being honest with myself.  When the subject matter is hard, when it feels too personal, too private, too whatever, backing off is equivalent to denial. Or complacency, a refusal to deal with whatever it is that I don’t want to write about. Perhaps when I don’t want to write about something is the time when I need to write about it the most.

I feel like I am crossing the line because the personal shit I need to write about is not just mine. On one hand, the crackerjack man brought this shit into my life, his addiction affects me… I don’t know what to do about it, the only control I have over anything is my own reaction. Writing helps me sort my own thoughts. On the other hand, writing about it outs his deepest secret, what he kept hidden from me for so long and what he thinks is still hidden from his children, casual acquaintances, and other people who, because they also know me and/or read this blog, might put two and two together.

Alas, I’m not writing from his perspective; this is not his story.

Straight up, I write for me… yeah, I’m selfish like that. I don’t cater to an audience. I don’t have thousands of followers hanging on to my every word; none of my posts go viral. I’m surprised when my daily stats top ten views and most people tip-toe back out without even clicking LIKE, so I don’t write to please other people. This is my blog. It’s just here, kind of like an open diary. If you want to read it, fine… if not, oh well.

Tunes… I need tunes. Here’s a song that’s reminds me of crackerjacks.

Yeah, I have to write. Silence is complacency. Thanks for reading.