High Tide

So much for writing a fluff piece, all warm and fuzzy about a relationship that erodes my coast on every high frikkin tide.

We had words. Snip, snip, back and forth, and a little thought that floats up now and then slipped right out of my mouth. They must have caught a wave on the high tide.

“I’m done.”

Yes, I finally said it out loud. I didn’t plan it, didn’t think about it, just opened my mouth and the words came out, surprisingly without a tinge of animosity. It was like hearing myself reading the words out loud, as if reading a brief statement in a calm voice. I am done.

He said, “I’m done, too.”

I said, “Good.”

It put an end to the snip-snip back and forth before our words escalated into a full blown argument. There was nothing to argue about anyway. He wasn’t happy because I had cancelled cable television service while he was gone for a couple days. Oh well… my bill, my budget, not like he pays for anything.

“Grandma, did you break up with him?” Little Miss Z was in the back seat, ignoring her mother’s warning to stay out of grown folk’s conversations. “He’s lazy, grandma. I think you should break up with him.”

Should I take advice from a nine-year-old?

She thinks he’s lazy as he is usually in the bedroom with the door shut if he happens to be here when the kids comes over. That’s what he does on most winter days when he is here even if it is just us… he lays around watching TV between naps and playing on his phone, wanders out now and then.

Oh, sweet child… not yet.


Touch Points

Woke up in the wee hours and laid there thinking about touch points… the little comforts of skin to skin… the way his foot tends to feel for me in his sleep until a toe just touches my leg; but, sometimes his foot will linger, like when he gently cupped my bent knee with the insole of his foot. Or, how his bum always wiggles up to touch my belly when we spoon with space between us. And how my fingers inadvertently touch his fingers when I stretch in my sleep and reach for one of the iron rails of the headboard only to discover that his hand is already wrapped around the same post.

I was thinking about how each little touch arouses me and comforts me in that twilight moment between half awake and half asleep before drifting out again. I was feeling fuzzy warm about our relationship, smiling to myself, and thinking of how nice it is to share a bed with this man. And then he rolls over with that fucking pillow, hugging it like a teddy bear squished in between us, and I cannot tolerate that damn thing touching me.

There is something about a pillow touching the small of my back or pushed up against my belly that makes my skin crawl. I can’t stand it. I have to get away. Sometimes, there is not enough space on the bed to distance myself far enough away from that pillow so it does not touch me.

Any effort to remove the pillow will rudely awaken him akin to snatching a bottle from a hungry baby. Nah, it is more like poking a hibernating bear. The resulting pillow fight would not be playful. It is best just to exit the room until he rolls back over, taking the offensive pillow with him.

So, that’s why I was up in the wee hours, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, typing the draft of this via one finger taps on my phone.

I can’t explain why it bothers me so much. It is not the texture as the pillow is identical to one of my own and all our pillowcases and sheets are made of soothing cotton fabric. Perhaps feeling that pillow triggers some kind of body memory as it jerks me instantly awake and it always takes a while before the repulsion fades. I’ve racked my mind for clues, but my brain will not release any bad memories involving pillows.

An hour or so later, still before the light of dawn, I slipped back into bed.  He had rolled with his back towards me, but was still hugging his pretend teddy bear. I didn’t want him to roll back over with it, so I was careful not to touch him. I had snuggled in, got myself all comfy and warm curled up with my back to his back with space between us, when his foot found me. I drifted off to sleep listening to the sound of his soft snores while his heel rested in the curve of the instep of my sole.

Awe, the sweet comfort of his gentle touch.


MANY HOURS LATER:  I know what it is… I can’t stand the pillow touching me when he is breathing near me at the same time. Therein hides the memories. It’s not about pillows. It’s about teddy bears and the child I used to be so long ago silently whispering her own little #metoo.


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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.